You Don’t Know Jack – Continued

I think this needs a little work, but this is another section from the chapter, “You Don’t Know Jack.” I think my creative thoughts are being clouded by other things, such as Mass Effect 2 and Avatar at the moment, too much awesomeness all at once!

“I hope you’re right, Steve.” Jericho mutters.

“Shh!” I point at him, “on one.” I bend my knees and curve my back, “Five,” you can feel the tension in the air and the music punctuates that. “Four, Three,” I visualize taking down my targets, clearing my mind, “two,” placing the hand not holding the handle-grip of my gun on the door, “one.”

And in we went, crouching and sprinting for the bar, cutting through synthetic fog and dancing lasers – blue, green, orange and a few red. We were invisible to the opposition up top but that didn’t stop them from firing randomly into the darkness upon seeing the door open, bullets ricocheting off of the concrete dance floor, a few barely missing us.

I catch a glance, scattered on the floor – neon colored hair nestled between sneakers and boots, a drug induced garden of hysterics.

Each of us slide, one by one, behind the marble and wooden bar and it’s plethora of inebriation, catching a quick breath before the storm. The shrapnel and likely death from above comes to a halt and we were in the clear, for the moment.

I turn my head to Jack, “take Hugo, Steve and Jericho – secure those hostages.”

Judging by what I’d seen, there were less people than we’d thought, maybe one hundred or so.

I then turn to Barry, “Barry and I got these bastards.”

But we had no way of knowing how many there were or if all of them were actually up top.

“Got it.” Jack taps them on the shoulder and whispers something.

“Let’s do this, Barry, see if your training was worth the time spent.”

He nods, still oozing with fear.

“Go.” I command, already in motion and heading for the stairs as Jack counts my steps, preparing to move.

The upward climb bends like a river, around and around until we make it to the top, kneeling slightly out of view, behind the very last step – seven or eight of them, pacing back and forth, watching the ground below. One of them points at another, stammering through his words and spitting orders and then moving toward our position.

I unclip a flash grenade from the bandoleer around my chest, designed to stun and disorient.

Removing the pin, turning my head slightly to notice Barry a centimeter away from the side of my face, I slide it across the floor to the terrorist’s boots.

The towel-hat-wearing man looks down in confusion as I put a hand on the back of Barry’s head and duck.

A loud pop and the room fills with white for half a second, we stand, weapons forward, single shot firing and dropping one after the other as they flail around on the ground, pulling the triggers of their assault rifles randomly. I grab Barry by the chest and pull him forward – a few of them hadn’t been blinded, standing behind a few pillars deeper within the lounge area.

“Shit, we got a stand off, Jack, status?” Putting a finger to my ear as I push Barry behind a pillar and take cover behind my own.

No response.

You Don’t Know Jack

“Hey man.” A voice to the right, not quite inside of my own mind, says, “how ya been?”

I continue focusing on the road and the rain, spritzing me through the sharded glass, covered in bullet holes.

“You gonna say somethin’?” The new voice asks.

My peripheral catches a familiar face, I glance for a second and turn back to the darkness.

“Jack.” It couldn’t have been him, no way.

“Six years and you’re speechless?” He leans in, “well, given the circumstances, I guess I would be too.”

Wreaking of booze and breathing heavily, he continues with his inquisition.

“So you goin’ to Harrisburg then?”

Glancing once more, I notice he’s holding a Glock nine millimeter over his lap and pointing it directly at me, with an evil looking sneer across his face.

“You’re not Jack.” Finally choosing to respond.

“What makes you think that?” He shoots back immediately.

“You randomly appear in my passenger seat and nonchalantly begin a conversation,” swallowing a lump in my throat, “you’re nothing but a figment of my imagination.”

“You wanna test that theory?” He cocks the pistol and playfully waves it around in my face.

I grip the steering wheel, rubber sticking to my skin like Velcro and Jack begins to recite a memory.

Ten miles to Harrisburg.

It was about nine o’clock in the evening, middle of downtown Manhattan. A group of terrorists had taken hostages in an underground Rave club – the exact location left my mind years ago.

People gathered on the sidewalk, trying to peer through the black tinted glass and cracks in the doorway. NYPD’s finest stood around asking citizens to “please get behind the yellow tape,” as if this were already a crime scene and no one had been left alive.

The media huddled around vans and police cruisers, asking anyone that passed by what’d been going on, but a lid was being kept tight, hush-hush. Obviously trying hard to avoid wide-spread panic about another attack on the city.

All of this, the fat, donut wielding cops, crowds of concerned people and the obligatory media onslaught – this was the distraction.

Trashing Literature

In protest against claims that Borders will be trashing books, instead of donating them to the less fortunate, I will not be posting a novel preview this week — even though I’ve written at least a couple thousand words worth of a new chapter.

A link to the article claiming so, can be found here: www.inhabitat.com

This is all, obviously, the result of greedy corporations. Something I believe we’re all very familiar with in this day and age.

So really, if it’s cheaper to toss out a huge collection of books, instead of donating them to, say, children or our soldiers, that’s the path you’d rather take?

Gimme a break people. Writers and Authors, alike, work hard to spin these tales. Whether it be non-fiction that involves some real life interest or science fiction involving a trip to a distant planet — these aren’t things that most would consider trash, in fact, it’s an insult to those that have worked their pencils, pens and fingers to the bone.

