Perhaps you have this problem....you've just lived through another long day at work, where you put up with people that you're fairly certain shouldn't even be allowed out of their own home (let alone into a corporate work environment) and where you deal with the soul-crushing inefficiency of rapidly tightening deadlines; you've made your hour or longer commute through a mire of cars, bodies and delicious smelling smog; you hang out with your wife/kids/pets/friends, who make it worth having trudged through your day even as they help drain the last of your hard-earned life energy; and then you finally have time to sit down and....and...hmmm...
I have this odd cycle where I go from having a single hobby that I bear only a half-hearted devotion to to suddenly being seized by what feels like a dozen different projects vying for my attention. I go from being bored to being actually too busy with free-time projects to attend to them all. That's right...I have to plan out and manage my free time.
Something ain't right here.
Case in point: up until about 2 weeks ago my past-time projects involved 1) playing D&D Minis online (a past time I was actually getting a little bored with), and 2) revising "Darker Sunset". These are both activities worthy of my attention, but you can only play the same game for so long before it eventually starts to get old, and revision projects, while thrilling in and of their own right, have difficulty maintaining my attention for long periods of time. (That's something that I just need to get over, I know, but I have to be honest: I hate revising. It's maddening, time consuming work that I often feel could have been better spent writing something new. It's an entirely illogical and ultimately non-productive standpoint, to be sure, but it's often the position taken by my tiny brain during those internal struggles when I have to decide where to better spend my time.) So I was really only tending to these interests rather than being actively engaged by them; I was trudging my way through my own hobbies in the same manner I trudge through my days at work...and that's just silly. It shouldn't be a chore to partake in your own hobby (though, of course, it does happen, especially if your hobbies involve very long creative projects).
Luckily for me, something happened. Inexplicably, all at once my seemingly limited hobbies exploded into a veritable cornucopia of enjoyable past times. I'm not sure how this happened. I didn't push a button that said "Entertain Me" or sign up for a newsletter that told me how to suddenly become too busy with my own free time. I found myself engaged in a myriad of compelling activities (well...they're compelling to me, at least, which I guess is what this is all about), to the point where I now have to find time to juggle all of these new hobbies about.
So what has me so enthralled? Weeeeeeeeeell...
Rifftrax
To be perfectly fair, for most people watching movies isn't so much of a hobby as it is a default ("I have nothing else to do, so I'll pop in a flick"). I do this too, of course, but I also tend to watch movies from a somewhat analytical standpoint (the English Lit major in me), or from a purely technical standpoint, where I enjoy films more from a craftsman's perspective than as an objective audience member. (This is the Creative Writing major in me, because when I look at a film's technical aspects I'm often looking for compelling visual imagery and storytelling tricks that I can steal.)
Sometimes, however, it isn't nearly as much fun to watch movies as it is to make fun of them. Enter Michael J. Nelson and company and their excellent Rifftrax project. Back in the day, Mike Nelson was the head writer (and later the host) for an inspired bit of Comedy Central lunacy called "Mystery Science Theater 3000" (or MST3K, for short), a strange saga of a man and two robots who were forced to sit and watch horrible movies as part of a diabolic mind control experiment. The way they survived this horrible treatment was to make fun of the movies in question by adding their own dialogue and by making wonderfully smart-ass comments about the film. MST3K carried on for some 7+ years before it finally went the way of the proverbial Do-Do, but now Mike offers us Rifftrax, a site that offers the same form of entertainment, only with movies that you know!
The concept is really simple: Mike and company (his guests include MST3K alumni Kevin "Tom Servo" Murphy, Bill "Crow v2.0" Corbett, and others) record an MP3 vocal track of their "riffs" on a movie, which you play concurrently with the movie in question (Mike doesn't actually sell the movies for copyright purposes, so you have to provide your own copy). I've downloaded 6 Riffs so far and have watched 5 of them, and thus far only one of those was even a moderate disappointment. Considering the cost (the Riffs range in price from $1.99 to $3.99), that's a good track record.
Most importantly, they're just damned funny. While we all like to make fun of movies from time to time, no one does it as well as these guys. Check out some of the free samples on their site -- if your sense of humor is anything similar to mine, you may just find these horribly addicting...
Riffs I Recommend (in order of preference): Reign of Fire, Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, The Matrix.
