Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Category

Thinking I’ll write a Novella

February 24, 2014 2 comments

What do you think? As Blood & Soul creeps every closer to being unleashed on the public, I’ve begun to outline the next book in the saga – the working title is “Out of Oblivion” – and yes! it is epic and awesome or I would not be writing it.

During a meeting with my good friend Dale Young, he suggested I write a short story or a novella from the same world but outside the series of books I have planned. The purpose being to give it away either by publishing it or getting people to sign up on my blog/website for a series of entries and give readers a taste of my style.

The story won’t be drummed up just for promo purposes. I already have two stories within the world of the Creed of Kings Saga that I’ve been chewing for quite sometime. I have a full time job so it takes me a long time to generate a solid story. I have confidence that both of these stories are compelling enough and should be written at some point. Both have great concepts.But one of my worries is that it will sprawl into yet another epic as I strive for awesome.

Bottom line is I’m giving the idea of writing a short story or novella serious thought. If I can control myself and keep it simple, it would also help with a feeling of accomplishment. It would be gratifying to actually write and publish another story fairly quickly. Let me know what do you think?


So What’s With the Name, A Speaking Human?

You are a menace. A walking pestilence. – Dr. Zaius.

Welcome to my blog, I am the walking pestilence. “A Speaking Human” is derived from Charlton Heston’s character, George Taylor from Planet of the Apes. The quote by Dr. Zaius sounds like Bill Maher talking to Rush Limbaugh.

Doesn’t it seem like we conservatives are a shocking paradox to the Council of Liberals as Taylor was the Council of Apes? He was a speaking human! A menace! It seems they can’t believe that we actually have minds and we’re able to form coherent sentences. For too long they’ve read their liberal scrolls-the New York Times et al-repeated their euphemistic mantras, and delighted in movies and sitcoms crammed with political correctness to repeat the narrative and reenforce the mythology that all conservative are heartless, narrow-minded idiots.

It’s like we conservatives have come out of the woods-to the their surprise-already house broke and capable of using an indoor toilet. This confounds them. It doesn’t match the narrative they’ve been taught and so they try to cram us back in the outhouse and congratulate themselves on how evolved they are. It is written in the scrolls that we are all big eared inbred hillbillies, living in the fly-over states.

Is the Constitution in ruins, too?

I’m here, along with other conservative bloggers, to continue the confounding so that it may lead to disillusionment, which may be painful for the ‘liberal’, but ultimately worth it. I don’t do this to torment ‘liberals’ (note that on my blog I will usually put the word liberal in quotes because true believing ‘liberals’ are anything but…). Most are living the Matrix (the movie), existing completely clueless as to the core of what they’ve accepted and internalized, and perhaps unwittingly, promote. I see these Matrix ’liberals’ as comfortable and captive. I’m here to help inflict unrest on the comfy and set captives free from illusions. I want them to break free from the Council of Liberals and the so-called “Critical Theory” (google it).

Mainly I will writer about my passion, writing. I will also review movies, comment on music, attempt humor, occasionally do some Christian worldview apologetic, write a short story here and there, and update on the writing of my epic fantasy fiction saga under the working title of Blood and Soul. Book One of the Creed of Kings Saga. Six books are in the works, to be finished and released in sequence.

Are You Published?

April 25, 2012 5 comments

The simple answer is no. When I’m asked this question I wonder what the person knows about the art and process of storytelling. As with any type of excellence in art, overnight success is not the norm. Could I be published? I’m 100% certain. It’s easy nowadays via Vanity press or ePublishing. Nothing stands in the way. So being published is not necessarily a sign of success or quality. It’s basically like a General Admission ticket. Anyone can get in. Almost like buying a degree. There’s a universe of white noise out there now.

I began writing the saga Creed of Kings, which has sprawled into a 300,000 word epic, right before the eBook revolution started to crank up. I made a decision to never publish through Vanity press. Why? Because if I ended up self-publishing it meant—not in all cases of course—that I sucked. Sorry for the technical language.  Vanity means what it means. Gratifying myself is not my aim, which is to rock the reader’s world. Vanity costs dearly and you end up with a bunch of books in your garage. My goal is for Creed of Kings to be published traditionally, in hardcover, on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and others. on black Friday. Even though I’ve tweaked it a bit due to the eBook revolution, the spirit of the goal has not changed, but that does not matter either.