To combat this, I am asking that anyone that regularly reads this blog, join the FaceBook group — Tell BORDERS: DO NOT DUMPSTER BOOKS — and show your support. Who knows, maybe it’ll make a difference, maybe it won’t.

I do know one thing though. If nothing is done, as history has always told, those that would triumph over us will continue to do so.

Support literature, writers and creativity. That’s all I ask.

The Blacktop Catacomb – Continued

Each flash of recoil a different vision – a different, undiscovered piece of the past.

I feel her breathing down my neck, rolling down my spine with uneasy shivering.

Her fingernails scratch at my brain, sliding front to back, pulling my eyes away and the air goes stale.

You wanted to know what I am?

Rob and Meryl, sitting with arms on their knees, dirty and covered in blood – they look my way and Meryl speaks, “Dante, what happened?”

And I assume you’d like to discover, perhaps, my purpose?

Over the horizon, the Verrazano. A few clicks away – The Tower. Gunfire explodes from behind, every one of those ZeroFactor motherfuckers screaming with rage and blasting weapons full-auto.

I am everywhere.

A pair of arms wrap around my chest and embrace – warm, then withering away, eyes of a shadow and hair that flows like wind, black as night, over her blindingly white shoulders.

I am time.

We run together, stray bullets whipping by. Rob takes one in the shin, Meryl in the upper left arm. They grunt, they yell and like before, I take them by force to our destination.

I am space.

The edge of the Milky Way Galaxy, an event horizon, staring down deep – terrifying and serene, all at once, sounding like muffled water in your ears.

Your future depends on me.

Half of the Narrows bridge gives way and crashes into the bubbling sea – dead-end. Meryl takes me by the arm and a crowd, led by Nuhm and “No,” I speak, “Jack.”

You see and feel the past, because of me.

“Then who, or what the fuck are you?” The belt winds down, ammunition spent and not a speck of life to be seen.

I am…

Oops! That’s a plot-twist! Sorry folks!

The Blacktop Catacomb

Should be obvious by now — a nice little snippet from the rough draft, written about ten minutes before this update:

I try to tell myself that there couldn’t have been any way for me to have an effect on this situation, if I had been here, instead of Manhattan. I curse myself for ever relocating to the NYPD. But even then, death would still come to millions.

You can’t save ‘em all.

Shaking my head, blinking, squinting, I yell, “Stop!”

Hands clasped against my ears, “just stop it already!”

Hand on the rubber grip of my pistol, “I’m only human, you can’t blame me for this!”

The windshield shatters, finally, after a bout of randomly firing and rain pours inward, projectiles passing through ghosts, hitting and ricocheting against metal carcasses. Another shot, then another, “just go away!” My trigger-finger goes limp and my head swims as if I’m waking up in a hungover stupor, feeling heavy and sick from stale stomach acid.

Only human? You sure about that, Dante?

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I’m getting sick and tired of your psycho-babble.” Gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white with sweat, I jam my foot down into the gas pedal. Tires squeal with rage, fiery eyes emerge in the rear-view galloping behind and a handful of Undead break into the scene.

Forging a path through the wreckage, I careen forward. A headlight goes out, a side-view mirror snaps.

The ghosts of the past all stand to the sides of the road gazing at the man of a shattered memory, an obscured collection of truths. He’s tired and weary-eyed, he can’t take the anguish he’s bottled up inside.

He sees a vision of Meryl, holding an arm out as he stumbles over.

Another vision, Julianna clutching him tightly against her body, a mysterious glow emanating from glazed over pupils.

And then Jack, long ago, sitting together in a squad car watching criminals go in and out of a supposedly abandoned warehouse somewhere between poverty avenue and ghetto boulevard.

“Fuck you!” I scream, shifting into overdrive, now holding a 1911 over the wheel and balancing it with the edge of my wrist, firing wildly at each zombie as they attempt to crawl over the hood of the vehicle, splattering coagulated blood and cracking dry-rotten bone.

I jerk the steering wheel all the way to the left, spinning around, pushing open the drive-side door. Elbow a running corpse in the jaw, push another away with the palm of my head, I climb into the bed of the truck and grip the mounted machine. Breathing heavily, sweat and rain soaking every inch of my body, I vibrate to the pumping of each shattering blast that lights the area around me in an orange fury.

And I keep firing, even though I can barely see anything at all, I don’t stop. If anyone or anything that lives is anywhere near here, the only thing they’d hear is the sound of a man determined – the clanging of chains, the sound barrier breaking every half a second to a hailstorm of ammunition that punches through the darkness, dropping anything within a ten foot radius.

Heroes of Newerth

If you’re a fan of Warcraft III and its counterpart mod, Defense of the Ancients, you may find this game to be just what you were looking for. A completely stand alone, arena based, matchmaking system where you can either practice or go head-to-head against anyone else currently playing the game.

First, upon creating a match, you’ll choose your character from at least sixty different heroes. Then you’ll be placed within the battleground, where you’ll purchase items, upgrade skills and defend your base against your opponent, who’ll be positioned directly on the other side of the map. Destroy their base before they annihilate yours and win.

The best part, though, is the fact that my own father voiced three of the characters in Heroes of Newerth. The following is a video preview of the aforementioned. Enjoy! And check it out — you’ll find me under the name Paxcorpus. Just make sure you apply for the beta, since it’s still within its testing phase.