Not Recommended: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace (a major disappointment, though I understand that Mike & Company's treatment of Episode 2 is much funnier, and Episode 3 was just released about a week ago).
Purchased But Not Yet Viewed: 300
Planned Purchases: The Bourne Identity, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Eragon (my daughter owns it, much to my dismay), Raiders of the Lost Ark
The Eternal Campaign
D&D Minis is, without a doubt, my favorite game, but like any game it threatens to go stale through repetition. While a new set of rules (that will accompany the controversial arrival of 4th Edition D&D) due out in 2008 should serve to reinvigorate the game, in the meantime I've joined up with The Eternal Campaign, a delightfully entertaining expansion on the rules presented in the Dungeons & Dragons Miniatures Handbook. With these rules, rather than playing single games you play a campaign that allows your game units to improve over time, collect magic items for your armies, and gain special abilities. (It really is like playing D&D without the silly role-playing. :) Best of all, you get to play new and interesting people from around the world (players hail from here in the U.S., Brazil, Germany, Indonesia, and even Canada!) in ever-changing scenarios, and you only play as often as you want. If you don't play D&D Miniatures, this particular entry will mean nothing to you, but if you *do* then I suggest you check it out. You'll be happy you did.
Nanowrimo
November is approaching, and I have to be ready. Well...not *ready*, but I have to be at least partially prepared. Last year, I didn't have any intention of joining up with the so-called "Write a Novel in November" program at all, arguing to my wife that it had been too long since I'd tried to undertake a major writing project and that it would all just be a big waste of my time. Well, like most arguments I have with my wife, I lost this one utterly, in this case not because she forced me to do anything but, as usual, because she knew what I wanted and needed to do. I wrote an 80,000+ novel that month and a follow-up novel nearly twice that size in the months that followed. I'd intended to carry on to the 3rd and final book in the rather dismal "Razor" trilogy when I ran smack into Christmas, Year End, and all other sorts of bodily injuries. Because the style of the books is both very fast and linear, I thought that the next Novel in November challenge would be the perfect opportunity to finish up the series once and for all. The only problem is....I haven't looked at any of it since it was written last year and have completely forgotten the plot line and characters (oops), so for the past month or so I've been reading and revising "Razor: Angel" and "Razor: Hell" like a madman. My goal is to finish the first-pass revision of "Razor: Hell" right around the end of October, so that the story is fresh in my head when November 1st comes about and I start off on "Razor: Serpent". I'm psyched. (A little intimidated...but psyched...)
Reading
Hey, who doesn't love to read? When I heard about the pending HBO series a few months ago I decided to re-read George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Fire & Ice" saga. I didn't used to be very big on re-reading books, primarily, I think, because I associate such an act so much with college. (As an example, I had to read Jonathan Swift's "Gulliver's Travels" and Bram Stoker's "Dracula" 4-5 times each over the course of my college career. There are more, but those are the examples that also spring to mind.)
(Something else that I just realized...I don't like revising what I've already written, and I don't like reading what I've already read. Is that some old person's version of ADHD? Do I have issues with revisiting my past? Or am I just a boner?)
I enjoyed my re-read of Martin's books so much that I decided to revisit some other books that made an impression on me, namely "The Sword of Shadows" by J.V. Jones (or at least the 2/3 of the series that has been released...if that 3rd book doesn't come out in December as promised, she and I are going to have issues...), and "Tyrants & Kings" by John Marco. Marco's "Lukien Trilogy" is likely next up on my re-reads list, but we'll have to see.
That's all for now. I may post another snippet from either "Darker Sunset" or "Razor" later this week...or maybe I'll post something entirely random...so random that even I don't know what it will be....
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
(Non-Writing) One Awesome Picture
My 5-year-old son drew this at school, and I think it's just awesome. :)
Razor: Angel (Prologue)
PROLOGUE
Early Days In the Career of an Alchemist
There was a pile of small brass balls in the small puddle of green water that sat at the edge of the tunnel entrance. The Alchemist leaned down and scooped some of them up in his gloved hand; they were very tiny, but strong. He pushed the folds of his long jacket aside, opened up the large leather pouch that hung down at his waist and took out a small leather bag. Once he secured seven or eight of the small spheres into the bag he tossed it into back the pouch and closed it up again. His nose itched, but he knew that if he removed the plugs the stench of his surroundings would kill him. He gazed around for a moment through his red-tinted eyeglasses, and when he saw nothing else of interest he rose to continue on.
