It’s a mess. No matter how much exposition I threw in there (and there was a LOT), it took effort to suspend my own disbelief. I’m the AUTHOR.
In summary: it’s a story about secret agents with powers chasing down a queen on the run. She’s running because she got impregnated in one of hubby’s experiments and isn’t sure how to react. But there’s a time traveler among the agents, and he’s lost his wife, and he’s doing this to find his kid, and the queen is jealous that he has a kid, and the other agents lost their memories, and the islands they’re in are trapped in purgatory… Like I said, a mess. Perhaps not a complete one, because I did tie a lot of interesting themes together. The climax of the book in particular frames some pretty heavy questions about the act of fighting for a child. Interestingly, that climax was written almost in post-production, which means between the time I started the book and the time I finished it, I became a much more insightful writer. Good thing, because I started writing the book 8 years ago.
It’s saddening because I invested a lot of time and energy into this story, only to now have it in this irreparable state. I could rewrite it, but the core concept would remain a convoluted mess. I could continue it, but who’d read the sequel? I could abandon it, but then these characters would haunt me, making their way into my other stories.
I’m at a complete full stop.
It’s not over yet. I still feel like there’s a way to salvage this thing, somehow, some way. There’s something. I don’t know what to call it, or where it is, but it’s there, in the back of my mind, waiting to surface like a good dream. Something.
Or nothing. Nothing and a bag of chips. And if that’s the case, then this might just be the moment where I divorce that family of characters.
Today I noticed a cold sore growing on my upper lip as I crossed the street from school. It was a tiny little thing, just a bump. But I could tell by the way it felt when I tongued it—the way it rested snugly between a couple of other smaller bumps—that it was definitely a cold sore. Most people, when their cold sores grow in, they usually get these minuscule things that aren’t worth complaining about. But me, my cold sores have to be called “fever blisters”, because they grow into giant flesh-bubbles that entirely clutter up one side of my upper lip, reminiscent of herpes.
When I got home, I didn’t think on it. I ordered myself some Read more
Acrid black clouds swimming rapidly. The sun struggles to make its appearance through them, but cannot; only thin wires of gold thread the cracks. The clouds do not want the sun to witness what had happened below. No light should be beholden to tragedy.
An army of men lying dead. Swords and spears are held fast in their grip, a testament to their undying courage. One man, who has but seconds to live, preaches the words of some God.
“…and shall we, who bear…thy…image–” he catches his breath, he knows he is dead, “–be forever…in…in…”
Someone screams as if imploring him to hold his tongue. He obeys.
It was a deceptively sunny day. Gentle breezes wafted down the cobblestone streets past pizza parlors, movie theaters, and milling throngs of consumers. Through Phat Pharmacy’s sliding front doors, an attractive female voice from an overhead speaker welcomed people to the store and encouraged them to sign up for their free loyalty card to start earning “big, big, big savings!” on front-end items today. The message was concluded with a jingle one might hear at an airport, and then Carrie Underwood came on. The air conditioning fanned customers into emotional submission as they wandered through each meticulously placed aisle. It was a wonderful day for that dreamlike thing called shopping.
An unprecedented magnitude 8.2 earthquake just hit New York City.
The catastrophe has resulted in the deaths of thousands of people, billions of dollars in property damage, and thrown the nation into turmoil. But in a small apartment nestled in the armpit of Brooklyn, a family of six has suffered the brunt of the earthquake most.
What they experienced was not just physical pain, Read more
Having done everything he could to prevent the global apocalypse, Mr. Manchester now jumps off his Cloud Atlas and settles comfortably back in the seat of his 2013 Chevy Fantasm. The road opens up like a wide, gaping maw filled with a shit-long list of cars. They’re all pumping emissions and spiting the air with honks and obscenities and generally clogging up the arteries of life with the sheer hubris of their existence. The world is in trouble again and needs its Hero of the Wilds. It’s too damn early for that shit, thinks Mr. Manchester, grab-handling his car wand with vicious eyes set over the Read more
Sys couldn’t yawn, so it was impossible to tell when exactly she woke up.
Her body, a petite little thing with a gray-white finish, simply started humming of its own accord. As if reacting to the sound, neon blue lights streamed through the crevices of the dark-tiled room surrounding her, washing her in a cool glow. Her slender figure was an almost aeronautic vision of beauty. Elegantly rounded corners; a thin, pretty face currently dark with sleep. On the side of her hip was her name tattooed in bold, royal-purple letters: “31-System.” She had no companions in the darkness—just as she had Read more
I wake up smelling a dead mouse somewhere near the radiator. Like a flaming horseshoe just branded me on my ass, I jump out of bed heated, energized, rearing to go. I also wobble like a drunken fool.
I comb the floor on my hands and knees, swiveling my neck at unsafe speeds until—aha—I find the furry cretin swimming in a pool in its own avarice atop a banana-scented strip of glue-paper. That is the worth of your life, you rat: fifty cents of paper and a wreath of glue. I fold the trap around the limp dead thing and deposit it in the garbage with Read more