SubHorror

Here’s number three in the set of audio previews of my novel-in-progress! Written by me (Ryan S. Fortney) — voiced by Scott Fortney and special guest, Stacy Fortney! Enjoy!

For more information on Scott “Scooter” Fortney’s voicework, please visit www.takemyvoice.com or his youtube page, Scooter’s Voice.

The final frontier…

There were a handful of things I wanted to be when I was a kid. A firefighter maybe, a policeman, possibly an actor at some point and an astronaut. Funny thing is, I never really ended up being any of those things. But, that’s O.K.! Out of all of them though, I sometimes wonder what it would’ve been like to pursue a career in space exploration.

Sure, I’m a writer, so I can just write about what I’d imagine it’d be like. Floating there in space, all alone. Distant planets and an empty black void. Both enticing and terrifying. And that’s what fascinates me the most.

Especially black holes. Out of everything there is or could be out there in space, black holes are the single most interesting things to me. I mean, could you really call them strange acts of nature? I think when people use the term nature, they’re thinking more along the lines of Earth related cataclysms or mysteries. I don’t necessarily relate nature to the Universe, but anyway, I’m rambling.

There are those that believe black holes don’t exist, those that believe that they aren’t giant vacuums that consume everything from the center to the event horizon and those that do. I am one of the latter.

The only question is, what’s beyond that giant hole of suck? Death? De-materialization and then, again, death? Or perhaps a completely different point in the Universe.

Furthermore, what about the big bang? If there was nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, before the big bang, where’d the gases come from that caused it?

Think about these things for too long and your brain will begin to hurt.

But I have an assignment for you, reader. No matter how cold it is tonight (if it is, in fact, cold in your region) I want you to go outside and look at the moon. Don’t look at it as if you’re eying a slice of pie. Completely ignore everything around you and make believe you’re actually in space, and you’re almost directly in front of that. How’s it feel?

Tell me.

The Pax Integral Logo

This’ll be a short update. I had originally drawn this as a little logo that would represent an evil corporation in a comic I’d never draw. As some of you may know, that comic idea somehow, eventually turned into the idea of a novel. Although it took me a while to think to use something visual to identify with my story, I ultimately decided to use this, since it had been an original creation of mine. I also wanted something that I could identify with not only the anti-good “terrorists” in my novel, but also myself, this website and anything else that I do. So I booted up Photoshop and rendered an updated version of that very same logo, completely hand-drawn (with my mouse).

Let me know what ya think!

IDDQD

“Whatever, none of this makes any sense at all, just do what you need to do…”

My eyelids almost collapse in fatigue. Meryl jolts upward and rushes to my side as I barely stop myself from hitting the ground, head swimming in a faux drunken stupor.

“Hey!” She puts a hand on my face, “what’s going on?!” Her voice scratching at the edge of my ears.

In that moment, before losing control of my mind and motor functionality, I saw in her face something familiar, but unlike anything I’d experienced in the past, more like deja vu, or a glimpse into the future.

I spit words that roll off of my tongue and squeeze past my lips, “why’s she want me to kill you?”

Looking into my eyes, “kill me? Who wants you to kill me? Dante?” Bits of worry and fear litter her face, “Answer me!”

When I could stand back up, it wasn’t me standing up. Looking through my eyes looked gray and wishy-washy. Meryl and Rob looked far away – distant, both staring at me in confusion, “are you hurt?” They’d ask, but I push by – she pushed by.

“What were you talking about just then Dante?” Meryl stands in front of her, “WHO wants you to kill me?!”

“Nothing. No one. I was thinking out loud. Stand back.” Sounding monotone, she speaks through me, convincing both of them to gain a little distance.

The demon-lord arches its neck upward and with a loud and deafening screech it leaps from its perch.

“Oh fuck, it saw us!” Rob dives to the ground.

Soaring through the scarred and thunderous sky, it swoops down, heading right for us.

What’re you gonna do… I think, feeling as if I’m on the opposite side.

Meryl grabs for an arm, held high and directly in front of my face, both hands extended with all five fingers and she bounces back, as if propelled by an invisible force.

The ground shakes and that same black acid that dripped from the demon of Sloth shoots up from my feet and encircles the area.

My fist clenches and the other overturns with an exposed palm.

“Nerell’elict cliate pussom.” Three unintelligible words come from my mouth and with a hard push, in the demon’s face as it nears our location, it swoops back. Lightning strikes not even more than three clicks away and the acid shoots like a high caliber bullet into its chest, sending it down into the crowd of its minions.

Holy shit. If I could display an expression, it’d be disbelief, along with possibly brown-stained pants.

Again, she moves me to the edge, looking over. An angry and blood-thirsty crowd looks up.

“She ain’t dead, but that’ll get you out.” She says, looking to Rob and Meryl, pointing at the growing chasm directly in the center of the ground, which had to have been at least a hundred feet down.

My vision bounces back like rubber and I regain control.

Simply jump. You’ll be taken back to your world, but it won’t be the same place.

“What in the fuck was that?” I shout, blinking over and over, stomach churning, upset and bubbling.

“You tell us, Dante!” Rob’s standing, backing away in terror.

“No time, we gotta jump.” I bend my legs and prepare.

