Slime

image from http://www.notsocks.co.nz/
image from http://www.notsocks.co.nz/

 

He paused, long fingers drumming on the shaft of his bow. The silence of the forest greeted him—that silence that never was. Shrieks of birds, buzzes of bugs, the crunch of something moving in the windblown trees nearby.

Maybe he imagined it.

Then it came again, dispelling that thought, and he jumped over the fallen log, long legs carrying him through the forest.

A scream. Desperate. Filled with terror—and maybe something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Bursting through a thicket, an arrow already nocked on his bow, he dropped to one knee, ready to fire—and froze at the sight before him.

In a large, open glade, a mud puddle seemed to be… consuming a young man.

He paused, staring, then fired the arrow. The young man shrieked again, thrashing so huge, thick gobbets of slime flung out of the mud pond and splattered on the grass and bushes. The fletching of the arrow was just visible in the muck, slowly being sucked in with a wet slurp.

Abandoning his bow as a lost cause, he ran over to the edge of the pond of slime and stretched out one arm. “Grab my hand!”

The young man—so liberally covered in goop that he couldn’t even tell what colour his hair was—managed to extricated one arm and reached, fingers trembling.

The mud pulled him in further, grunting and glugging.

Their fingertips grazed each other, then he caught hold and yanked. With a tremendous grunt, he dug in his heels and pulled, gripping the young man’s wrist with both hands. The slime was powerfully strong and seemed reluctant to release its victim, but after several minutes of vein-popping struggle, it relinquished the boy and sent him flying out of the pond. He landed with a thud, and they collapsed together, panting and soaked.

Leto blinked and looked down at the muddy man sprawled atop him. “You aren’t wearing any pants,” he said, surprised.

In the few spots not drenched with mud, the man’s skin flushed deep, violent scarlet. “Crumpets,” he mumbled, burying his head in shame.

Ignoring it, Leto lifted his head and frowned at the pond, burbling in quiet menace. “What was that thing?” he asked, wiping sludge from his lip.

The man scrubbed his face with a mortified groan and rolled off Leto to slump in the long grass, revealing fine blonde hair and embarrassed green eyes. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

Read more about Elfboy and his misadventures with slime over here!

Balloon

image from http://www.totalmerchandise.co.uk/
image from http://www.totalmerchandise.co.uk/

 

His abdomen was engorged, stretched like a balloon fit to burst. The hairy flesh was stretched taught over the swell, and he was covered in mottled patches of ashen white and flushed scarlet. Though his breaths came quick and short, his ribs creaking with effort, his pulse skipped and fluttered beneath clammy, butterfly skin.

It was only a matter of time now. Soon the screams and groans would stop, the frantic twitching of his eyes would cease, and those heaving ribs would stop straining under taut flesh.

And then… then it would be over.

Oh dear.

It seems I have been absent a long time.

Though excuses are silly, I shall give them all the same:

  • It was December, which means it’s the busiest time of the year where I work: ie, retail.
  • Also Christmas, which involved lots of running around to see the in-laws.
  • Then New Years. Though I guess that’s just the one day.
  • For two weeks, the partner and I were in Cuba. We just got home this past weekend.

Excuses excuses, amirite?

I’ve got about ten books I need to review, so I’m building a stack that keeps glaring me in the face whenever I walk past. I also need to update my hairventures, though I’ll say it has been boring lately – just blonde, no style, because I’m waiting for it to grow out some for the biggest adventure yet.

Now that the new year is officially underway, however, I plan on updating regularly again. Writing group is meeting up (tonight at my house, incidentally) so I’ll have flash fiction to post, and book reviews, and hair, and yada yada yada.

Soon I’ll throw a proper update on here 😀

Apocryphal

image from wikipedia.org
image from wikipedia.org

“Did you finish your book report?”

“Yep!”

“Already?”

“Yep!”

“That seems quick.”

“Nah. It was easy.”

“… it was The Canterbury Tales.”

“Yeah, totally. Easy.”

“Right. Can I see? I’ve got a few more pages to write for mine.”

“Sure!”

“… you wrote this?”

“Yeah, totally.”

“You used the word apocryphal. Do you even know what it means?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“What does it mean?”

“You know. Why’re you asking me?”

“Did you plagiarize this?”

“What?”

“It means your book report is apocryphal. You’re never going to pass.”

“Whatever. Give it back. I’ve gotta put more stars on the cover.”

Fanart? Yes.

To quote my pal CB Archer on his post about fan art:

Contrary to popular belief, no one ever writes books, makes movies, or becomes a musician for fame, power, or money. They all do it for one thing and one thing only:
Fan Art.

I got my first fan art recently and by recently I mean a few months ago but I’m a mook and totally forgot to upload it and gush like another sort of mook.

Contrary to what one might think, it isn’t PURITY fan art, but CHANGELING, unpublished and collecting dust on my hard drive while I write its threequel, I swear. CB himself actually made this art – based on one of the early scenes of CHANGELING in which main character Aisling and her band of merry soldiers gets entangled with bandits bent on assault and robbery.

