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Monday, October 18, 2010


Well, Its been a while.
I crammed this out under stress so there may be typos, improper formatting, ETC.

The hammering explosions of gunfire still ring through my ears.  It’s been at least fifteen minutes since they stopped, but still I can’t feel my legs.  It’s as if I’m standing on air; but when I look down there they are, walking forward.  They’re shaky, but I trust they won’t give out.  Another crack rings out through the air.  I feel sticky warmth running down my leg.  Just fucking great.  I hate this place.  I wish I were home.

            They say it takes a strong man to admit when he’s made a mistake.  Well, I made a huge mistake today.  I don’t regret what I said; I needed to get it off my mind.  I do regret my timing in saying it.  Why I did so while we were driving through Compton I have no idea.  And now here I am, wandering in a direction I assume to be westward with no money, no ID and no jacket.  With every step I take, the damp cloth of my khakis rubs against my thigh, a chilling reminder of my cowardice.  And yet, even with my current predicament, I feel overjoyed.  To be rid of her at last is a blessing.  It all began two years ago…
            The first time I saw her, I knew she would be mine.  It sounds rather arrogant, I know, but I have this gift.  I’m not really good with women, on the contrary I’m shy and awkward, I break into a cold sweat whenever a pretty girl talks to me.  Yet, I ended up dating every girl I ever became infatuated with.  It’s like that book “The Secret”.  If I wish hard enough, the universe responds to me and hands me the woman I want on a silver platter.  Well, kind of.  This one was the only relationship I’ve had that lasted more than 3 weeks.  You see, my nervousness doesn’t really go away.  They all got pretty annoyed with the fact that I’d stutter when I told them how I loved them, or start sweating like a pig when they held my hand, or when I failed to hold an erection at the sacred gate.
She was different.  She put up with all of that (except the last one) for four months before I became the man she said wanted.  What a load of crock. 

            She was, is, physically perfect.  Forget-me-not blue eyes.  Long, blood-red hair, curly.  Smell of strawberries.  Perfect breasts, large enough to grip firmly, but not too big to fit in the hand.  Long, sexy legs.  The most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on.  The first year was amazing.  We’d walk down the corridors of our school, arm in arm, and I’d feel the stab of every pair of eyes on my back. 
Every day I’d hear it whispered.  “Why is she with him?” 

            Eventually, we graduated.  Both of us went to UC Los Angeles, and we got an off campus apartment together.  That was the beginning of the end.  She started acting bipolar, getting mad at me for things like not taking out the trash on the day she wanted it taken out, or for talking to other girls, minor things at first, and not that often, only once or twice a month.  As the year progressed it happened more and more, once a week, twice a week, until every day last month she would start a fight with me for no reason. 
            Today we were on the way back from a social at her BFF’s house, and she started lecturing me about proper manners and dress attire for social situations.  I finally stood up for myself; I had taken enough.  She pulled over and yelled at me to get out.  I tried to reason with her, but a flurry of kicks (in stilettos nonetheless) convinced me that it was time to get out.  And that’s how I got where I am now, a 5”6 white guy weighing 114 pounds; alone in the most dangerous part of L.A.  I’ve been here for seven hours already and the shadows are beginning to elongate and deepen, and the last glints of sunlight are now reflecting off of the broken bottles and grimy newspaper stands.  
            There is a man lying in a pool of clear vomit on the corner of Fifth and Washington.  He smells of tequila mixed with urine (in other words, standard tequila) and some sort of strange basement mold that existed in my uncle’s house a few years ago.  I want to just walk right past him, but maybe he has some spare change.  Seventy-five cents is all I need to get a bus back home.  I cover my mouth with my shirt, but its no use, being within three feet of him makes my throat fill with bile, and I have to turn away quick to avoid vomiting.  At least I won’t be the first to have thrown up on this street corner.
“What is it brat?  So disgusted by an old Vietnam vet living on the streets that you won’t even get near me?” He’s crawling toward me, trying to get into a standing position but failing miserably, until he collapses again.  
“N-n-no sir.  I was just wondering if I could have a buck to get home?”  I’m stuttering again.  Just like always when I get nervous.  Goddammit.  The man tilts his head upward in my direction.  I can see now that his left eye is swiveling around wildly, but its color – its something I’ll never forget, a blood red crimson, and in the last fading seconds of sunlight, there’s an unnatural glow to it, then, the only light is from a streetlamp overhead. 