“Huh, no, I don’t think so.” Meryl grabs me by the skin of my shoulder, “you’ve gotta be possessed or something. I’m not going back, not with you.”

You don’t have much time. I suggest you do something.

The sound of thousands of bone crunching feet begin rushing for the peak, pounding like feet on bleachers at a football game.

My hands go for the gun, “over the ledge!” Pointing at the two of them.

“You can’t be serious…” Rob, with hands in the air, continues moving backward.

“So what?” Meryl walks toward me, “you gonna pull that trigger?”

“I’m saving your lives, you stay here, you die. Now,” I motion with the end of the gun, “over the peak.”

You have roughly thirty seconds.

“I give you my word, I am not possessed. I don’t know what that was, but I’m on your side.” Pleading with her, sidestepping toward the edge, her eyes never move.

“And how good is your word?” She responds, lowering her arms, “put the gun away then, make that jump.”

Through a blurry haze in the distance, dust lifts and a giant crowd of Undead soldiers climb over rock and brimstone, barreling toward the top, holding their weapons high and screaming for vengeance.

“We don’t have time for this, goddammit!” My right hand holsters the gun and my left grabs Rob, pushing forward and catching Meryl in my sprint for the edge, we shove over the side into the dwindling chasm. Before we hit bottom, the last thing I see are ants spilling off of the edge of a molehill. And then, as we pass through, darkness zips tight and the hole we’d escaped through shuts.

This felt the same, the same as that time I’d been almost blown to pieces by an exploding precinct building, only to wake up in front of a smoldering train. I couldn’t hear Meryl, I couldn’t see Rob. Only flashes of a memory from a time that seemed almost eons ago.

Time stopping, the bank vault opening. An apparition or a beast appears and touches me with her cold and seemingly dead fingers.

“Nice to see you again.”

That’s what she said, I thought to myself. But, again?

Rest easy, this is the final stretch.

All senses plundered, I breath heavily, dry heaving and shaking. A hand grabs me by the chin, fingernails digging into my skin and another grabs an eyelid, forcing them open.

In Avernus

I’ve decided that from now on I will be posting snippets from my novel’s rough draft here on my blog, after doing so for a few months already on Facebook.

Writer — Ryan S. Fortney
(Facebook fanpage)

This, will in-turn, be linked on my brand new Facebook fanpage. So, for the first snippet, I present “In Avernus”.

Our hero and his team have been forced to embark to the top of a building called “The Tower”, unknowingly being matched against physical manifestations of the “deadly sins” and discovering a dark secret that holds the building together and it’s inhabitants prisoner.

Similar to the first, the walls were covered in green moss, floor littered with empty bullet casings – the only light coming from random cracks and holes that glowed burgundy-ish.

Nine apartment doors were labeled, each with something different, “Avernus”, “Dis”, “Minauros”, “Phlegethos”, “Stygia”, “Malbolge”, “Maladomini”, “Cania” and “Nessus”.

“What?” Meryl passes by each one in confusion, “this has gotta be some sort of joke.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“These are all the recorded names of the nine layers of Hell, which are supposedly ruled by Archdevils, the ‘Lords of the Nine’.”

“You know, I never really took you for the sort of person to be reading books about demonology, dark magic and Hell.” I crack, receiving a shot of lowered brows and a piercing glare.

“That’s because you never took the time to get to know me, you know, while we were still cops.”

“Just because you’re not wearing the outfit, doesn’t mean you’re not NYPD anymore.”

She approaches me and takes me by the shoulders, “you do realize that none of that has any relevance anymore, right?” And letting go, “but that’s beside the point, either these doors lead, somehow, to each different layer of the Nether, the multiverse, or they’re a mockery of such.”

“If you two are done babbling, I think you should listen…” Rob points to the corridor directly in front of us that leads off to the left, “something’s comin’ down that hallway.”

“Or someone.” I lift my pistol and push Meryl to the side as a ragged looking man, with patches of hair missing and a woman with shattered teeth emerge from around the corner.

“Please!” They reach out with hands clasped together, “help us!”

Lunging forward, faces stricken with agony, “take us to the top! It’s all we ask!” The man grovels.

In disgust I step back, his hands sliding down my pant legs and onto the ground.

“Ya think we should help them?” Rob asks.

Between tears the woman pleads, “we’ve been here for days! Nothing to drink, nothing to eat!” Her teeth crumbling as they gnash together with every word.

“Ew.” Meryl bites her lip and crosses her hands in front of her face, “just put them out of their misery.”

“Surely you must have some compassion,” the man looks up from the ground, “you’ve seen the horrors – the demons that stalk this building.”

“Actually, we just got here.” Keeping my pistol trained on his face.

“Then you’ve at least seen the magic, the dark power that holds this place together and its occupants.” He pulls himself up to his knees, “it’s the only reason we can’t leave – they can’t leave.”

“What about these doors?” His eyes trail my hand with trembling terror as I reach out to touch the closest one, Avernus.

“No!” Leaping up and wrapping his arms around mine. “Don’t open that door!” And stuttering, “it’s…it’s…pure death…out there.”

Shaking him off, “what do you mean, ‘out there’?”

