A Bloody Smiley Face

So I have purchased Watchmen on Blu-ray.  I watched the theater release a few times, and had bought the graphic novel prior to watching the movie for the first time.  I really enjoyed both but there are problems with both, but after everything is said and done the experience is still wonderful.  The movie has some issues with pacing and some exchanges of dialogue are a bit off, and the whole sequence of Doctor Manhattan on Mars lost that feeling of understanding how he kept slipping through time to different points in his life.  Likewise, the book had the issue of an inherently silly ending which was changed for, I feel, the better in the movie.  Still, there were several scenes I enjoyed from the book that didn’t get transferred over to the movie.  Though the only one that I really miss is the first time Rorschach interrogates Edgar William Jacobi, and he jumps out of the fridge.  I don’t know why I love this scene so much, but I suspect it has to do with it being so damn ridiculous.

On the subject of the Blu-Ray edition, I haven’t gotten to the end of the movie as of yet.  There is about an hour in and for the most part I’m still loving the movie as much as I did the first time through.  The added scenes are hit or miss at times.  This is mostly due to some of the scenes being unnecessary, though the only blatant example of this that I’ve noticed so far is the opening added scene of Rorschach and the police.  Everything else has been fine, and I have really liked the added Rorschach monologues.  Still there are bits of extended violence that weren’t really necessary.  Still, I have more to watch and I’m looking forward to seeing all remaining added scenes.

On a less serious note I have discovered something unsettling about myself.  In the twenty-four and a half years I have been on this planet I have apparently failed to fully learn a necessary skill.  One that most children learn by the age of five at the latest.  I have, apparently, issues climbing stairs as I took a spill yesterday.  I now have a very sore foot and a very bruised ego; the knowledge of my failure is  a fast acting poison for my self-image.


Green Is The Colour

So I watched the Montreal/Rider game this past Sunday.  Ouch.  It was a tad bit hard to watch, and I couldn’t make it through the fourth quarter.   Now it wasn’t all bad.  The defense is still doing great for the Riders and they showed that well through the first half.  The problem lies entirely with the offense.  You can’t go consistently two and out for nearly the entire game and expect your defense to not get exhausted.  And while on the subject of defense what the hell is happening to defending our kickers?  There has either been a blocked punt or field goal in each of the first three games so far.  Not to mention how many damned fumbles there are this year.  It’s like they coated the ball in bacon grease.

I’ve been told, more so since I posted the cut prologue, that I need to get writing my novel on a serious basis.  I can agree with that.  It’s been a long time coming, and it has honestly been a draining experience constantly evolving the story line.  It’s the urge for perfection in the first draft.  I know that never happens, I know I should flesh out the general plot line and get the entire structure down in ink before polishing it to a very gleaming and bloody shine.  But I have that voice in my head saying that it’s not good enough.  You can do better.  What is this shit.  And it is right around that time that I give up and go play Call of Duty.

But the good news is that I beat that annoying figment of criticism’s ass when I wrote Aging Power.  The entire time, riding in the back of a small car on a two and a half hour trek, I kept hearing that voice.  Are you seriously writing about something as inherently stupid as this?  Quit trying you hack!  And that was when I promptly ignored it with the proverbial “Fuck you” and wrote and incredibly fun but entirely stupid story.  And I learned the secret to over-coming that damnable critic that follows my every written action.  I need to not give a damn about it.  To let it bitch and moan all it wants, but when it’s taking a breath give it the finger and just keep on writing.  It’s liberating in a vaguely vulgar way.

After thoughts on the prologue

Well the long promised, and often forgotten prologue has now been posted.  Huzzah for that I suppose.  Far be it for me to realize in a timely fashion that the damned file was sitting right on my desktop in a folder called “Novel”.   In my defense my computer isn’t used for much these days, as I often type these posts up during my breaks at work.