“Let me tell you, boy.  In the ‘nam I watched my best friend die by my side.  I found the gook that offed him, and you know what I did?  I cut through his belly.  One by one, I pulled out his liver then kidney then stomach while he was gasping and dying on the floor.  And I felt happy to be doing it.  Do you know what killing feels like?”  As he finishes his sentence, the man’s face begins to turn a pale shade of blue and he’s coughing up more of the foul smelling tequila.  I turn around and run.  I don’t know where I’m going, I just run away from this man as fast as I can.
The neon sign flickers, goes out for a bit and then comes back to life, a bit dimmer than before.  I’m walking past a liquor store, hopelessly lost with no idea which direction I’m heading.  There are no streetlamps here, and the “CLOSED” sign on the store window is the only thing providing me with light.  I start sweating profusely just thinking about the absolute darkness that awaits me in a couple dozen feet.  I can’t see the moon right now, its disappeared behind a thick cloud layer. 

There is another gunshot in the distance.  I don’t even react.  By now, I’m desensitized to them.  I do react when I hear the voices.  I’m at the corner of Olive and Pine when I hear them and see them at the same time.  There are three of them, all dressed in baggy shorts and an odd menagerie of what they would call “bling”.  The man in the center of the group appears to be their leader, he is wearing a backwards baseball cap and an extra large t-shirt, and hanging from his neck is an extremely large gold chain with a diamond studded (real, I wonder?) dollar sign.  The others have dollar sign necklaces too, but theirs aren’t nearly as large.  The one on the left of their little group points in my direction.  Their leader stares at me, I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them, probing, piercing, determining how much of a threat I am.  For the second time tonight my bladder decides to empty itself. 

“Hey, cracker, you lost?”  The one at the left, who first spotted me, jeers at me, making some bizarre gang symbol in my direction

“No Shit, Maurice.  Crackers don’t dare show their faces in our territory.  Little bitch must not know where the hell he is!”   The one on the right begins to advance toward me, followed by his friends.  The middle one speaks up.                                                       

“You must be shitting me, cracker.  It ain’t safe for your kind after dark.”  The one on the left has to pause to adjust his shorts, as they have slipped past his knees and are lying at his ankles.  Then, they are breathing down my neck.  My left foot is suddenly behind my right foot and I’m in free fall for what seems like hours.  Then there’s a sharp pain in my butt. 

“Get up cracker.”  I try to get obey, but my legs won’t respond to my brain.  I stare up at the leader hopelessly, silently pleading for mercy.

“Well, I’ll be damned.  You’ve got Rigby’s class, don’t you?  Two through Three, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”  All of a sudden, he’s like a completely different person.  “The names Jeremy.  I sit in the front row, two seats to the left of you actually.  These are my friends, Steven and Robert.”

“Charmed.” Steven says with a wink.  His shorts are already falling down again, so he hurriedly pulls them up once more.

“Pleasure to meet you.”  Robert smiles and extends a handshake to me.  I timidly accept, and he nearly breaks my hand with his grip as he lifts me off the ground to my feet.

“So, what brings you to this neighborhood at three in the morning?” Jeremy puts his arm around my shoulder and begins moving me toward… something, my vision is beginning to get blurry and I can’t really tell what.  “And did you just wet yourself?  That’s nasty man, use a toilet.”
            Jeremy and I are headed back to UCLA campus in his beautiful Ferrari.  I dozed off for a while, but once we got to  Robert’s beach house in Malibu (and got me a shower, some food and water, and a fresh change of pants) I told them the full story, then we dropped Steven  off at his mansion in Beverly Hills.  It turns out all three of them are rich.  They just enjoy the atmosphere of Compton.  I finally have cleared my head enough to ask the question that’s been bugging me since I first met Jeremy three hours ago.  “So, why is it that you guys were threatening me at first?” 

“Is that why you looked all freaked out when we got near you?  All we did was ask if you were okay, man.  Robert asked how many fingers he was holding up, and then Steven asked if you were with someone.  I was asking if you needed a ride home when you fell flat on your ass, then we knew there was something wrong with you.”  He makes a sharp swerve onto the off ramp, and we are on the way to University Avenue.

“So…  I just imagined all of that?  The gunshots and the hobo and you guys trying to mess with me?  Why?”  I feel rather queasy as I say this. 