There was only a narrow space of walkway on either side of the vile channel of water, constructed out of the same gray-green stone that made up the walls and arched ceiling. Heavy drops of putrescence rained down from above and struck the sludge below. The drainage system hadn't worked properly for years: it was probably only a matter of time before the sewer water rose up to the streets.
The Alchemist cautiously stepped onto one of the walkways. It took him a minute to find his footing -- the spikes on his boots were designed to procure a firm hold on the stone, which had overgrown with a layer of sticky green ooze and heavy clumps of black moss. He reached out one hand, which was sheathed in a glove brown and dirty with age, and took hold of a small crevasse in the wall in order for balance. He turned and looked into the dark hole that the water normally ran into. There was no flow, for the water had grown solid and stagnant. Purple mosquitoes skimmed the surface, some trapped as their legs passed too close to the syrupy layer of filth. Dozens of clumps of algae clung to the wall where the water leveled, half submerged in the filmy liquid. The Alchemist kicked a small stone -- black due to the dismal substances that covered it -- into the water, and watched as it slowly sank. A cloud of vaporous wet dust erupted from the floor of the stream as the stone plunged down. The drainage hole was a half submerged tunnel, completely dark and filled with the resonant sounds of dripping water that echoed from its mouth.
The Alchemist walked on.
A few meters along the ledge he came to a strange mass of web and moss. It stretched across his path in a perfect incline that rose up the ceiling. The web was extremely thin and delicate, lined with crystal white dew and droplets of what appeared to be fresh water; this serenity was countered only by the clumps of black moss that marked the web’s surface. The Alchemist looked closely at the translucent web, and peered further down the walkway to another spot where a side tunnel appeared, about fifty feet away. He turned his attention to the black moss, and gently ran a finger over it. Though he had enough moss -- enough to last through the making of a dozen potions, he believed -- the Alchemist had never seen any so dark. It was rubbery, and it bounced back at him in the web when he pulled his finger away. With a surgically clean blade in hand, the Alchemist removed a chunk that was small enough to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger. After he removed one of his nasal caps and waited a moment for his head to orient itself to the fetid stench, the Alchemist smelled the moss, noted that it had an aroma not unlike a pomegranate, and tucked it safely away inside a leather bag and into his pouch. He pushed his way through the web once his nose filter was back in, and on down the passageway.
Another ten meters along and the ground and ceiling both became dry. He slowly approached the side-passage, pulled a large meat cleaver out from beneath his coat and held it off to his side, quietly wrapped one hand around the corner of the wall, and peered round.
While flies didn't care much for the heavy moisture at that depth of the underground, for the maggots the area was a haven, and they'd never feasted so well, the Alchemist supposed, as now. The body that he saw was nude, and from the damaged condition of the skin whatever garb it had once possessed had been torn or cut away. There were long, slender gashes along the legs, chest, abdomen, and upper arms. Its blood had evidently stopped flowing long ago: it was dried on, pasty and light red and spread out in wide, gummy streams. It was a male body, or at least it had been, for the genitals had been forcibly removed, leaving only a red morass of pulp between the legs. The corpse lay upon relatively clear ground, and the maggots had thus far only assaulted the major wounds -- the genital area and the chest, where the Alchemist now noticed a sizeable wound likely caused by the impact of a blunt instrument – and had left the head relatively untouched. The Alchemist scanned the area, looking as far as he could down the dark corridor that the body had probably been dragged down as he could, but he saw no one else.
The Alchemist stepped over the body, and knelt down by the head. There were a few more maggots there than he’d thought, but luckily they’d only begun the process of entering through the ears and nasal passages. He placed the cleaver on the ground, tightened his gloves, and pried open the mouth. Despite the white worms that wriggled around inside, the tongue seemed to be in good shape. This close examination he saw that the nose was in fact ruined, having been bent over to the left side of the face by some concussive force.
He rubbed his chin. The hair was worthless -- good for a few aches and pains chemicals, nothing more. The flesh was too badly damaged by both slashing wounds and rot for him to get any good use out of it. The hands were in good shape, though; even if he couldn't use them, he could probably find somebody in need of them, and get a good price. He shook his head -- it had been such a long time since he'd had a body to work with that he forgot what other important parts to scoop out. The internal organs would be well ruined by now, even though the body only looked a few hours old. He didn't have the means to get them back and preserve them quickly enough.