What matters most is quality. One has to spin a yarn better than the people in one’s creative writing class do. College football is planet away from high school football, and pro football is a galaxy from college. You must never rest when it comes to creating the best characters, plot points, dialogue, set up, mood, structure etc. I must see myself joining the league of David Gemmell , George R. R. Martin, Terry Goodkind , Steven Pressfield  now, not someday. What I create must stand the light of day with no prequalification. I have to write at that level of quality. I have to stretch myself, sacrifice.

I’m not new to writing. I’ve always had the bug. I had an active blog life that started in 2004 on Xanga . Before that, I was a regular contributor to a message board started by the rock band Creed—where I relearned the importance of spelling! I’ve written a oodles of terrible poems and kept angst ridden journals. Before that, I wrote a short story in college for a humanities project. The professor thought I should try to publish it. I did not think it was good enough. It was not about self-image, it was about objectivity.

People have told me all my life that I have the gift. It’s rarely flying in formation though. Life’s storms and obligations must be handled and I have discovered it takes a lot of effort for me to keep that flame lit. Furthermore, I am human and I suffer those outrageous idiocies of us artsy fartsy types, such as bored easily, moodiness, brooding, attention whore, borderline ADD, impatience, and perfectionism.

I feel strongly that my day is coming. The agonizing work has come up front. At the start it would have been arrogant to just whip out a manuscript, send it in, and wait for the book tour to begin. I never believed that. Therefore, I’ve clawed through 2 million raw words to eke out a few gold moments.

Nope, not published, yet. But, I have loved every second of this challenge. I will deliver a gift from my soul to many strangers in name but kindred in soul. If you don’t love the process, the nail biting, the blood sweating, fuggedaboutit. You’ll end up admiring your words in the vanity mirror.

Sin as a Woman

December 4, 2011 6 comments

My sin came to me as a woman in my dreams before dawn this morning. The vision started in a diner. I was waiting for her next to the window in a booth. I was sipping my coffee. She approached and I offered her a seat across from me. She missed the facade that was me and I wanted what she would never be. We sat across from one another in bashful silence for a while, hearts thundering. I gazed on her beauty feeling the sweet stabs of hope and the real pain she had caused. Her familiar smile finally broke upon her face; the smile reminds me of a young Cher – before plastic. It was bitter sweet, one of regret and hope. She reached across to take my hand. She was warm and inviting. A million memories flashed through my mind. She knew things were ending.

I told her that I loved her, but that it was in all the wrong ways. She gave a knowing nod and rubbed my hand in sorrow. She got stuffy, tears brimming, eyes glistening …those beautiful amber eyes glowing like a hearth under a brunette roof. I had known her for many years; when she was young her face soft and innocent. Now her features had those angular turns of a maturing woman, her beauty different but not diminished. I wondered how she endured the life I gave her.

She told me that she loved me too. I could tell she meant it, or wanted to mean it. She said the words as if striking a wet match, hopeful yet un-ignited. I told her I was sorry for contributing to her problem, leading her on and on. I wanted to let go for so long. Being so committed, I had sustained her illusions of eternal life with me. I wanted to save her. She was my secret friend, the one I was ashamed of, in many ways a authentic friend. I told her I knew better than to ever get involved, that our mutual weaknesses had led us to self-destruction of the soul. But, that I had found a door out.

Her eyes got wide for a moment. She knew what I was talking about. I had been bringing it up a lot lately.

She looked out the window into the gray morning, while still gripping my hand, eyes dripping tears. She was even making me cry. She said as she blinked, “I’m a Christian too,” as if trying to flip on a dead light bulb, as if by magic it would suddenly come on, but the dismay returning anew, the sadness fresh in her heart.

“That is a nice lie Satan,” I said quietly. She broke up like a Picasso, the shards disappeared as smoke in the wind. My hand was cold. I looked around. Then I saw her reappear outside the window looking in, her palm against the glass. I put my hand to hers and she smiled that beautiful bittersweet smile. She mouthed goodbye. I said that I would forget her…every day of my life. Then she faded into the gray and gathering crowd to wander among the other ghosts of my soul; the cloaks, and passes I gave as cover to the darkness in me.

I turned to see the waitress staring at me. She asked, “What were you looking at?”

“I used to not know.”