So what can I say about the prologue?  I can say that it is nothing like what I have planned for the rest of the novel, and definitely not like the chapter that will be replacing it.  The entire concept was to give a shortish story that contrasted the rest of the novel.  It was supposed to give a brief sense of normalcy, to give a look at the world we know before all these crazy revelations happen.  I’m not entirely sure how well that came off.  A bar, a man, a stranger…  I have re-written this thing so many times and this is the by and large the version I’m the most happy with.  But in terms of using it as the opening to the novel… I finally had to admit that it just wasn’t what I needed.

There are several reasons for this, most of which is the confusion of what the hell is really going on.  I went with not naming the characters because in truth the man was just not important enough to get one.  He was going to show up in this section and that was it.  The stranger gets named in the first actual chapter but was going to be without one for the prologue.  He wouldn’t give out his name to a random civilian.  And this is where I feel this choice of mine became a pain in the ass.  I switch from talking about the man and the stranger so much and using the damned word “he” that I sometimes got confused as to what I was talking about.  There is also how it starts out, slow and plodding.  It takes a few pages to even get any conflict.  Yes there is foreshadowing going on in the first paragraph but I suppose I’ve felt that it didn’t grab me the way it should.

Now this entire story isn’t all for not.  I consider it cannon, in the time frame of the overall story.  It takes place prior to the first chapter of the novel, and will be referenced in the final draft.  I don’t know.  It’s not much of a taste of the world that the characters live in, barely scratches the surface of the dangers and how desperate things become by the end.  But it’s still a bit of an introduction into the story and gives a bit of a hint to the opening plot.

I can say that the replacement chapter is planned to open on the run, roughly ten hours after the prologue.  The stranger will be battered, exhausted, and be crashing into garbage in the first paragraph as he attempts to catch up to a suspect.  And the state of things will be explained.

Cutting Room Floor

And without further delay, here is the cut prologue from my novel.


Darkness crept across the small town; hesitantly it swallowed the homes and businesses that lined the streets.  The meager light from the pale sliver of moon only cast shadows that danced in the cool autumn breeze.  Red and golden fallen leaves, their colors muted to match the black night, skipped across sidewalks and yards; enticed, a lone cat pounced upon them to satisfy its primal nature.  The air began to grow heavy; sound became hushed.  The wind calmed, the cat hid, the moon itself found shelter behind a cloud.  A lone figure observed this for a time before it walked within the town’s limits.

Within the local bar a young man ordered a round for the house, which was sparsely filled with, mostly, his friends.  Cheers rang out and several of those closest to him patted him on the back; some shook his hand a bit too energetically.  Questions about his generosity came, and the young man explained the events of that afternoon.  He and his wife had just found out that she was pregnant with their first child.  Another cheer erupted, and one of his pals quickly ran off to get a celebratory shot.  Even the few brooding in the darkened corner by the decrepit pool table, a group that the man had never gotten along with, nodded in acknowledgement when they heard of his news.

The attractive bartender quickly began to pour drinks as the man basked in moment.  He absorbed everything, reveling in his state of bliss.  His eyes darted about the barely adequate lighting, over the cedar paneled walls and ceiling.  They had always seemed so dank and dreary in the bar’s poor lighting, but now they seemed to radiate warmth.  He smelt smoke and beer and thought that they were just a bit sweeter tonight; though try as he might he could not say the same for the vague scent of urine that leached from the washrooms.  The old jukebox dutifully belted out as best it could a series of AC/DC tracks; though it would randomly produce a burst of white noise.  His fingers ran along his pint of beer, the cool condensation sent a shiver down his spine.  And its taste, it was like the nectar of the gods.  His senses awash with so many sensations he could not help but grin like a fool.