Aisling and Leir
Aisling and Leir

Bandits Beware!

Aisling (orange) is a pyrophoric mage – meaning she has the innate power to produce and control fire. Leir (blue) is cryonic – meaning she is basically Elsa and can control ice and snow the cold never bothered her anyway.

Tying into this, actually… I was recently writing USURPER, Changeling’s threequel, and I wrote myself into a corner in which I needed lyrics to a ballad. Being completely nonpoetic myself, I commissioned by friend Bethany, a songwriter and poet, to come up with a few lines for me. Inspired by the idea of writing a lament and also the lure of Mars bars Bethany jumped aboard with gusto and wrote not just a few lines, but an entire song – and then decided she wanted to write lyrics to a heroic ballad I had referenced elsewhere in the same chapter.

So, without further ado, one stanza of Winter Song, written by Bethany Sanjenko for USURPER.

When the winter winds came, he put on his boots
He opened the door and tightened his noose
Now he lays in a grave, shallow and cold
No one to have and no one to hold

I’m hella pumped on all this. And according to CB Archer, now I have succeeded!

Also, you should go check out his page and Bethany’s Soundcloud, both linked. His as of yet unpublished book is hysterical, and Bethany is seriously talented.

Honey

image from liquorstorebear.com
image from liquorstorebear.com

Kat lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the brightness of the New York summer sun, then glanced down at her watch.

“How much time is left until the monotony of daily life continues?” John asked from the bench beside her, muffled from a mouthful of sandwich.

“Twenty minutes.” Kat glanced sidelong at him, smiling. “You have food on your chin,” she said, and laughed when John’s cheeks flushed crimson and he hastily swabbed at his face. “What’s Mom got cooking for you today?” she teased. She knew it was mean to mock the poor guy, but any man over thirty who blushed like that had it coming.

“Honey,” he muttered, eyes cast down at the wrapping on his lap. “She’s convinced I’m still ten.”

“Oh, Johnny Appleseed,” Kat said in her best Jersey accent, “I’ve got a honey sandwich for my honey baby.”

“And your mother is any better?”

“My mother makes me eat borscht until I’m sick,” Kat said, shrugging and toying with the end of her ponytail. Something shot across the sky above them, and she followed the flight of a large white bird.

John followed her gaze. “Oh. Look who’s come to say hello.”

Kat bit the inside of her lip to keep from grimacing as the white bird descended and she caught sight of the brown cape and green accents. “He means well,” she said, shrugging again.

Norman landed with absurd grace and jogged over, face flushed and beaming. She smiled as he approached, and wondered for the millionth time how his hair managed to stay perfectly in place when he was shooting around the city in the jetstreams. “Babe!” he called, grinning as he waved. “How much time do you have left on your lunch?”

Kat glanced at her watch again. “A little under twenty minutes. Why?” she asked as he stopped in front of them in all his ridiculous muscular glory.

He grinned and tapped the pouches at his belt. “Twenty minutes? Neat. I’m gonna rock your world.”

Kat felt her face heat up and heard John mutter obscenities under his breath beside her. “Norman, you remember John?”

Norman looked at John, eyes round and startled as if he hadn’t even noticed there was another person next to her. “Oh. Hi. I’m Landman.”

“I know who you are,” John said, glaring narrowly up at him. Kat wondered if the scowl was from the sunlight or Norman’s presence. “Your symbol looks like a pile of shit,” he mumbled, too quietly for Norman to hear.

“You’ll catch more flies with honey,” Kat reminded him, and was rewarded with a small smile. “Can you rock my world later, Norman? I have to go back to work soon.”

Unfazed, Norman beamed. “Sure thing, babe. Catch ya later.” With a sloppy salute, he backed away, bent his knees, and fumbled into the sky, leaving Kat and John on their bench in the park surrounded by the remains of a honey sandwich.

Slide

image from http://www.byoplayground.com/
image from http://www.byoplayground.com/

“I call Gene Simmons!”

“I call Axl Rose!”

“Are we ready to rock and roll?”

Cupping hands around a mouth, whispering to emulate screaming crowds. An air-guitar held aloft; a single chord strummed and the arm brought up. Hands patting the metal post of the monkey bars in a frenetic drumbeat. The crunch of gravel as feet land heavily and the devil horns are raised up in defiance.

“I’m gonna do it today!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I’m ready. The fans are ready. It’s time.”

“Sweet!”

Feet crunching across gravel. A hissing audience calling encore! encore!

Metal clanging as hands and feet clamber up to the peak of the playground. More devil horns. More enthusiastic hooting and laughing.

A grin. An excited twinkle in innocent eyes.

Another air-guitar; another chord.

Power sli-ide!

Thud thud thud with each eager step—then knees hit plastic and for a moment they scoot smoothly, like a rock god across a stage. Then denim catches on a bump and with a shout a little body tumbles down the slide and lands face-first in the gravel at the foot.

Silence.

Staring.

A groan.

Then, “Mom! We’re too hardcore!”