“Behind that door, all of them, is a twisted dimension.” Looking down at his brown leather shoes, “the Archdemons, they feed on your soul, your very being. Just look at me!” and then into my eyes, “the man I am now s’only a shattered remnant of what I used to be…”

“You were tested, right?” Meryl steps forward, “they forced you into this building and told you to get to the top, or die, correct?”

Neither of them answer. The woman, shaking, squats down in the corner of the hallway, lifting her torn white dress to urinate what liquid she’d left inside.

“Aw, fuck, come on!” Slamming a hand against the wall, Rob inhales and chokes.

“Pull it together Rob, these two are obviously far too gone.” I aim my pistol again in the direction of the now collapsed and barely breathing woman, “we’ve gotta do what’s right.”

Meryl and Rob turn to the side, trying not to look, as I slowly squeeze the trigger.

“Don’t shoot my wife!” The man bounces up, positioning his head directly in front of the barrel in just enough time to catch the hot end of a forty-five caliber bullet, showering red down onto the woman it’d been meant for.

Breathing heavily, regaining strength, she stands.

“You!” Laughing menacingly, “you are a fool!”

“Oh shit…” Rob motions for the door, watching as her skin cracks and breaks, becoming larger, pieces of brittle flesh peal away.

“There’s no escape for you!” Eyes glowing red, fingernails turned claws, “only in!”

“Shoot it!” Meryl screams.

Unleashing a hail of bullets, it shakes and moves back slightly, inch by inch with every click and pop.

“Stop!” Lowering our weapons, mind racing, thinking of a plan, “it’s immune to death, apparently.”

“No shit Dante, what do we do?!” Rob angrily demands an answer.

Behind, the door we’d come through was blocked. The same magic as before.

“Silly mortals, death is for you!” It pounds a fist to the ground, shaking the floor and the walls, unbinding the wood from the concrete and nails, creating a small plank that we stood upon, strangely floating amidst an orange and black swirl that seemed like an endless skyline.

The doors began drifting away, leaving us stranded on our slab, with the demon standing and waiting at the opposite end.

“Grab a hand!” Letting my arms out, I make a quick decision and prepare for a jump.

Dragon Age: Origins

First and foremost, I’d like to say that I am in complete awe over this masterful work of digital entertainment art. So much, that I managed to purchase a copy for both my PC and my Xbox 360, including available DLCs.

I would like to applaud Bioware, you have won, in my mind, the award of greatest RPG of all time. Everyone has their greatest game, or book, or movie — I have one for each category, but this is mine — my most favorite game since Metal Gear: Solid. Why?

It’s been over a decade since any game has immersed me in such a dark, rich, powerful and epic fantasy world as this game has.

It’s been over a decade since any piece of entertainment has captured every last bit of emotion I’d once thought to be lost to the bitterness of past qualms and betrayal.

I want to say so much, but I am simply speechless.

To not experience this work of art, is to deprive yourself.

This is not just a game. This is a story, a novel, grafted into a living world, presented to you in the palm of your hands — yours to alter and change as you see fit, or at least as far as your morals will allow you to go.

From start to finish, you will be enthralled with anger, fueled by vengeance and hey, you may even shed a tear.

I do not lie.

As I said, I could say so much about this game, but all you’ve gotta do is experience it. I am simply displaying my gratitude, excitement and congratulations to my new favorite developers of my new favorite, greatest RPG of all time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll play it again.

Spirits of the Damned

A friend and I were discussing the movie Paranormal Activity the other day and although I haven’t seen it, the way it was described to me sounded extremely cheesy and blatantly fake. He also brought up the argument that spirits or ghosts are simply demons posing as those of the dead – people that have passed on, that you may be looking to contact. In his words, Hell and the Devil will do anything to pull you over to the “bad” side.

Regardless, discussing this movie brought a question to mind:

Why don’t these people and/or directors ever make movies about real “Paranormal Activity”? Is it simply because no one really believes it? Or because it’s extremely hard to capture?

You’re probably thinking by now that I must believe all of this, to some extent, and you’d be almost dead-on.

Over the soon-to-be past decade, I have experienced paranormal activity, if that’s what you want to call it. And just to clarify, I am not insane nor I am delusional.

Back in 2001 and 2002, I was living with my Father at my Step Mother’s house. Before I divulge the things I’ve experienced, I’ll note that this house had been rebuilt early on in the beginning of the 20th century, to replace the house that had burned down and killed a family of three.

Oh! Plot thickens, right?

My Father recalls things such as papers violently flying off of desks on calm and still summer days, speakers moving across the floor for no apparent reason, the dogs coming down the stairs whimpering with tails between their legs after loud voices shout things like “SHUT THAT DOG UP!”

I remember my Step Mother saying that at night, she’d smell burning flesh or see a man sitting on the end of the bed.

What did I experience?

Objects in my room would move on their own to other parts of the house, I’d hear footsteps at night right beside my bed or the sound of a child singing, which has also been reported by more recent occupants.

No, I never saw white shadows floating in the air, but these people were pissed off and/or messing with us most of the time. I had a lot of trouble sleeping there.

It would be at least 2-3 more years before I experienced anything else, but upon moving out of that house, I thought it was over.

Until one day, in the middle of the afternoon, at a friends house, I’d seen the figure of a long-haired woman peaking around the side of a shed that sat next to a garage, while I had simply been standing there smoking a cigarette. And I checked, looked all around, no one to be seen or heard.