The large wooden doors that held the night back creaked open begrudgingly.  His attention grabbed, the young man turned and saw a figure he didn’t recognize.  It was a man; a disheveled man with unkempt hazel hair and a week old beard.  The stranger’s cobalt padded jacket, appropriate for the cooling temperatures, looked like it had seen better times.  Its left shoulder had been torn open on at least one occasion, and dirt had become a permanent addition to its color.  His pants didn’t look any better; grimy jeans with frayed hems, the left one slightly more ragged.  He moved towards the bar with smooth, confident, graceful strides; his eyes seemingly focused on the bartender.  For a brief moment the man’s eyes locked with those of the stranger.  Behind the dark circles, that cried immense exhaustion, the man saw grey eyes that were calm and focused; eyes that tried desperately to hide regret.

The bartender moved to meet the stranger with obvious unease.  The man watched in curiosity as her eyes moved from the stranger to the group at the pool table.  From where he sat the man couldn’t make out any of their conversation; though the bartender’s sometimes frenzied gestures hinted at something seriously amiss.  Near the end of their discourse the bartender began to shake uncontrollably, leading to the stranger placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.   Straining his ears the man managed to hear “Don’t worry.” The stranger moved towards the pool players, who glowered at his approach.

The man’s friends began to demand his attention, in particular one who wished to retell an amusing story that had happened earlier that week.  Half-heartedly the man listened to the tale while he attempted to watch the stranger’s activities.  The anecdote of a far too curious dog and a squirrel’s nuts mingled with a heated discussion beginning to boil over.  Two of the men were arguing with the stranger, although it didn’t seem like the stranger had much to say.  Unable to follow either with any satisfaction the man refocused his senses on the stranger, in time to see one of the men lunge at the stranger.

A blur; that’s all he saw.  A side step, a knee to the chest, and the attacker fell to the floor.  A foot placed on the back of the attacker’s neck to pin him.  The other’s ready to jump the stranger.  But they didn’t.  Why?  The stranger pointed at them and apparently said something; the group venomously retort, spittle finding its way onto the billiard table.  The stranger gestured towards the door and held up two fingers, then turned and walked towards the bar.  The group quickly picked up their fallen comrade before fleeing into the night.  The stranger sat down at the bar, and patiently waited for the bartender to walk over.  He spoke, she poured him a beer, and they spoke again.

The night continued unabated.  The uneasiness of a moment before had transformed into a general calm, strengthening the patrons’ desire to drink the brief instant away.  But the young man was not one of these, for instead of his attention focused on his drink it was focused completely on the stranger.  His friends’ voices became a dull buzz resonating in the back of his mind; his eyes never strayed far from the intriguing man in unwashed clothing.  It seemed that at least once every five minutes the beautiful bartender bayed for the stranger to speak with her.  And each time he merely shook his head and continued to sip at his drink.

An hour passed and the stranger had not moved from his perch atop the bar stool.  The man wished he could observe him more, but the father-to-be knew he was late enough already.  Not wishing to anger his radiant wife anymore than she probably was, the man stood and began to say his farewells.  Having finished with the pleasantries he turned towards the bar only to see the stranger watching him.  As the man approached the bar the man felt an overwhelming wave of anxiety suffocating him.  Still, he did have a tab to settle and he was not about to leave it unpaid.

The man handed the bartender what he owed and began to walk away when the stranger grabbed onto the man’s arm; bloodied medical gauss and tape revealing itself from under the stranger’s jacket.  After a brief pause the stranger spoke, “It’s not safe out tonight.”  Slightly more frightened now the man asked what the stranger meant by that.  “Just a feeling.”  The man explained that his wife was waiting for him and that he really needed to go.  The stranger glanced back at the bartender before shrugging, “Well, it’s probably nothing anyway.”  The man saw the worried expression the bartender wore; an unsuccessful attempt at an encouraging smile.  A feeling of dread descended upon him; his stomach rolling in free-fall.  With a final furtive glance behind him the man walked out into the night.

Under the faint light of the moon the man took a moment to regain his nerves.  Beneath the gaze of infinity, the man reached into his jacket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes.  His breath, small wisps of vapor, quickened briefly as he placed one of his last cigarettes against his lips.  After a brief search for his lighter, the small flame lit up his haunted face before it was quickly extinguished.  He drew his jacket closer around him as he took the first drag; he managed a weak grin as he looked down at it.   Quitting had been one of the first things he had told his wife when they had learned the news.  Thinking of his wife and child calmed the slight tremor that quaked through his body.  With a look to the sky he headed down the road to the outskirts of the town.