“Not everything.  The gunshots were real.  There’s a shooting range on Olive, it’s not too well soundproofed though so you can hear the shots all the way down the neighborhood.  The homeless… I don’t know.  We were at Fifth and Washington earlier, and the only homeless person there was a sweet old woman.  She said you tried to have a conversation with her dog.  You were probably dehydrated and hallucinating, you were looking pretty delirious back there.”  He swerves into my driveway and puts the car in park.  “This is your place, right?  And let me guess, that’s your stuff lying all over the lawn.”  All of my belongings, my clothes, TV, CDs, everything is scattered across the lawn of my former apartment.
“I… it… wha… what?”  I can’t even speak, I feel like a deer in headlights.  My way of life is completely over.  I’ll need to find a new house, move all my stuff, and get situated again.  I feel as if I’m about to cry.  Luckily Jeremy speaks up.

“Alright, I’ll tell you what.  I have a pretty nice condo in Bel-Aire.  It’s a four bedroom, but I only use one.  You can be my roommate until we get you a new apartment.  Now help me load your crap into the trunk.”   
It’s been three months since I moved in with Jeremy.  I’ve been back to Compton several times since that night, Jeremy took me to the shooting range, and to my surprise I proved to be quite capable with a pistol.  All those shooter videogames paid off I guess.  Another time, we ran into a homeless lady with an Irish Settler.  The dog smells of piss and tequila, so I was almost tempted to believe that it was all some whacky sleep loss/dehydration dream.  Almost.  As we were walking to the car, I saw a small spherical object glittering in the sunlight.  I picked it up to investigate.  It was a glass eye with a deep crimson iris.  

Thursday, September 16, 2010


Due to various problems in life I haven't been on recently and the new story won't be up for a bit...
Sorry everyone.
But I'll be back full force in a few days!

Monday, September 13, 2010

The Problem of the Omnipotent Villain, the Do's and Don'ts.

I have decided to specifically talk about movies in this post.  Books will be done at an unspecified later date.
In many pieces today, the author will find it prudent to use a near omnipotent or actually omnipotent figure as the villain.  There is logic behind it, as with a godly villain the hero will always be the underdog and always be more sympathetic to the audience.  Of course, the main goal in doing this is to allow for the bypassing of character development.  If we know he's good, has a tough road ahead of him, and has some human problems, making him have a decent personality isn't really necessary. 
However, the gigantic flaw that every movie with an omnipotent villain has is: how does the hero finally defeat the villain?  Most of the time, it involves three things.  Three extremely improbable occurrences.
Firstly, the villain will not kill the hero during their first encounter, despite killing many of the hero's comrades.  This is either due to arrogance or the hero's good luck, but either way it is laughably unlikely.  Take, for instance, Clash of the Titans.  The main villain, Hades first meets Perseus when he transforms into a fireball and blows up the ship Perseus was on.  Perseus's incredible lungs save him from drowning.
The second time they meet, Hades kills several soldiers who are standing next to Perseus.   So, despite having ample opportunity to end Perseus's life not once, but twice, Hades instead chooses to go hire some henchmen to do the job for him...  brilliant.
Secondly, there just happens to be a weapon that can stop said Omnipotent being.  Whether its a magical sword or nectar of life, or in the case of Clash of the Titans, a monster's head.  Undoubtedly, this item will be stored in a far off land, and require a perilous quest in which many of the hero's friends will die.  Of course, the villain will have ample time to kill the hero during said quest, but will not take advantage of the opportunity himself, instead sending various henchmen instead.
Lastly, there is a final confrontation.  In this the villain will have an overwhelming advantage, but rather than, say, immediately kill the hero he will allow the confrontation to drag on until the hero finally figures out a way to win the battle.
This happens in every single movie.
And it makes no sense.  Every time, the audience is left wondering "why did he not kill the hero way earlier?"
The thing is, omnipotence can be done right, just look at the Cthulhuverse by Lovecraft, as a primary example of fantastically done gods.
So why aren't movie producers willing to make intelligent plots with believable gods that actually act like gods instead of clowns?  You tell me.

Next "real" post is an essay, looking for collaborators"

I'm doing an essay on the problem with having omnipotent villains, so if you review/have reviewed films like Clash of the Titans, manga/anime, or books with villains that are godly please send me a message or leave a comment here.  All you need to do is link me to your review and I'll attach said link to my post so that my readers can get an impression of the work without me having to describe it.
Plus, its free publicity for your blog :D

Sunday, September 12, 2010

My first attempt at horror

Despite the fact that I've been writing fiction since I was twelve, it wasn't until last year that I tried my hand at horror.  This was the result.  Like most of my projects, I felt that it was mediocre and lost interest... I may have a self confidence problem actually.  Or maybe they really do suck.  Thoughts?   And how do you all feel about horror as a genre?  Are you fans of it or do you prefer to avoid it?  Do any of you actually write horror?