The Alchemist leaned in and looked at the eyes. With the exception of the dried outer film and a few almost unperceivable cuts, they looked to be in fine shape. He leaned closer and applied his tongue to one eye to probe the stiffness of the bulb: it tasted of stale accrued dust and dried glaze. Once it got moist enough he determined that it was likely in good condition. He held his blade ready: he'd have to make a clean cut just beneath the eye, and probably use the cleaver to hack through the bone so he'd be able to sever the cord to the brain. A bit of work, perhaps, but it would be worth it in the end. Why, with eyes, what possibilities! Invisibility, infravision, love elixirs, youth oils, maybe even a hallucinogenic or two.
He wrapped a thin cloth around his face to form a cowl that covered his nose and mouth, held the blade tight, and hummed aloud while he made the first cut.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Early Days In the Career of an Alchemist
There was a pile of small brass balls in the small puddle of green water that sat at the edge of the tunnel entrance. The Alchemist leaned down and scooped some of them up in his gloved hand; they were very tiny, but strong. He pushed the folds of his long jacket aside, opened up the large leather pouch that hung down at his waist and took out a small leather bag. Once he secured seven or eight of the small spheres into the bag he tossed it into back the pouch and closed it up again. His nose itched, but he knew that if he removed the plugs the stench of his surroundings would kill him. He gazed around for a moment through his red-tinted eyeglasses, and when he saw nothing else of interest he rose to continue on.
There was only a narrow space of walkway on either side of the vile channel of water, constructed out of the same gray-green stone that made up the walls and arched ceiling. Heavy drops of putrescence rained down from above and struck the sludge below. The drainage system hadn't worked properly for years: it was probably only a matter of time before the sewer water rose up to the streets.
The Alchemist cautiously stepped onto one of the walkways. It took him a minute to find his footing -- the spikes on his boots were designed to procure a firm hold on the stone, which had overgrown with a layer of sticky green ooze and heavy clumps of black moss. He reached out one hand, which was sheathed in a glove brown and dirty with age, and took hold of a small crevasse in the wall in order for balance. He turned and looked into the dark hole that the water normally ran into. There was no flow, for the water had grown solid and stagnant. Purple mosquitoes skimmed the surface, some trapped as their legs passed too close to the syrupy layer of filth. Dozens of clumps of algae clung to the wall where the water leveled, half submerged in the filmy liquid. The Alchemist kicked a small stone -- black due to the dismal substances that covered it -- into the water, and watched as it slowly sank. A cloud of vaporous wet dust erupted from the floor of the stream as the stone plunged down. The drainage hole was a half submerged tunnel, completely dark and filled with the resonant sounds of dripping water that echoed from its mouth.
The Alchemist walked on.
A few meters along the ledge he came to a strange mass of web and moss. It stretched across his path in a perfect incline that rose up the ceiling. The web was extremely thin and delicate, lined with crystal white dew and droplets of what appeared to be fresh water; this serenity was countered only by the clumps of black moss that marked the web’s surface. The Alchemist looked closely at the translucent web, and peered further down the walkway to another spot where a side tunnel appeared, about fifty feet away. He turned his attention to the black moss, and gently ran a finger over it. Though he had enough moss -- enough to last through the making of a dozen potions, he believed -- the Alchemist had never seen any so dark. It was rubbery, and it bounced back at him in the web when he pulled his finger away. With a surgically clean blade in hand, the Alchemist removed a chunk that was small enough to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger. After he removed one of his nasal caps and waited a moment for his head to orient itself to the fetid stench, the Alchemist smelled the moss, noted that it had an aroma not unlike a pomegranate, and tucked it safely away inside a leather bag and into his pouch. He pushed his way through the web once his nose filter was back in, and on down the passageway.
Another ten meters along and the ground and ceiling both became dry. He slowly approached the side-passage, pulled a large meat cleaver out from beneath his coat and held it off to his side, quietly wrapped one hand around the corner of the wall, and peered round.