His home was a mere twenty minute walk down the grid roads that lined the countryside, and with what he had been drinking it did make more sense to walk than drive.  As he trudged along his mind wandered back to the night he had proposed.  It was almost surreal, the feelings coming back in hazy warmth as he thought of the restaurant, the meal, the wine, but most of all her ecstatic smile as he knelt and quietly asked for her hand.  Her smile lit up his own; the man dropped the spent cigarette and slowed to carefully crush its dying ember.

As he walked, a shadow moving in darkness, he felt an itch in the back of his brain.  Something was off.  He noticed the unnatural calm; no wind, no sound, no movement.  He shuddered and coughed, if only to reassure himself that he wasn’t deaf.  He continued on and was hit by a repugnant wall of diseased air.  He gagged instantly and tried desperately not to vomit.  The smell hung in the air and clung to him, slid over him, seeped into his pores.  The man briefly considered returning to the bar to seek a ride.  But it would only be a few minutes of discomfort before he would be home.  His thoughts returned to his waiting wife. The man continued down the road hoping that distance would weaken the stench.

It did not; it only grew stronger with each step taken.  With his jacket sleeve over his nose, he attempted to ward off the odor as he struggled to see through watery eyes.  He tried to keep his mind off the foul stink, but there was something disquietingly familiar yet alien.  His stomach tightened; what could be the cause, the words echoing in his wind.  Why, in the putrid scent, was there something that he felt he knew?  Hundreds of thoughts and theories rushed past in his mind; with only some being coherent.  In his dazed state he found the answer before him.

Lying prone in the center of the road there was something large; a mere dozen feet from the man.  He didn’t approach immediately, his imagination running wild with what it could be.  Reassured, at least to a small degree, there were no signs of breathing the man began his slow advance.  Each cautious step granted new revelations about the form on the road.  At first they were small; the form was large, much larger then that of a man.  Next, the man was certain that the form was most likely dead and that the stench was probably coming from it.  It looked to be lying on its side, its back to the man.  Finally, the man realized that it was a cow.

There was something odd about the way it laid.  The shoulders were too slumped, the chest to depressed, and its hide shone too brightly in the poor light.  The smell burned his eyes and nose as he got closer.  Under the moon, watched by the stars and surrounded in silence the man saw what remained of the beast.  Its throat had been torn out, the spinal column a glistening red visible just below the jaw; strands of the ragged esophagus hung out onto the road. Intestines were spilled and strewn about, some looking like they had been torn to shreds.  The ribs were visible, picked clean and a disturbing white in the darkly macabre scene.  The rest of the internal organs were either missing or mangled beyond recognition.  Eyes bulged in pure horror and agony, accusing the man for not preventing its fate.  The sight was too much for the man, he vomited.

The man stumbled away in horror while wiping the remnants from his lips.  What could have done that?  That question pounded into his mind with each step.   There weren’t any large predators in the area, and certainly not one as vicious or ravenous as the corpse implied.  The smell, a putrid combination of blood and bile and something else was strong then ever; it refused to release itself from his clothing.  And the eyes- the cow’s eyes- that bulged to the point of nearly fleeing their sockets bore deep into his psyche.  His body wracked with quakes as he struggled to urge his feet on.

Minutes crept by as he walked; with each that passed he began to realize that the smell didn’t weaken.  Once again he felt the noose of fear tighten; his breathing became a laborious struggle.  His eyes surveyed the ditches unwillingly searching for more unfortunate beasts.  Despite his hopes, the man did see numerous forms about, though none as thoroughly disemboweled as the first.