Other things had happened as well, such as somebody tapping me on the shoulder as I sat at my computer. I’d look around and see absolutely no one.

My friend mentioned that maybe experiencing these things had something to do with the witchcraft I had dabbled in as a teenager. But that was just naive curiosity and I do not believe the two are connected in any way. At least, I hope not.

Do I expect you, the reader, to believe me?

Nope.

Not many people will believe you when you talk about ghosts, spirits or demons – at least not until they’ve experienced it for themselves. And if you believe it only depends on what you believe in, it doesn’t. I don’t believe in much, but I at least know that there is something after death, there’s gotta be, unless we’re all just telepathic, moving things with our minds and creating images in our heads, but I don’t think so.

I still have trouble being alone in the dark.

Undying Resolve

One of the biggest and probably also one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced, which is what also inspired and forced me to write the novel that I am, will rear its head on its two year anniversary, in three months. Sure, three months is kind of a long while away, but I wanted to share with whatever readers I actually have, what this book used to be.

As it stands right now, what I am writing is an apocalyptic and demonic tale told from the perspective of a man who comes between two women and the loyalty of his own flesh and blood, good and evil or so it seems. But what a lot of people don’t know is that this story is sort of true, in a metaphoric way and I’ll leave it up to you to decide how, once you’ve read the finished product.

I remember telling her, there sitting on her bed, with a single sheet of paper in my hands, that the prologue I’d written would eventually turn into a novel. This prologue involved an amatuerish couple thousand words that involved a man whom worked at a gas station, gets shot at and has some demonic vision, ending in a trail of fire and a drunken stupor.

I also remember her asking me if and when that was ever going to happen, as if she thought that I wasn’t capable of accomplishing what I had originally set out to do. But it wasn’t until after “the end” that I knew what exactly it was that I was writing/going to write.

In the months of evolution that I had experienced, maybe four to five months later, I developed something bigger, but it didn’t fit my exact vision. Not to mention the fact that I was still stricken with a looming seed of anger and questions; depression and drunkeness.

Then, for some reason or another, it clicked. I tossed 20,000 words of what I had already written out the window, for the most part and started over.

Which ultimately leads to the point I’m at now. Sitting here with 32,000 words of the novel that was partly originally inspired by the “her” I’ve mentioned above. And I guess a part of me, upon finishing and publishing this novel, just wants her to know that I was more than capable, because I do, contrary to belief, have a dream.

In retrospect, I can say that I believe I reacted in a way that any person would, in such a screwed up situation and that what came of it, was more than worth it. Even with all feelings severed by now, I still cringe at the thought of “you”, showing “your” face once more, because we all know “you” will.

Before I finish the first novel in a saga of my own literary masterpiece, I just think “you” should know that this is the monster that you’ve partly created, congratulations.

And no, I’m not mentally unstable! I just have a few issues, some, unresolved issues, that beg of my attention.

PaxCorpus is on its way, and I can say that with utmost confidence.

Mind-fudge

What to write about. Hmm.

Perhaps I should write about the over-hyped bullshit that is the H1N1 virus. The fact that the seasonal flu is more dangerous than the aforementioned and that it is, in fact, not a national crisis. That people need to wake up and not be controlled by the media and presidential fear mongering.

You can find the information all over the Internet. The seasonal flu, which has been around for ages, kills millions every year! Now, I don’t know if that’s comparable to the couple hundred/thousand this year, but I do believe we are running out of months for 2009.

Yes, you should take precautions if you catch the “swine” flu, i.e. get some rest, have some water, eat healthy, drink tea, etc., etc..

If you don’t take care of it (or simply don’t have the immune system to combat it), when and if you get it, yes, there could be detrimental effects.

But what do I know? Common sense is muddled and stamped out nowadays.

I could also talk about the fact that I’ve finally managed to completely outline my novel. From front to back, I’ve finally planned every last bit of detail and event that will occur.

These are very exciting times. With the H1N1 zombie virus spreading and the end of the world careening our way (coming 2012, to a theater near you!), what’s a guy to do with such little time to publish a saga?

But anyway, stay on your toes people and until next time, when I hopefully have a little more to conversate about, stay ever vigilant!

FanFiction?

First, I’d like to say (and this is going to sound geeky) that I am probably one of THE biggest Metal Gear: Solid fans out there. I’ve got all of the original action figures packed away in boxes, I have multiple copies of the Playstation debut, including a Japanese copy, both versions of MGS2 and 3 and let’s not forget that I actually purchased a Playstation 3 only to play through and beat Metal Gear Solid 4.

The character, Solid Snake, has stuck with me since my mid-teens. In a way, I’ve identified and created a sort of emotional connection with this fictional character, created by Hideo Kojima. And just a few nights ago, I thought to myself: “Self, why not write a Metal Gear: Solid fan fiction?”

I figured, hey, I’m a writer, I feel my skills are at least slightly developed, why not give it a shot. I decided that it could be my little side project, since I seem to have no problem switching between both my own story and ideas for an MG:S fanfic. And this is what I wrote –

With the fall of the Patriots and the elimination of all enemies, you’d think it were all over. The world as we knew it was supposed to change for the better – but war, war rages onward. The only difference now, apart from the past, is that now war is simply a political tool of persuasion.

