Talking out story pt. 3 - Where the Good Guys are....

Having set up my bad guys a bit better (the one behind the bad guy, that is) I took a glance at my notes and now panic sets in.

I have never done more than think about the story before this, and that only whilst smoking my pipe. No notes, not a sketch of a map... nada.

Yeah, this means I start, not with linking this tale to the last, but building TWO tales for the price of one. The good news, I can explore what Scorpio means about leaving the mess for others to clean up after the job. The bad news, I have not a clue where he made this mess at, why (well, a little clue, but not much to work with), or what the mess was.

Scorpio/Tagrun can be a bit of a pain, just like Billenius, to write, as you see.

So, first I need to decide what happened in "The Seeking Blade", and follow that thread to where it ended. Then craft the opening so I don't spoil that tale for readers.

*sigh*

The joys of being a story teller/writer that they never tell you about. Wandering characters who fail to check in with their owners. Kind of like that cat you keep in the yard, the neighborhood stray that you wonder where he goes and what he does between visits.

So, I know "Seeking Blade" is about Scorpio's worst nightmare, a wild goose chase job, that drags him all around the Great Water's coasts, seeking a foe that seems to exist, yet not exist.

Of all the ports to end that tale in, two stand out, begging for a tale to be set there. Tirosht, the capital of the Council for the Reclamation of the North Empire (or really the last remnant of that empire's power) and Drif Geldean, the home of the Knights Justicar, an order of paladins of justice. A third place, one that makes a bit more sense, is Dhibt, on the coast of Domorushtuu, where perhaps the goose chase could have ended with the spoiling of another of the Necromancer's plots. Which would explain why Zisura now feels a need for more enchanted blades and power bases to work from.

Three tales down the road is "Dagger and Gavel", Scorpio's first contact with the lands of the Knights Justicar homeland, so that eliminates Geldean. His name making journey, that spreads his fame to the lands of the Council as a byword among the Law enforcers is the second tale after Predator, so.....

Dhibt, the city of the worst of Domorushtuu, pirates, vampires, gnolls, and demons from Athalan. That succubus in the opening now gets woven into the tale, in reflection, as the victim he left the mess with. One that Zisura and her allies took advantage of for making the Leech Blade.

Dhibt, a city sunk into debauchery, reeking of filth and smoke, a place so vile even drow tremble at the mere mention of it.

Dhibt, where the Vampires rule.... 

A place where Codi Dunh and Scorpio would need to have a reason to remain. Amid such reprobates and miscreants, only love or revenge, maybe a hint of greed, would keep one after a job is finished.

And now, I have a slim thread to run with. A touch of all three motives, with the flair of Guild business. Perhaps a visit as the representatives of Jinotazu, the Master of the Allegiance of the Blades, to that local chapter.

Time to let the fingers dance later today. But first, some work to earn coffee and tobacco money.

Talking out an Idea - My Writing Process Revealed

Happy Moaner's Day.

Welcome to my world, where the only thing left about holidays is trying to figure out which places honor that holiday and shut down, and which stay open. So in keeping with that, I say, heck with Columbus Day, let's call it something else, and make office pukes work on it.

That said, and it's about all I want to say about it, I need to move ahead with some things.

First, while I have no clue as to a title yet, the steampunk idea seems to have torn apart the competition, and is moving ahead as my NaNoWriMo project this year, just to pry it off the inside of my skull, where it has been residing akin to a starfish on a rock, pressing on my thought-slime at odd moments with disruptive vibrations.

I'm thinking you may see little pieces of flash. micro and even a short or two appear here in that world setting as part of my set up and search for the right voice for this tale. If I do, I will try to give some heading so those not interested can skip it. Feedback, however, would be greatly appreciated.

Still tinkering with the full idea, trying to decide how to make the changes to the original 2011 try at steampunk, and if I can rework it, allowing me to get two marketable manuscripts out of the NaNoWriMo experience.