He longed to be with his wife.  To hold her in his arms, to feel the comfort of her embrace and warmth; to attempt to forget what he had seen.  He would lock out the night and steel his resolve to keep the darkness from ever reaching her.  Yet he didn’t even know what he was terrified of.  In his mind the blackness took shape: figures, forms, creatures of myth and lore, others the embodiment of pure chaos.  His hearted raced at a dizzying pace as if it had plans to burst through his ribcage and flee on its own.  It wasn’t long before he needed to stop to try and calm his hammering heart.

Coarse and cracked, a malevolent chuckle broke the abnormal silence.  The man shuddered, his ears twitched as if to shrug off the inhuman laugh.  The tone was disturbingly familiar yet alien, as if coming from a man’s voice box grafted to a feral beast’s.  More sounds assaulted him; visceral gnashing of jaws, tearing of flesh, and the snapping of bones into dust.  Grunts and growls, all on the verge of comprehensible words but still beyond his ability to understand, surrounded him.  Then silence.  Then the eyes appeared.

At first he didn’t register the glowing ruby red orbs about him as eyes.  Perhaps some mechanism in his brain refused to believe acknowledge them for what they were on mere principle.  But at the same time he knew they were.  They circled slowly, accompanied by the sound of shifting gravel and grass, a hint at crushed dry leaves.  None had encroached upon him; for unknown reasons the red orbs kept their distance.  The man caught a brief glimpse of a set of orbs to his left narrow and a low threatening growl cut through his courage.  He closed his eyes as he trembled, and begged god to watch over his wife and child when he was gone.

“Let him go.”

The forms around the man snarled in unison at the unexpected interruption.   Something behind the man emitted a strained voice, as if trying to force humanity into its being, “Stay out of this, agent.”

An audible set of metallic clicks came from the darkness, from where the man had walked from, “You forced me into this.  So I take it you four weren’t going to turn yourselves in.”  The man opened his eyes in apprehension; it was the stranger.

A creature to his left took off, peppering the man’s face with kicked up gravel.  As blood trickled down his brow, blasts of light and sound shattered the night.  The cry of a wounded beast collided with the stillness of the world; the man’s blood turned to ice.  The creatures around the man growled, hatred and fury taking over.  Yet none moved against the stranger.

Footsteps moving towards the man, the pace confident and unwavering, “I’m not going to warn you again.  Turn yourselves in or I’ll make damn sure you won’t be another stunt like this.”

“We won’t be caged like dogs!”

“Well maybe you should have thought of that before you began this killing spree.  The only way any of you will see the light of day again is if you tell me right now where you’ve been getting your information.”

A frenzied series of events took place, so quick that the man wasn’t sure if some had actually happened.  A creature grabbed the man from behind, its claws tearing through his skin.  Blood poured through the wound as he was tossed aside with incredible force.  Landing hard the man felt bits of gravel grind deep into his hands; his cries drowned out by roars of unquenchable rage.  Light and sound cut through the night, illuminating impossible silhouettes.  The gun fire created a slide show.  Fangs, claws, thick fur, trails of spittle coming from the creatures’ maws.  Each glimpse into the carnage was punctuated with explosive sound.  Howls of anguish, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground, an odd pathetic gurgling, and then… nothing.  No… a slight wheezing and approaching footsteps remained.

“…I need the cleanup crew.  Yeah I know I wasn’t supposed to get directly involved.  No… They weren’t going to turn themselves in… well they attacked me when I asked…  No, I think one is still breathing.  I know we were supposed to take them alive but they were getting ready to attack a man.  Yeah we have a civilian here… slightly injured but otherwise fine…  No he wasn’t bit, at least as far as I can tell.  Doubt you’ll need to do much, he didn’t really see anything; yeah I’ll wait for the crew then head back to let Leayn know he’s fine.  Yeah, we’ll go over everything when I get back.“

The footsteps stopped near the man, who was on his side in a confused delirium unsure of what had transpired.  “Not exactly how you imagined this day to end.”  Lights broke over the horizon, coming towards them.  “They’re going to make you forget what happened out here.  My advice – don’t fight it.  You don’t want to know what the world is really like.”