Eleven forty-three P.M.  The minutes tick by slowly as Roland drinks himself into a stupor on his couch once again.  Once again, it appears from the shadows, crawling slowly toward him.  It is a black mass, human in appearance, except for its eyes.  A bloody red, they glimmer with intelligence, and yet there is no sparkle in them, no hint of a soul. They are why he keeps doing this, getting piss drunk till he nearly passes out every night.  As he stares into its eyes they swallow him whole.  He is within the darkness once again.  

He sees Jennifer this time.  His first love.  He was twelve when they first met, he moved to Cleveland halfway through the fifth grade.  That year he bullied her mercilessly.  She was short, freckled and slightly chubby for an eleven year old, and when he pulled her pigtails she made a squealing sound that was to him the most hilarious thing in the world.
Her parents moved her into a private middle school, and the next time he saw her was high school.  The change that had come over her shocked him.  She was five foot seven, with straight fiery red hair.  Her freckles had disappeared, and she had filled out wonderfully.  She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, would ever see.
Roland pursued her fiercely for three years, but he was rejected at every turn.  One day, near the end of junior year, he saw her walking to school holding hands with Jonathan Hopkins.  

He is reliving that day.  This time, instead of running home and crying all day, he walks up to Jonathan and Jennifer.  The boy waves, and Roland is at his throat, biting with all him might.  Jonathan lets out a guttural howl as blood gushes from his neck, and then Roland bites again and crushes his larynx.  Roland is covered in blood, it is in his eyes, tinting his vision red, in his throat, choking him, but he pays it no heed.  He turns toward Jennifer, eyes filled with lust.


Roland awakens with a start.  Cold sweat pours down his body.  His head feels ready to split.  A horrible hangover.  He clambers to his feet and stumbles into his bathroom.  After having a drink of water he looks in the mirror and lets out a shriek.  His left eye is the same red as that thing.  He shudders, remembering last night's fantasy.  He has had too many of them to count now.  Whenever he drinks or gets high alone that thing appears.  He splashes water on his face and looks in the mirror again.  His eye is normal.  It was just a hallucination, thats all.  He drank too much last night, thats all.  The pain is beginning to subside, so he gets dressed and packs his suitcase for work.  
He promised himself he would have it better than his parents ever had it, but lo and behold, he ended up working in a tiny cubicle, just like dad.  Mr. Roberts is waiting for him when he gets to the building.  Its Ten-Thirty.  Roland is four hours late.  His boss tells him that he is through with the company.  At the end of the day his career will be over.  Roland walks to his desk in shock.  He sits down and stares at the photo on his desk.  Graduation.  His mother and father are so proud of their son, he'll make something of himself, they said.  Then the anger.  Mr. Roberts had no right.  He's only been late to work twelve times, twelve times in two years of faithful service.  He has always given the company everything he had, working long hours full of tedious work so that corporate pigs could make millions.  He deserves more than this.  He pulls a fifth of Seamo out of his suitcase.  He had intended to party with some friends tonight, but he needs it more now.  He sees a sinister red glow in the darkness, and his mind fades to black.


He's walking through the office, headed toward Mr. Roberts office.  The clock on the wall reads nine-thirty, and by now the building just closed.  His boss is only here to fill out the paperwork for his termination.  In five minutes, Joe the security guard will arrive and turn on the security cameras.  Roland walks into his boss's office.  Mr. Roberts looks up from his paperwork.  He mutters something, but Roland does not hear.  The blood is pounding in his ears.  His vision begins to tint red as he walks up to his boss's desk.  Mr. Roberts is standing and yelling now, spitting in Roland's face.  Roland rips the man's tie off and wraps it around his neck in one fluid motion.  Mr. Roberts face turns a bright red, he is gasping for air, trying desperately to cling to life.  He claws at his desk, searching for something, anything to defend himself with.  He reaches for the phone and then Roland gives a mighty tug.  Mr. Roberts is dead, his neck broken.  Roland leaves the office, taking the man's tie and the termination paperwork with him, packs up his suitcase and walks home.  He burns the tie and papers in his stove when he gets home, then flushes the ashes down the toilet.