First, it's time to set up the world setting a whole lot better, and let it evolve out to modern times from the period piece the first story resided as.

If you see smoke rolling from under my hat, please confirm my skull/hair are on fire before dowsing, I hate wasting tobacco when folks hit me with fire-hoses/extinguishers.


We are at W minus 16 days and some hours (not enough coffee to do the math this morning yet!) and Counting to the madness and mayhem of NaNoWriMo.

Writer Fuel, Anyone? - A Poem of Writing

Every writer has their blend.
The "word-tane" rating to speed
along the tale being told
tweaked to their own tastes,
needs or financial budget room.

Writer Fuel, that's the stuff
we will talk about today
The grades I usually use
the ones held in reserve.

Top of the list sits
the standby of good coffee
thought being homeless I resort
to instant way too often
for it to be effective.

Next comes my JP4 version
Coke and Coffee mingled together
in varying ratios based on
my energy levels and distractions
to blow past as needed.

Cookies and donuts tie out
at the number three slot,
forcing me to call them
Alpha and Beta fuel blends
as fingers dance across keyboard.

The fifth slot stinks plenty,
being the tobacco I use
to calm nerves as writing
or ponder out plot issues
when my characters stage rebellions.

Below them lay the others
not granted permanent ranking status.
Ice cream, root beer, and
a few favorite foods rare
in my diet these days.

Right now, WF2 sits ready
one bottle down, one mixing
to fuel an edit overdue
and one long writing session
to finish a story soon.

These are my choice fuels,
so what do you use?
I'd like to hear ideas
for days when cash strapped
or just suffering writer's block.

24JUNE2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Rebellious Characters - A poem of writing

Even before anyone read it
I knew I would have to edit.
so I broke out the ol' chainsaw
and proceeded to lay down the law.

The characters rebelled once more
telling me the tale was a bore
demanding to go back via Hell
until I wrote something to sell.

Angered by their snide comments
I engaged weapons of governments
flooded them with paperwork
in the parts of my skull they lurk.

Their revenge came last night,
sitting around griping under moonlight
about the lack of fire and food
leaving me in a really foul mood.

Now I plot out revenge most foul
running ideas past a stray owl
as pen scrawls out chicken scratches
that will be fodder later for matches.

Yes, the night was a total loss,
as we fought over who the Hell's boss.
I still ain't sure who won this round,
waiting for that coin toss to reach ground.

This is my current nightmare,
shared for others to beware.
Characters are needy little brats
when you try to have chats.

26April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

This is World Building - a poem of writing and creation

I've walked this desert
since we played games
rolling dice for decisions.
It threw me loops
when I turned here
to set stories recently.

Every thing I thought
was set in stone
about the damned place
turned out as lies
or just shadows cast
by its underlying truths.

This is world building
it really never ends
when you look closer
you see the gaps
between known and mysteries
like fog of war.

So I started again,
making more detailed maps
fleshing out old notes
wringing out memories lost
to find some answers
to questions characters raised.

This is my world
I should know all,
like the gods do.
But still things appear
from some funny place
to twist it about.

I blame those characters.
16January2013

Guillotine Jim's Tale - A ghostly poem from a few years back

Gather close my kin, lean in to the fire
as I tell this tale of woe and the wages of sin
for Washington Irving's tale of the horseman
can only hold a dim candle indeed to this yarn
of the fate of Guillotine Jim the gangster ghost
who is damned to wander in Hell's fires forever
brought low by the curses of many young girls
whose ponies he defiled to scare them senseless.

Now Jim was the one you hear the tales of
who did the deed few would confess to
of chopping of the heads of many lil' Flicka's
and leaving them on preteen girls beds as omens
to their daddies to keep their mouths shut
about what they had seen or heard in bars
when drinking beneath their station to find
some silly floozie to take the place in bed
of the frigid wives they had married in haste
or over bad gambling debts they could not pay.