While flies didn't care much for the heavy moisture at that depth of the underground, for the maggots the area was a haven, and they'd never feasted so well, the Alchemist supposed, as now. The body that he saw was nude, and from the damaged condition of the skin whatever garb it had once possessed had been torn or cut away. There were long, slender gashes along the legs, chest, abdomen, and upper arms. Its blood had evidently stopped flowing long ago: it was dried on, pasty and light red and spread out in wide, gummy streams. It was a male body, or at least it had been, for the genitals had been forcibly removed, leaving only a red morass of pulp between the legs. The corpse lay upon relatively clear ground, and the maggots had thus far only assaulted the major wounds -- the genital area and the chest, where the Alchemist now noticed a sizeable wound likely caused by the impact of a blunt instrument – and had left the head relatively untouched. The Alchemist scanned the area, looking as far as he could down the dark corridor that the body had probably been dragged down as he could, but he saw no one else.
The Alchemist stepped over the body, and knelt down by the head. There were a few more maggots there than he’d thought, but luckily they’d only begun the process of entering through the ears and nasal passages. He placed the cleaver on the ground, tightened his gloves, and pried open the mouth. Despite the white worms that wriggled around inside, the tongue seemed to be in good shape. This close examination he saw that the nose was in fact ruined, having been bent over to the left side of the face by some concussive force.
He rubbed his chin. The hair was worthless -- good for a few aches and pains chemicals, nothing more. The flesh was too badly damaged by both slashing wounds and rot for him to get any good use out of it. The hands were in good shape, though; even if he couldn't use them, he could probably find somebody in need of them, and get a good price. He shook his head -- it had been such a long time since he'd had a body to work with that he forgot what other important parts to scoop out. The internal organs would be well ruined by now, even though the body only looked a few hours old. He didn't have the means to get them back and preserve them quickly enough.
The Alchemist leaned in and looked at the eyes. With the exception of the dried outer film and a few almost unperceivable cuts, they looked to be in fine shape. He leaned closer and applied his tongue to one eye to probe the stiffness of the bulb: it tasted of stale accrued dust and dried glaze. Once it got moist enough he determined that it was likely in good condition. He held his blade ready: he'd have to make a clean cut just beneath the eye, and probably use the cleaver to hack through the bone so he'd be able to sever the cord to the brain. A bit of work, perhaps, but it would be worth it in the end. Why, with eyes, what possibilities! Invisibility, infravision, love elixirs, youth oils, maybe even a hallucinogenic or two.
He wrapped a thin cloth around his face to form a cowl that covered his nose and mouth, held the blade tight, and hummed aloud while he made the first cut.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
And now for something completely different....
Nature abhors repetition, which is why, dear readers, rather than simply feeding you page after page of the same boring writing project, I'm going to feed you snippets from other...boring...writing projects. Hooray!
The next excerpt is from "Razor: Angel", my Nanowrimo project from last year. (This year's National Novel Writing Month is rapidly approaching, so I thought it would be a great idea to continue the "Razor" series, which I'm already 2/3 of the way done with.) "Razor: Angel" and the sequel, "Razor: Hell" were my first attempts I'd made at a long time at straight horror, and the results have been....well, better than I'd expected. (Though I do find it amusing that the second book, "Razor: Hell" drifts off much closer to dark fantasy territory than it does to the fairly down-to-earth horror roots of its predecessor. Oh, well.) With any luck, the end of the trilogy, "Razor: Serpent", will be the project I'll start and complete this coming November.
The first book in the series, "Razor: Angel" is the story of a sleepy college town in northwest Washington, where a number of seemingly unrelated individuals -- an age-old vampire who may possess more power than even she knows; a pair of modern monster slayers; a reclusive sheriff, still grieving the recent loss of his wife and son; and the dark spirit of a deranged madman -- are about to collide in a deadly battle of truly Biblical proportions.
The ideas behind the "Razor" series come from back when I was in college and I'd gotten it in my head to write a screenplay for a horror film. While that screenplay (and later stage script) never got past the first 20-30 pages, I was happy to pick up the idea again for the Nanowrimo project.
I've just finished with the hard copy revision of "Razor: Angel" (that's where I go through the printed pages and scribble notes and revisions like a madman), and I'm starting in on the hard copy revision of "Razor: Hell" while I get the revisions for the first book typed in. Since that's my project of the moment, I thought I'd share the Prologue; I'll possibly put up more snippets in the future.
(The Prologue, oddly enough, was not originally written for the novel, but was part of a short story compilation I wrote back in college. The character of the Alchemist wound up becoming a major character of the novels, however, so I revised and redid this short piece and turned it into the Prologue for the book.)