Getting Older

September 18, 2011 Leave a comment

Getting older… Getting over …vanity of youth …insanity of fad …from the blind side of sought and the wrong side of ought. Journey out of the naiveté, but ache and wonder resides and spills from the cloven seasons of my heart, even as I laugh, life moves in for the kill.

What was the future is beyond my furrowed brow, but somehow, brightness shines in the valleys between far away thrills, bridging the distance of that old resistance in an instance, to other hidden fields. The wonders of pain and stain, of sunshine and gain are all in the palm of my gazing mind, reshaping, improving thoughts that were blind or unkind. With a thought quick as a glance, smooth as a changing stance, leaping on the tip of icebergs galore, foundations of floating depth explored.

I’m not what I pretended, less than I intended and far less than I apprehended. There is grander I cannot grasp…a pleasant and powerful undercurrent to life parallels the misery, sensed only with my meager knack to detect wonder, as I stand astride two destinies, one good, one nil. Seems to me truth is more ancient than light, rolling like waves with such force I crouch to the deck on my squeaky little ship. There is more air than I can breathe more sun than I can soak up or see.

Life will rob you of peace, but think of no other riches than those of heart. Life takes its toll but strive for no other greatness than that of soul.

The day my dad and I nearly got killed

August 4, 2011 7 comments

Many years ago, my dad and I nearly were killed together.

My dad is a quiet and unassuming man. He speaks with an east Texas accent that’s so thick; to understand him you need to be from around here. He is not outspoken. He has never been fashion conscious. He worked hard all his life and retired from Kraft Foods. He doesn’t care what kind of car you drive. He rarely understands irony; everything is what it is. He is kind and courteous. He won’t even hang up on a telemarketer. He’ll patiently listen and politely say, “Nah, we ain’t inersted. Thank ya.” He is funny. He can say the most hilarious things…quietly. People will say, “Your dad is so quiet …and funny.” He is the master of the Art of Understatement. It’s natural. It’s not something he works on.

The fateful day occurred after I had car trouble about fifteen miles away from home. I called him to come get me. When he picked me up, we decided we’d fix the problem the next day…something to do with parts. That evening it snowed, a lot. Yeah, snowing in Texas. No big deal but the snow began to melt. The roads were slushy. Then an ice storm hit early the next morning. I can’t remember why but it was very important to get my car. My dad owned a faithful Nissan 200SX at the time, a feather light car. He cranked it, warmed it up, breath steaming out of our noses and mouths. We headed out on our date with destiny. The road looked like the glaze on a donut. It was well below freezing. Everything was crunchy, almost no traction. We had a few narrow escapes but dad adjusted. I was feeling pretty confident and so was he so we kept going. I don’t care where you’re from no one can drive well on ice if you don’t have chains on the tires. But we had to go.

As I said, dad is a quiet man. We didn’t say a thing to each other. That’s just the way he is. It has nothing to do with mood. Gloves on, tucked deep in our coats, eyes fixed on the road and oncoming cars, silent and determined to accomplish this now heroic mission. Then we saw it, a gigantic semi truck plowing down the road toward us. Ice and snow billowed out from under the tires, as it seemed to build speed. Then it happened, for no apparent reason the little Nissan suddenly went sideways in the road then swerved into the path of the oncoming bringer of death on eighteen wheels. I was in the passenger’s seat, and angled at the bazillion pounds of encroaching truck. I vaguely remember my dad fighting with the wheel on the periphery of my consciousness. I was completely helpless. The “MAC” emblem on the front of the truck grew. While this was happening I froze, you can’t move when death is coming that fast. Although pointless, I braced for impact. I always wondered if that truck driver saw me as I contemplated the doom, sheer terror on my face. If dad didn’t correct this situation that monster would T-Bone the 200SX. In a nanosecond, I would be splattered all over the radiator like a hopeless insect.

Just before impact, a hand seemed to reach down out of heaven and correct the careening Nissan. We suddenly went back into the correct lane as the eighteen-wheeler zoomed past, chunks of snow showering the car. I thought I would need a change of underwear and I began to hyperventilate, but angels were singing in my head. Dad never missed a beat. He just looked straight ahead. In case I missed it, he let me know as if he had avoided nothing more than a stray dog in the road and said, “I bet we had ‘at feller in ‘at truck purty sceerd.”

I said, “Yep.”

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