After decades of ruling the streets of the Big Apple
with his chainsaw and the heads of too many mares
he chopped into the wrong thoroughbred herd
and made enemies with a wicked coven of girls
who had found the paths of darkness in grimoires
better left unmentioned, untouched, and forgotten
Those gals had been scarred by Jim's evil in their souls
and sold them to Satan without a single regret
for the revenge of which you are about to be told

Satan heard the offers, and took their souls,
and for once held up his end of the bargain
heading out to the pastures of Sheol to find
the stallion of midnight's darkest moments.
He loped off its head and sent it to gather in
a sinner long unrepentant for his actions
and torture him with his own worst fears
to keep the souls of thirteen young pure hearts
to quench his lusts in forever and ever.

The beast had screamed when its pate was torn
from his sleek shadowy neck that night
and tore off as charged to gather up a rider
and take down to meet his damnation
Fire blazed up from that trachel exposed
as he trod the avenues and alleys searching
for the man who destroyed little girls' hearts
to bring him down to his proper level.
Night after night, once the hunt began
Jim lived in fear of being caught by the beast
for on his first glimpse of that ghostly creature
he knew it was crafted to be his fitting end.

At last after months, the horse caught the mobster
and kicked him out of his seat in some bistro
before a crowd that stampeded out in fear
as the headless stallion claimed his rider
by tossing Jim aboard its razor spined back
to be cut in a million places dear to the man
who soon was sheathed in Hell's fiery blaze
to scream in fear as borne along the roads
he had taken his own prey down in days before
to chop their heads off in Central Park
leaving the bodies to rot, and leaving the heads
in the beds of innocent young children.

They say the Stallion took him deep into Hades
others claim he rides the plains of Purgatory
I heard a tale he races in Newark against bullet bikes.
But all know his fate, and reason the mobs stopped
leaving the pates of ponies in beds these days
As Guillotine Jim still does ride at the head of the parade
every All Hollow's Eve for now and eternity
leading thirteen girls who sold their souls to see
him burn in hell for harming their ponies
down to damnation for ever more.

2010- Dyfedd Rex

NaNoWriMo Yes, I will be doing it this year again

So far I have narrowed the possibilities for that competition down to two story ideas.

1) Something for now called "Mazetown" but will probably need work on the title as well as the story... its a dark cyberpunk/horror/erotica bit about a exoplanet that humans try colonizing only to find something sinister amid the barely falling ruins of a previous race that inhabited the place. The erotica will come mostly from the methods of conversion, as humanity is perverted by the thing that ended the previous inhabitants... still gathering in bits and pieces, not sure how it will fit together yet, as things keep getting twistier and twistier... yeah, that ain't a word, so what.

2) "The Knife Has No Forgiveness" which is a Hunt of Scorpio Kenrai. This one was always planned to be the first novel length piece for the hunter of men. What sort of civil war will occur when a faction of religious zealots feel that the Guild came from their religion tries to take it back, and Tagrun's old Grasslands sensibilities and ethics get in the way? Who will win? Hell, I don't even know, it looks nearly as dark as the above story.

Hell, who knows, I may bite off more than I can chew and try both?

you can follow along at this link to the NaNoWriMo site which is my page there....
http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/dyfedd-rex
So, give me feedback on who or what you want to see win or should I go swollen head into both?

Regardless, November will be sparse here, unless I need to write poems to uncork clogged brain cells (yes, I have at least three...).

My currennt short stories have an origin from this challenge and the story that follows it. This is the first hints at Troy Tanner, the main character. Its clunky, not well worked out (I just wanted this one done, at first) and a bit too heavy on certain words. I will be reworking it to make it something else this week between other projects and little bits of work to make my hapless ends meet.