There is no order to it. No grand scheme or ultimate goal.

It is pointless, uncontrolled and highly profitable.

#

I’ve been spending my last few months visiting libraries and museums, soaking up as much of history as I can, becoming a drifter and an old sponge.

Only a few weeks left now.

When I sleep at night, on a park bench or under some tree, warmed by the fire of an old metal barrel, I dream. Everyone I’ve ever killed, either by order or by desire – they’re always there. They mock me, they can’t wait to see me; joining them in the bowels of Hell.

I embrace them.

Before I left, Otakon had begged me to stay, welling up with tears as usual, but that’s the last thing I need on my death bed. The Codec, though, remains intact and functional and he uses it liberally. Always checking in, “Snake, how’s it going?” or “How are you feeling?” I appreciated the gesture, I really did, he’s an old friend and a long-time ally, but he had to know that I felt nothing short of horrible.

Then I stopped and fell asleep. But it hit me. I realized/remembered that these characters–this world, was created entirely by someone else. If I were to do something like this, I’d only be taking someone elses world and remodeling it, slightly.

To me, it almost felt as if I were cheating on my characters and my world. Don’t get me wrong, I’d still like to do it, simply because I love Metal Gear. Yet a part of me doesn’t feel right about it.

Tell me, would I lose integrity or respect from other people if they had found out now or later (maybe, say, after I’ve published a book or two) that I had written fan fiction based on an extremely popular franchise? Would you look down on me? Am I wrong in feeling “dirty”? I guess what I’m looking for, for the most part, is approval. I want to know how writers feel about fan fiction, because, honestly, it’s a topic I’ve never seen discussed before.

The Grabber

This is the very beginning of my novel — yes, the unfinished one. As of right now, this is the rough draft of my “grabber.” What should pull my readers in and take them by the neck, start to finish. We’ll see. How about, you tell me?

Muffled voices of a man and a woman slip through the cracks of comatose consciousness, arguing back and forth –

“Where are we taking him?” she asks.

“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, his home. Won’t do us any kinda harm there.”

He hesitates for a moment.

“Won’t get in our way…”

“Why not just leave him here, with the rest of the forsaken?”

My lungs constrict and tighten, ready to implode. An invisible hand grabs my heart and squeezes with all of its might. I want to scream, but not a muscle moves.

“He’s going into cardiac arrest, administer the antidote, now!”

A quick sting to my neck, like a hornet, then cold – extreme cold bursts through my veins. Grey meets black and they swirl together. Dancing back and forth behind my eyelids as they tether and snap, spinning, swirling, washing away and here we are, ground zero.

You look to your left and you see rioters and looters pushing office furniture through the window of a glistening high-rise. To your right you see the dead ripping flesh from bone with the entrails of someone you’ve never known hanging from their gnashing teeth. A blurred cloud of panic and chaos erupts from the volcanic streets of Manhattan. Behind you is the deafening sound of chopper blades, lifting and dropping in unison, with the bellowing sound of a ship’s horn breaking through each millisecond of a pause.

The scenery is smudged water color, red and gray, bouncing off the top of skyscrapers. Something you’ve never really taken notice of, thinking to yourself, with the stench of foul eggs tickling at your nostrils. The roads and sidewalks littered with twisted and over-turned vehicles, military men and their “so-called” training being put to good use, the muzzle flash of a hundred guns going off in the distance and you realize that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t prepared for this, no matter how much training we could’ve had.

Bullets whiz by from all directions. A shred of cloth flutters from your shoulder, the impact throwing you backward, leaving a sticky red substance in its crater like shape. Shaking and nervous, you pull an injection from your front shirt pocket, driving the needle directly into the large blue vein on your wrist, depressing the pump and pulling it out before you have a chance to react to the pain.

You crouch, watching bodies drop and rise, drop and rise, head swirling – you stop, mouthing inaudible words to an invisible listener, “This is what they were talking about.” Preprocessed meat and synthetically made French fries climb through your esophagus, spilling out of your mouth and onto your brand new, police issue combat boots.

In books or dictionaries you might’ve read that the apocalypse would have been the hand of god destroying evil. You may have thought that this was necessary. What you don’t know or might not have considered, is the fact that maybe god sees evil in all of mankind. If there really is a god – a question you’ve asked yourself ever since you gained the ability to think independently.

Out-of-body, watching the back of your head, turning from the crowd in a soulless, milky-eyed trance, he says: “When death sleeps…” and the sentence trails away, lost in a catacomb drenched in two-toned shadows…

The Pax Integral

We’re coming to you live from the Shores of Hell, rightly named by a compatriot of mine and a brother to all of us in this war against death.

You’re listening to the Pax Integral, you’re one-stop, only source for up-to-the-hour information regarding everything that has to do with todays post-apocalyptic world.

If you’re heading our way today, well, what’re you even thinking? GO BACK!

In store for the East coast this morning is a slight chance of rain, followed by thunderstorms in the afternoon.

Traffic is at a disturbingly low rate, as our trafficam shows that the highways are completely empty!

Although, if you’ll take a moment and look up, you’ll see our brothers and sisters taking flight, in those wonderful flying fortresses we all depend on to keep our food and ammunition supply in stock. That goes for fuel as well.

The stock market today shows that Paxcorpus is at an all-time high, going up in price from two pennies to three! You guys even know PC was a corporation? Right, we made that up anyway.