Three vehicles stopped, their headlights blinding the man.  The profile of the stranger turned and walked away.  The man tried to follow the stranger’s exit but lost him beyond the glare.   He wanted to know at least the name of the man who saved him, but knew that soon it wouldn’t matter.  The stranger didn’t stop, and was soon lost to the night.

Another Day

This semi-frequent update schedule, of which schedule is essentially a word for randomness, is not bad. It is, at least for all intents and purposes, pretty swell. Off the hook. And, dare I say, going fine. I post when I want, how much I want, whatever I want. It is somewhat liberating to have such an open format. Of course, there is the down side in that I don’t really feel the need to update anything. It comes with the territory, but I have found that it is getting easier to write about almost anything. So that is a plus.

This weekend I shall be leaving the confines of Regina to head into Saskatoon; again… for the second weekend in a row. I am thus not entirely enthusiastic about this. I will, of course, get to play some Dungeon’s and Dragons and that is always a fun time. I just don’t like Saskatoon, mostly for just how badly designed the roads are. Now I am not saying that Regina doesn’t have its own road issues; I have said on numerous occasions that the roads here were likely planned out by an incredibly stupid monkey. But every time I’ve driven in Saskatoon it has felt like they took that same monkey and gave it crack before letting it draw up the road maps in poo.

So I have written another short story titled Aging Power. This has been the story I’ve been planning on writing about Captain Old Man. I don’t really have a lot to say on the matter. It’s a tale of an old super hero who has been forced to retire by the city he had protected his whole life. Since his retirement things have gone down hill, and no one has stepped up to fill his place as protector. He is filled with a lot of emotions, though primarily how betrayed and angry he feels. And things come to a head when a thug and his girl attempt to mug him. I could really say more, but go read the story. I will say that the idea of an incredibly old man throwing criminals around is one I find hilarious.

Aging Power

With a lurch the bus started along its plodding path through the city. His city. The city of his youth, prime, and eventual grave. The city that he and his generation had built, cared for, and protected. The city that had forsaken him in his old age and quietly brushed him into the shadows. The city that had now sunk into urban decay and gang violence; into a have for petty thievery and prostitution. This was his city.

The bus slowed to a stop and a young couple stepped into the aisle. Piercings and tattoos with pink and dark red spiked hair. They were the problem with everything. The city’s cancer that slowly ate away at the very fabric of civilized society. They feared nothing and believed that they were entitled to everything. These parasites truly believed that it was their god given right to do whatever they pleased. And if the authorities stepped out of line mommy and daddy would make sure to get their precious flowers out of trouble. Pampered apathetic misanthropes, he thought as he looked to the window in disgust.

The sky wept for his city, and he couldn’t blame it. The rain attempted to wash away the filth that permeated every vein the city possessed. All the sex and blood and drugs. It tried to drown the vermin that plagued the just. But the sins of the city were great and they could never be truly cleaned from its tainted soul.

Another stop. Another passenger. His weary eyes begrudgingly wandered to the front of the bus to find an elderly woman unable to find a seat. None moved to offer her theirs as she swayed frailly as the bus jerked forward once more. Honor-less, self-centered cretins. So preoccupied with themselves that they would refuse to inconvenience themselves for a few minutes to help another.

He wondered if perhaps the old woman felt the same as he did. Did she look at the state of things with the same scorn? Did the fall of the city’s moral core break her heart as it did his own? Did this cesspool of humanity’s darkest desires enrage her as it consumed him? Did she feel the same hopelessness and futility as he?

He needed off the bus. His chest tightened and his heart rated quickened and he signaled for the next stop. As the bus slowed he pushed through the aisle. Once the door opened he vaulted out into the dreary drizzling dawn; thick with the smell of urine.