As a warning, all of the "Razor" series contains sequences of graphic violence, sex, and extreme language. It's unquestionably rated "R", so don't say I didn't warn you. :)
The next excerpt is from "Razor: Angel", my Nanowrimo project from last year. (This year's National Novel Writing Month is rapidly approaching, so I thought it would be a great idea to continue the "Razor" series, which I'm already 2/3 of the way done with.) "Razor: Angel" and the sequel, "Razor: Hell" were my first attempts I'd made at a long time at straight horror, and the results have been....well, better than I'd expected. (Though I do find it amusing that the second book, "Razor: Hell" drifts off much closer to dark fantasy territory than it does to the fairly down-to-earth horror roots of its predecessor. Oh, well.) With any luck, the end of the trilogy, "Razor: Serpent", will be the project I'll start and complete this coming November.
The first book in the series, "Razor: Angel" is the story of a sleepy college town in northwest Washington, where a number of seemingly unrelated individuals -- an age-old vampire who may possess more power than even she knows; a pair of modern monster slayers; a reclusive sheriff, still grieving the recent loss of his wife and son; and the dark spirit of a deranged madman -- are about to collide in a deadly battle of truly Biblical proportions.
The ideas behind the "Razor" series come from back when I was in college and I'd gotten it in my head to write a screenplay for a horror film. While that screenplay (and later stage script) never got past the first 20-30 pages, I was happy to pick up the idea again for the Nanowrimo project.
I've just finished with the hard copy revision of "Razor: Angel" (that's where I go through the printed pages and scribble notes and revisions like a madman), and I'm starting in on the hard copy revision of "Razor: Hell" while I get the revisions for the first book typed in. Since that's my project of the moment, I thought I'd share the Prologue; I'll possibly put up more snippets in the future.
(The Prologue, oddly enough, was not originally written for the novel, but was part of a short story compilation I wrote back in college. The character of the Alchemist wound up becoming a major character of the novels, however, so I revised and redid this short piece and turned it into the Prologue for the book.)
As a warning, all of the "Razor" series contains sequences of graphic violence, sex, and extreme language. It's unquestionably rated "R", so don't say I didn't warn you. :)
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Short Story: Pale
PALE
Blades of sunlight cut through the branches. My feet make only the slightest sound as I tread the leafy ground off the path.
She is alone.
The light makes her hair shine.
I see sweat caress her bare thighs.
I move around ahead of her. Her breasts tremble as she walks.
Her eyes grow wide when I step onto the path ahead of her. Her grip tightens on the basket. Her dress, which I think is made of cotton, has fringes at the waist and is loose around her stomach. Strands of thick red hair arch the sides of her face.
"Afternoon," I say.
"Afternoon..." She looks surprised, like she's done something wrong.
"Where are you off to on this fine day?"
"It isn't so fine," she says. Her voice is smooth and deep. "Too hot."
"It is hot, isn't it?"
She nods, and allows herself a small smile. I smile back, and try not to show the teeth that aren’t quite fangs.
"Would you like company? I hate to walk alone in the woods...there are frightening things in the forest."
She stares at me. I stare back. I could live in her eyes.
"I...I'm not supposed to talk to anyone."
"Says who?"
"My grandmother."
"So you're on your way to her house, then?"
"Yes," she says, reluctantly. "Who are you?"
"Elias. I’m a hunter."
"Of what?"
"It depends."
Not yet. I seize one of her hands, and though she tries to draw it back I hold, turn it downward, and kiss. Her sweat melts in my mouth. And then I am off.
The trees fly past me. Birds whistle, near and far. A startled deer bolts from my path. Little Pale is just out of sight. I smell you.
An hour passes, maybe less. I know the path she has taken. I have been here before. I’m faster than she is. I leave her as an image that dissolves in the stuffy heat.
Grandmother has made a church into her house. The well has been rebuilt with new bricks and a shiny metal bucket. There is a garden with yellow flowers and menstrual roses. There is a white dog on a chain; he growls, and then barks. I growl back, and a plump, silver-haired face appears at the window, smiling.
The old woman comes out of the house. She is round and short, like a turkey in a blue dress. I feel the sun sink, as if it were food in my stomach. Listen for her. The grandmother says something. My eyes widen into oval pools. Vision becomes a tunnel, with her at its end. She isn’t smiling any more. My hands stretch. Without realizing it, I have shed my clothes, and coarse grey fur sprouts from my pores. I reach a hand out, and there is blood in my eyes.