The Challenge was from this list:

1 - a jar of frogspawn
2 - a tattered photo of a distant galaxy
3 - a snowflake on a fingertip
4 - a zombie survival guide with brain stains on the cover
5 - a ragdoll with pins stuck in its head
6 - a broken lightsaber
7 - a newspaper dated August 7th, 1945
8 - a battered copy of 'Twilight'
9 - a radio station playing 'don't stop believing' by Journey
10 - a tin of sunflower yellow paint
11 - a three-legged dog
12 - a packet of M&Ms with all the green ones missing

Send your entries to my inbox by next saturday.
Anything up to 600 words is fine, but try not to go over please.
Multiple entries, collabs, basically anything goes as long as you get the buggers in on time.


And now the story:

In my line of work, sooner or later you see it all. Some jerk back in DeeSee had screwed up and agreed to subcontracting the military's new Soldier Superior Therapy program out to a lab in Haiti as part of the rebuilding. I could have told them it would go sideways, letting voodoo mix with big pharmaceuticals dreams.

But, they never call me until its time to clean up the mess. Now I was walking down a deserted street in a forgotten place called Dugway, testing grounds of all the military's bad ideas. Lucky its in the middle of nowhere.

There was a broken lightsabre toy on the walk to the side, stepped on, military boot print. Yep, I had his trail . He had stepped in a mess left when he feasted on the head cheese of some poor s.o.b. painting the gatehouse at the east entrance to town. Sunflower yellow, must have been left over from some TV show filmed out this way once.

I followed the tracks up to the house we were in front of, the last one for me to clear. There was a ragdoll with pins in its head on the porch swing, holding in the strips of purple cloth hair, needle and thread on the ground, pooled around some poor Army wife's corpse. She had not much of a skull left. I pumped both corpses with rock salt. Only good thing about this place, I could restock my supply of shot and catch a few runs on the Measured Mile afterwards.

Inside, I knew they had some inkling of what they were messing with, there was a zombie survival guide covered with half digested brains and more flies than Beelzebub's last picnic drew. There was also a bag of a certain melt in your mouth, not in your hand candy, and all the green ones were missing. Damn, they finally listened to the Nuncio about that, making them inoculate themselves to keep it to the test subjects only. Made my job easier, and harder. Now instead of shooting all the corpses, I had to look for ones without flies.

The trail led over the dead sergeant's body to the stairs, up which I heard the pants I knew meant at least one family member had failed to eat power pills. The radio in the master bedroom kicked on with that tired old Journey tune, the one about never giving up belief. While I hate that tune, it gave me cover on the steps about a creaking riser.

There was a poster of a Hubble shot of the Sombrero galaxy on the wall over the bed, with battered copies of Twilight and other trashy vampire novels all over the floor. Great, this one had wanted to be undead. Right up until she realized she had to swallow the barf of the zombie after it drank a jar of frogspawn while they had sex.

I reloaded, as they were occupied with her transition, as well as the fun stuff, waiting for the moment. I did not want to kill a living human today. As they got off, I fired all five shells, cutting them in half.

As I left, I caught a flake of snow on my fingertip, and realized it was too late in the year to hit Bonneville. So I headed to Wendover, where in a museum, I bowed my head before a framed copy of the Deseret News from August 7, 1945. On the way out, I saw the three legged dog, and knew there was another job waiting at the Stateline.

Creative log jam poem

Attempting to elude the Union
formed by my bodily parts
over the abuse they suffered
this past week and more
I turned inside my head
seeking elusive clouds to tickle
dancing across shades of blue
between their cool satin puffs
only to find myself falling
as someone pulls the plug
on my creative psycho excursions
just to keep me grounded
for reality must apparently reign.

(28Apr2012 -Dyfedd Rex)

This one came as I tried to jump start my creative side, which was failing to respond to coffee today...
so I asked my FB friends for some words to electrify me... not sure if it worked, but at least the motor is cranking over even if not firing on all cylinders.
(Yeah, I know, I always seem to have a missing cylinder in my head.)