Roland wakes to a knock at the door.  He opens his eyes to a world painted red, blinks a few times, and it is back to normal.  "Just a second," he yells "I'm coming."  He checks the clock.  Nine-oh-two AM saturday.  No work today.  Thank god for the weekends.  He looks through the peephole on his door.  Two men in trenchcoats.  His heart skips a beat.  They look shady.  "What the hell do you want?" He yells.  "Police, open up" is the response.  One of the men flashes a badge.  Roland unlocks the door and lets the men in.  "what can I do for you, officers?"  Roland has never feared the police.  He lives out all of his desires in fantasy, and because of this he has never done anything illegal in real life.  Except for the drugs, but luckily he has been clean ever since he got his job.  He figures there must have been a shooting in the neighborhood or something.  This isn't the best area of the city, and the police have been by for things like that before.  
"I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Ptrezki." says the shorter of the two.  The man is about five-three, looks like he must weigh three hundred pounds, and has a perpetual sneer on his face.  "Your boss, an Andrew Roberts, was found murdered in his office at Nine Fifty-Two last night.  You are a suspect."  In a flash, Roland remembers his dream last night.  But thats impossible, isn't it?
"How did he die?"
"His neck was broken."  Responds the officer.
Roland's mind goes blank, and he collapses unconscious on the floor.


It is there in the back of his mind.  He can see it quite clearly now, it's red eyes gleaming with a sinister light.  The thing's arms are lanky, it's fingers boney and clawed.  He shudders.  It has no mouth, no nose, and the eyes pierce his soul more sharply than ever before.  It shambles toward him, touches his face.  Its skin is cold and clammy.  It reeks of… of…  


Friday, September 10, 2010


Another failed story, I felt really good about this one but I missed the ending hard.  I may redo it some day.  Tell me what you think about it and if you know any veterans or do have war experience please tell me about it, as I have never known anyone who went to war and as a result this is all just a product of my imagination and probably vastly flawed.
Sixty-three percent of all US deaths in Iraq have been caused by IEDs, so I guess what happened to my squad should have been expected.  I was a private, fresh out of training and ready to help free Iraq from Saddam Hussein.  The bomb exploded about thirty yards inside the city limits of Baghdad.  Isn’t that pathetic?  We died without even completing our first assignment.  Apparently, the bomb was buried in the road, so when it exploded most of our vehicle was torn to shreds and we were flipped several times.  I got a chunk of shrapnel lodged into my brain.
I died that day in Iraq. 
Or at least I wish I had.  Then I wouldn’t have had to live through this.
I am the last survivor of squad U-517.  Sergeant Patterson was the only other soldier to survive the explosion, but he died a month later to complications.  It’s funny that a piece of shrapnel in the liver would be fatal, but one in the brain wouldn’t.
I’m lucky, so they say.  Sure, there was severe brain damage, but it’s better than being dead, right?
Fuck you doc.
Right now I suffer from a severe speech impediment, my IQ is down to a level they call “Slightly better than George W. Bush.  And I can’t control most of my body.  Just imagine how you’d feel if they told you that you’d never be able to decide when you piss or shit again – it just randomly happens.  I have to wear diapers, for fucks sake.  I can’t get a hard-on, I can’t even move my arms or legs, and so I’m stuck riding in this wheelchair.  I’m a fucking paraplegic.
And to top it all off, she’s gone.
In the darkest depths of my mind on the darkest nights I dream of you, you soft, curly auburn hair, lilac scented, shimmering in my hands.  You pale white skin, gorgeous green eyes, lips, dyed violet.  Perfect, plump round breasts, you silky smooth thighs.  We kiss.  A kiss that lasts centuries, perfect.  We do the dance of love, our flesh entwines and we become one.  Ecstasy.  And then I wake from the dream, startled, crying, so worthless to this world.  You’ve moved on.  You has a man who can stand, who is still your intellectual equal, who can satisfy you in bed.  All the things I have lost the ability to do.
I feel ashamed my behavior that day.
I screamed at you, cried and shouted about how you had betrayed me when I needed you most.  You were forced to leave and I was given a strong dose of morphine. 
He seemed like a nice fellow.  You’ll do good by him.  I hope they’re happy together, but at the same time I want you.  I need you.  Your the one thing that could make this shitty life worth living.  You smile, you witty remarks and kindness. 
I still love you.  But that’s the past, isn’t it.
On to the future.
This is my final will and testament.  I have no material possessions any more, but all my disability pay shall be used to help other recovering soldiers.
That’s it, short and sweet.  Wish my life had been the same way. 
The nurse comes in, and I am prepared.  We’ve been planning this for months now. My regular morphine shot will kill me, and on further inspection, it’ll be revealed that the vial was actually filled with pancuronium bromide.  There’ll be an investigation, but I’ll be dead by then, so who cares?
Finally, after all these months, I can die.  I’ll discard this worthless body and ascend into the black abyss beyond human existence.  Or maybe not, maybe I’ll just be gone.  Either way, its better than this shitty life.  I think of you for the last time.
He hooks up the IV and the injection starts.  It hurts like fuck.  I can’t breathe and my heart hurts and everything in my body just wants to scream in pain but I cant even move my mouth any more and then everything begins to fade and thank god its finally over thank god everything is black and I cant feel my body anymore I love you.