Drenched and despondent the man drudged up the will to move on. Looking at his hands caused a twinge of pain. Gone were the powerful tools that had helped make the city great; they had been replaced with these withered, frail, and wrinkled worthless things. And he knew the rest of him was no better. Time had not been kind to him, but to those of his generation it had never been. It was a hard life to live, and it had taken its toll on them all.

Lost in his self pity he didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t notice the hushed whispers. Nor did he hear the rustle of fabric as the gun was raised. But he heard the tell-tale click of a gun being primed.

He turned to see the young couple from the bus, the man pointing an old revolver at him, “Gimme your wallet, old man.”

Has it really come to this? Has my city fallen so far that the young rob the elderly in broad day light. Where has justice and common decency fled? Am I the only one who still believes in good?

“What are you? Deaf? I said give me your wallet!”

The city that he had given his life to; that he had given everything to; that had turned its back on him when it felt he was no longer young enough to serve. Now it came to take the only thing that he had left, and he would not let it succeed.

“No,” his voice deep and strong resonated throughout the street. He took a purposeful step towards the young man.

“Don’t take another fucking step, old man. Just give me your damn wallet and no one gets hurt.”

“No,” his voice boomed, “I think we are a little passed that point.” Another strong step, then another. The gap between them was quickly disappearing. The young thug’s arm was shaking slightly. Good.

He stopped within a few feet from the gun. “Who do you think you are?” The thug’s voice was cracking, “Some kind of super hero?”

“Yeah, I am.” His movements were a blur, like they had been all those years ago. He felt the barrel of the gun in his hand and smiled as he easily bent the steel upwards. With a quick twist he heard a satisfying snap as the thug’s index finger broke. He relished the look of terror in the criminal’s eyes. Oh how he had missed that look.

The thug tried to run, tried to get away. He didn’t let him. Grabbing the thug by his throat the man threw him into the closest wall. Bricks and mortar collapsed inward from the force. He looked towards the terrified accomplice before continuing on his way down the street with renewed purpose. This city, his city, may have forgotten him and his colleagues. It may not even want his aid, but it needed him. It needed to be cured. And he would tear out its cancer for  as long as his old lungs and bones would allow it.

Onward to Madness

My Cthulhu adventure is shaping up nicely thus far.  I especially find it amusing that there is a fairly good chance that someone may in fact go temporarily insane before even reaching the ski hill.  I am a bit worried that for what I have planned there may not be enough investigators to survive it.  Also a fact that worries me is that I know these players.  They will start shooting things up without a moments notice and if they do that well… it’s either off to the jail or off to the morgue with them.  Oh well.  I do have a few interesting ideas for using the environment to provide solutions to the events that come up.  Especially since there will definitely be a creature who will not be hurt through bullets.  I am also liking the addition of the cultists to this story, though it would obviously make absolutely no sense if added to the original short story.  But I get to describe the dank confines of an underground altar to the Dark Gods of the Cthulhu Mythos.  It’s like coming home to my usual writing style.

Speaking of writing styles I’m planning on going through a few Lovecraft stories over the weekend, as I will be a passenger to a family gathering and will thus have plenty of time to do so.  I’m considering perusing Call of Cthulhu again, as well as The Dunwich Horror.  Perhaps The Color out of Space.  The Herbert West stories as well, I do love mad scientists raising the dead.  I might try to throw some Poe in there as well, but to be honest I have found his writing very dry thus far.  The only story I have ever enjoyed of his has been the Tell-tale Heart. Finally, John Dies At The End is coming out in hard cover in the near future.  If you haven’t done so check it out.  It is a fantastic ride with just the right blend of horror and humor.

I have also been catching up on Harper’s Island.  I’m enjoying it and the entire concept of a single season with very few episodes is something I can get behind.  The pay off is that you get a much more compact and focused story that is being told and I do appreaciate having an ending that is definitive and not a cliff hanger.  However, I still like the longer format for a series.  Especially when that series is Supernatural; which out of four seasons it has only had a few less than excellent episodes.  So… I guess I’m all for a focused story that has a definitive beginning and end.  Glad to cleared that up.