If you do happen to be on the road today and you’re outside of the wall, remember to always wear your seatbelt. You never know when you could be pounced. Thank the stars for all that Plexiglas we found out west, aye? The last thing we need is to lose yet another unfortunate soul to the armies of the dead.

If you’re a new listener, why not drop us a line here, maybe we could provide you with some information as to what this is all really about, go ahead, don’t be scared!

Reigning Change

The dust settles, the skies clear and the gunfire halts. A crowd rejoices and blindly embraces the hope and change of a nation they deem a failure. And change is exactly what’ll emerge from the seething animosity and arrogance of the unthinkers of common sense. But it isn’t their fault or even your fault — it is only desperation bred from the belief that a system is corrupt and one-sided.

In time, you’ll learn what the government really is.

You’ll realize that the only person with your best interest in mind is you. The only person that can change anything, is you.

Now, watch this video and seriously tell me that you aren’t even slightly disturbed.

Alright, now that you’re either confused, crying or wearing your tinfoil hat, let’s analyze a few of the things these out-of-touch and washed up celebrities stated.

You want to help end hunger, support food banks — smile, laugh, love and battle illness. Alright, that all sounds fine and dandy — Do we really need a supposedly inspiring president to make us want to do these things? Haven’t we always had the ability to do these things? (even though I seriously doubt the sincerity of any of those people)

You want to care for the elderly and give them access to health care. But with the way this new health care bill is panning out, the government will be deciding whether or not they’re worth the time and money. Plus, they’ve gotta put those death panels to good use, right?

Oh, did I mention that P. Diddy would like to stop leaving lights on in his house?

And what about this 200 year old promise to abolish slavery? We’re still talking about America here, right? What slavery are you referring to? Oh, you’re talking about Iraq? What will you do? Short of suiting up and joining our soldiers. (and I doubt certain people would anyway, they’d rather bitch and complain about it — something they know nothing about)

Speaking of slavery, and this is where it gets scary, every single one of them join each other in the most unsettling chant, “I pledge to be a servant to our president and all of mankind.”

Excuse me, I’m a servant to no one but myself.

This is what I don’t understand. You want life to be better, but you’re waiting for the right moment, even though this is the land of opportunity.

Let’s stop sitting around and hoping something good drops into our laps and make that good happen, whether or not an ethnically diverse president is in office.

I don’t belong to any groups or special movements. I’m just a guy, a writer. A teller of tales that I fabricate within my own imagination. I don’t watch television, so I miss most of the propaganda, lucky me, eh?

I’m going to bring this post to a close for now, but I’ll leave you with something else that just about screams brainwashing.

Biodegradable

When the world comes crashing down and gunfire illuminates the sky, hanging your head low and praying for release, the last thing I’d expect you to say is, “Well, you know, we’re all just biodegradable organisms anyway.”

Pelting your chest in quick pops, bullets shred through your flesh, whiz through your lungs and exit just missing your spine.

And I ask myself, “How could a person devalue themselves and dismiss their presence on this planet as ‘just another’ part of the compost heap?”

Your body flops to the ground just as quickly as you heard the sound, shell casings ringing out from the streets. I look up, right, left and then I wonder.

I always wonder.

Why would anyone consider themselves or at least their existence to be meaningless or worthless? Does this stem from the belief that there is nothing after death? Is this why people sterilize themselves, claiming that they’re only trying to lessen the amount of human beings overpopulating the world?

I say, go ahead, more drinking water for my children and I.

But let’s think about it for a moment and this is something I’ve contemplated many times. If someone truly believes that there is nothing after death — and I’m not telling you to go read the bible, I have my doubts as well — then I ask of you one thing, imagine “nothing”.

Sure you can imagine nothing, but can you feel it? Taste it? See it?

Can you imagine yourself, your own being not existing? No, this isn’t an arrogant rant. I’m not saying that the world couldn’t possibly go on without yours and my presence. I’m simply asking you to imagine what it would be like if you completely stopped existing. Do you feel your consciousness? I think you do. The dilemma here, is that I, for one, cannot imagine that. Even imagining that there is nothing, that I simply don’t exist. In my mind, I still see something, darkness maybe, a black hole.

Maybe I’m too young to understand or maybe I’m just missing a piece of the puzzle.

To me, this is a paradox. If you can’t imagine not existing, is that just an example of the limitations of our imaginations, or is there something more, hidden between the lines.

Sometimes I wonder maybe if this is just a phase, leading to something greater. I do think that we all have some kind of purpose here, whether your dumb, smart or just in between, you’ve got a purpose. Maybe you’re here to teach someone a lesson. Maybe you’re here to learn a lesson, who knows.

I’ve read countless articles where people state that they truly believe there is nothing after death, but I can’t. I remember an article by Phil Anselmo (sp?), the vocalist of Pantera/Down, saying that he had died for about 20 minutes I think, stating that when he was dead, he saw nothing, black.

He saw nothing, black? Sounds like he was at least aware of something. Either he wasn’t dead, or he was lying.

What are your views? Whether you believe in a higher power or some extra-dimensional realm that our “souls” travel in between, tell me what you think. Tell me if you can imagine nothing — feeling nothing, not existing.

If, though, we truly knew the answer, I think that’d be the end of days.