I hear the grandmother scream. She is paper, torn and shredded.
The dog is afraid. It smells me, and I smell it. We are brothers. He knows I wouldn’t harm him. The chain snaps, and he is gone. Returned to the woods.
I move inside and shut the door. There is a bright kitchen, yellow and white. Spotless. In the bedroom is a four-poster bed and white flowered drapes. There is a music box and a picture of a young, handsome man. There is a wedding dress on a mannequin. The bed is scarlet, lovingly made, with large and fluffy pillows.
I melt into the shadows, near the dress.
She knows something is wrong. The door opens. I can see in the dark, and she can't.
Come to me.
I can’t see when I hunt. Everything just happens. This is what I am. I hear her screams.
Little Pale is at the door, petrified with fear. I thought that she wouldn't be afraid. She is so lovely. I see nothing for a time, and when I see again she is in my arms. Dead? No...her chest heaves with unconscious breathing, her lips are parted, and I kiss her, smearing blood on her face.
Pale is on the bed. I have removed the blankets and placed her on white sheets smeared with blood. Her breathing is slow, and she is so cold. The window is open. A cool breeze rustles her silken hair, which is spread out like a cape around her beautiful head. I long to touch her, but as I reach out my hands I see my talons, and I know that she can never love me.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Blades of sunlight cut through the branches. My feet make only the slightest sound as I tread the leafy ground off the path.
She is alone.
The light makes her hair shine.
I see sweat caress her bare thighs.
I move around ahead of her. Her breasts tremble as she walks.
Her eyes grow wide when I step onto the path ahead of her. Her grip tightens on the basket. Her dress, which I think is made of cotton, has fringes at the waist and is loose around her stomach. Strands of thick red hair arch the sides of her face.
"Afternoon," I say.
"Afternoon..." She looks surprised, like she's done something wrong.
"Where are you off to on this fine day?"
"It isn't so fine," she says. Her voice is smooth and deep. "Too hot."
"It is hot, isn't it?"
She nods, and allows herself a small smile. I smile back, and try not to show the teeth that aren’t quite fangs.
"Would you like company? I hate to walk alone in the woods...there are frightening things in the forest."
She stares at me. I stare back. I could live in her eyes.
"I...I'm not supposed to talk to anyone."
"Says who?"
"My grandmother."
"So you're on your way to her house, then?"
"Yes," she says, reluctantly. "Who are you?"
"Elias. I’m a hunter."
"Of what?"
"It depends."
Not yet. I seize one of her hands, and though she tries to draw it back I hold, turn it downward, and kiss. Her sweat melts in my mouth. And then I am off.
The trees fly past me. Birds whistle, near and far. A startled deer bolts from my path. Little Pale is just out of sight. I smell you.
An hour passes, maybe less. I know the path she has taken. I have been here before. I’m faster than she is. I leave her as an image that dissolves in the stuffy heat.
Grandmother has made a church into her house. The well has been rebuilt with new bricks and a shiny metal bucket. There is a garden with yellow flowers and menstrual roses. There is a white dog on a chain; he growls, and then barks. I growl back, and a plump, silver-haired face appears at the window, smiling.
The old woman comes out of the house. She is round and short, like a turkey in a blue dress. I feel the sun sink, as if it were food in my stomach. Listen for her. The grandmother says something. My eyes widen into oval pools. Vision becomes a tunnel, with her at its end. She isn’t smiling any more. My hands stretch. Without realizing it, I have shed my clothes, and coarse grey fur sprouts from my pores. I reach a hand out, and there is blood in my eyes.
I hear the grandmother scream. She is paper, torn and shredded.
The dog is afraid. It smells me, and I smell it. We are brothers. He knows I wouldn’t harm him. The chain snaps, and he is gone. Returned to the woods.
I move inside and shut the door. There is a bright kitchen, yellow and white. Spotless. In the bedroom is a four-poster bed and white flowered drapes. There is a music box and a picture of a young, handsome man. There is a wedding dress on a mannequin. The bed is scarlet, lovingly made, with large and fluffy pillows.
I melt into the shadows, near the dress.
She knows something is wrong. The door opens. I can see in the dark, and she can't.
Come to me.
I can’t see when I hunt. Everything just happens. This is what I am. I hear her screams.