“BLARG," Sayeth the Wiseman

This is a story I wrote two years ago, in my Junior year of highschool. I consider it to be pretty mediocre, but some of you may enjoy it. At the very least, I hope it will show how much I have improved over the past few years. Please feel free to comment.

Today, Bron becomes a priest. Today, for the first time in his life, Brom is given the honor of glimpsing the figure of the wiseman. This is an honor reserved solely for the priests, who must dedicate their lives to interpreting his words.

Bron dresses in the fine white toga, which is the pride and joy of priesthood. The toga will become Bron’s greatest responsibility in life, as only one is given to a priest, and if it is ever stained, he will be exiled from the priesthood. After donning his garb, Bron is escorted through the temple, past fine marble statues and altars made of pure gold. At the far end of the temple, there is a curtain, dyed a majestic crimson. The curtain is pushed aside by attendants, and Bron lets out an audible gasp. The wiseman is no older than he, twenty-two winters of age at most. He has a handsome, childish face and a thin build, and he sits on a bed of lush silk blankets. “Oh, mighty wiseman” begins a retainer “this is the newest priest of your order, he shall follow you till his death.” Bron prostates himself before the wiseman, in awe of the spectacle. The wiseman opens his mouth as if to speak, and then “BRAAAWR!!”

“The wiseman is satisfied with you.” says the head priest.

Bron already knows this, a major portion of priestly study is dedicated toward learning his language. The wiseman has never spoken as the other humans do, and according to the elders who had found him so long ago, he speaks the language of the gods. What he had said roughly translated to “thank you for deciding to help with the great cause of spreading the will of the gods throughout the land.” Coincidentally, “BRAAWR” meant “he shall be killed and his corpse dragged throughout town as an example.”

The curtain is drawn back, and Bron is led away to his new quarters. He will not see the wiseman again for several years. His job now is that of a scribe, faithfully writing the words of the wiseman as transcribed to him by an older priest. Bron works at his job very diligently, but he is troubled. He swears that the wiseman winked at him before he was obscured from view, and can’t shake the feeling that there is something suspicious about the wiseman.

Many summers passed, and Bron faithfully translated the wiseman’s words. He soon advanced through the priestly ranks, eventually proving himself to be the most capable ever, and advancing to the rank of Head Priest at the young age of twenty-seven summers. It was at this time that a great strife fell upon the land. A plague of locusts had swept in from the north, and was devouring all the plant life across the realm. The plague was moving south, and expected to reach the villages near the temple within a month. Bron came to the wiseman, as he had done every day since he became head priest, and asked what could be done to stop the plague. “BLARG! GRAAAAWR! KSASHHKKA!” The wiseman violently clawed at the air with both hands.

“Of course!” thought Bron. Such a simple answer for such a terrible problem. The wiseman was truly a genius. Bron had the priests throughout send out a message throughout the land: “all citizens must take the blankets from their households, and cover the edible plants with them. Weigh down the blankets with rocks, so that they will not be taken away by the wind. When the plague comes, stay indoors and it will pass.” The citizens did as they were told, and the locusts passed through the land. Since there was no food, they disappeared as quickly as they had come, and the people were saved.

Bron eagerly told the wiseman the news.

“You know, I can’t tell if you guys are geniuses or idiots.” Said the wiseman.

Welcome to my Lair

Well, I'm going to post short stories here, eventually I'll post chapters of longer stories, but that won't be happening for a while. I'll also be ranting about various events in the world that I feel passionate about.