Little Pale is at the door, petrified with fear. I thought that she wouldn't be afraid. She is so lovely. I see nothing for a time, and when I see again she is in my arms. Dead? No...her chest heaves with unconscious breathing, her lips are parted, and I kiss her, smearing blood on her face.
Pale is on the bed. I have removed the blankets and placed her on white sheets smeared with blood. Her breathing is slow, and she is so cold. The window is open. A cool breeze rustles her silken hair, which is spread out like a cape around her beautiful head. I long to touch her, but as I reach out my hands I see my talons, and I know that she can never love me.
© 2007 Steven Montano
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
(Non-Writing) Tagged
Nourgihan tagged me. "You have to list some things about yourself using each letter of your middle name."
Ok, here it goes:
A is for Accountant. A cheap one, I know, but for better or for worse, it's my profession, that which keeps bread and butter on the table, and that which occupies roughly 98% of my waking hours.
L is for Lovable, because I'm so darned cute. (If I had a D in my middle name, it would be Desireable, which would sound better and wound pump up my otherwise fragile ego even more, but I'll settle for Lovable.)
A is for is also for Anachronistic. I do believe that I was born at least 6 centuries too late, and that instead of living the jet-set lifestyle of an Accountant and freelance writer I was supposed to be living the jet-set lifestyle of a bookkeeper or a freelance poet.
N is for Nerdy. Yes, Nerdy. I'm a movie buff, hardcore fantasy/sci-fi fan, DM, DDMer, MST3K fanatic, and I spend enough time online that I should probably just have a wireless modem attached to my brain. (Again, another word would have been better -- in this case "Geek", since the word "Nerdy" does imply the existence of a level of intelligence and technical capability that, frankly, I don't possess -- but I'll settle with what I've got.)
Ok, here it goes:
A is for Accountant. A cheap one, I know, but for better or for worse, it's my profession, that which keeps bread and butter on the table, and that which occupies roughly 98% of my waking hours.
L is for Lovable, because I'm so darned cute. (If I had a D in my middle name, it would be Desireable, which would sound better and wound pump up my otherwise fragile ego even more, but I'll settle for Lovable.)
A is for is also for Anachronistic. I do believe that I was born at least 6 centuries too late, and that instead of living the jet-set lifestyle of an Accountant and freelance writer I was supposed to be living the jet-set lifestyle of a bookkeeper or a freelance poet.
N is for Nerdy. Yes, Nerdy. I'm a movie buff, hardcore fantasy/sci-fi fan, DM, DDMer, MST3K fanatic, and I spend enough time online that I should probably just have a wireless modem attached to my brain. (Again, another word would have been better -- in this case "Geek", since the word "Nerdy" does imply the existence of a level of intelligence and technical capability that, frankly, I don't possess -- but I'll settle with what I've got.)
(Non-Writing) A Productive Phone Call
I spent an hour on the half on the phone with a certain VP of a certain department at a certain parent corporation yesterday (no names mentioned, but let's just say that the acronym for the department in question is "IA"), trying to get clarification on (what I thought) was a simple matter. This VP saw it differently. Actually...I'm not sure what he saw. Perhaps colored lights, or pretty sparkles. In any case, 1 hour and 25 minutes of that phone conversation was spent explaining/focusing/trying to get him to stay on topic. The actual productive part of the phone call came at the very end, and took about 5 minutes. I was pretty much ready to law down on a table saw at that point.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
(Non-Writing) Super Wifemom!!!!
Ok, so while I've been here at work preparing the Trial Balance and doing account reconciliations for Month End close, my wife has a) gotten both of the kids off to school (quite a Herculian task when you consider that my DD generally only stirs for earthquakes and meteor storms, and even then only with monetary incentive), b) gone shopping to stock up our low supply of sacklunch materials, c) cleaned the house (twice), d) corresponded with her own place of work regarding some invoices she put into the system last night (because she works nights in addition to taking care of 3....er, 2....kids all day), and e) drove out and changed the oil in my dilapidated van because I'm too much of an idiot to figure out how to do it myself.
Even if she did get paid for being a wife and mom, I'm sure it wouldn't be enough.
We love you, Hon -- thank you for everything! :)
Even if she did get paid for being a wife and mom, I'm sure it wouldn't be enough.
We love you, Hon -- thank you for everything! :)
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