Podcast-Thingie: Folk Dance Hell

13-best-game-of-thrones-memes-spoilers-l-cgnfbrYou guys. You. Guys. You have no clue how thankful I am after surviving this day. Friday the 20th was terrifying. For the next week, I plan to hide in a blanket fort with Limos to act as guard hellhound. She’ll lick them to death.

Follow the rabbit down the hole. Hold on to your heads. (Warning: Wear headphones. I have no clue how much profanity made it in.)

Podcast-Thingie: A Case of the Feels

My room at Alcatraz is ready.

My room at Alcatraz is ready.

I coped out and did a few mini reviews via podcast for this week’s Red Band Society, Black Sails, Gotham, The Flash, and Arrow. Free of charge, I added a couple quick stories from my weekend work trip to San Francisco for Walker Stalker Con.

Tune in and listen to this week’s Podcast-Thingie. I promise, whatever superflu I may have caught can’t be transmitted via internet.

Nerdy Girl Problems

Alright. I’m tapping out on creativity tonight. You get . . . a list post. Sorry, guys. Some days, it just happens. I’ll strive to make it creative. Or at least entertaining.

Tonight’s list:

Annoying Nerdy Girl Problems:

  • Fogged In: Typically a problem which happens only in cold temperatures and is extremely disconcerting. For a least a minute after a person wearing glasses steps into a warm room from outside, their glasses forget how to be glass. “Hmm . . . feels warmer in here. I’m feeling a bit shy suddenly. Time to put on my coat.” Complete white-out. To make matters worse, add in four a-hole cats and two hyper omg-omg-omg dogs . . . . This is how I’m going to die.
  • The Cute Shirts are All Juniors: It’s not secret, I like clothing. A lot. When people ask me what I want for a birthday or holiday, I’ll typically 10931541_1036799726346452_6182669296480210139_nsuggest some form of clothing. Why not? It’s fun to dress up. Being–well–me, I gravitate toward the cartoons and comic book stuff. It’s how I’m hard-wired. But it’s incredibly awkward shopping for a Wonder Woman t-shirt alongside girls purchasing clothes for the new school year. High school. I’m fifteen years too old for the conversation they had behind me. Of course I was shopping alone, it’s what I do to relax. It also meant I had no out. No way to drown them out short of rocking my earbuds like a teenage moron who’s always running into people ’cause they can’t hear. All I could do was laugh at myself. And find a awesome Lion King shirt. What? Don’t look at me like that.
  • Over It: Sometimes being too in-the-know creates burnout. I’ve hit this on a professional level several times. It happens. Work demands one thing. You’ll do it, but there’s little pleasure left. I see it in everyone from photographers to journalists and writers. Full immersion in one topic is unpleasant. Creates a hyper-focus around the topic. Unfortunately, more often than not, we’re put in positions to celebrate with and be happy for others who genuinely still love the topic of their affection. Sometimes it can rejuvenate the professional. Often . . . grin and bear it. Be happy because others find joy in this thing. Don’t hate. It gets you no where.
  • Too Much Shit: I didn’t realize four years ago what agreeing to attend multiple comic and horror conventions around the nation would mean for the capacity of the storage in the house. To be blunt–I’m out of room. The closets are full. Bookshelf is the ninth wonder of the world–it should’ve fallen over from the weight six months ago. I have room for another book shelf, but I’m being picky about the dimensions of what goes there. Too much bookshelf, I lose poster space. The massive amount of posters in my closet being the reason it is full. Essentially I play a never-ending game of Jenga to make it all fit. The chaos reigning at the moment because I’m going to San Francisco on Friday is bad enough to give me fits.
  • Streaming Video: A lot of the geeks I know are creators in some for or another. A dear friend of mine often crafts while listening to whale songs or poppy violin tunes. Sometimes the strangest things encourage us to create. I’m inspired by numerous things of late from the mix of comic books with spy thrillers to cheeky costume dramas. The beauty of the modern age is solid wi-fi and a favorite streaming service. It’s embarrassing how many hours I’ve spent watching TV. Week-long marathons. I binge-watched Gilmore Girls at such a rapid pace, reality blurred for a day or two. No regrets. It was amazing.

Speaking of . . . my couch, blanket, and PS3 are calling. Oh and the puppy. Limos only snuggles during TV time. The brat.

Podcast-Thingie: Reading Time

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This time around for the podcast, I decided to do things a little differently. Tune in and listen as I read chapter one from Enslaved to get you guys ready for Infliction, due out later this year.

A Family Discussion (Flash Fiction)

Three mottled red-white knuckles—and a scarred divet where the smallest was collected then cauterized to pay gambling debts—rocketed toward my head. You know what? For missing a knuckle in the sandwich, that motherfucker still packed quite the punch. My left ear gave up the fight, sound imploding until all I heard from that side was my panicked gasps. The blessed bonus was an end to Mick’s ranting.

I should’ve never messed with this side of the family.

Irish blood burned hot as lit whiskey. Mick’s blood was ninety-proof uisce beatha and one-hundred percent from dear Éire. He never let anyone forget. God help the man who did.

That’d be me. The man Mick mistook for a punching bag. I didn’t forget jack shit. He won’t remember it that way.

Blood filled my mouth. I spat, rubbing what dribbled across my numb bottom lip with my left thumb. The pink glob splatted on the tip of Mick’s work boot. My face followed, pushed with help from a hammer blow expertly delivered by my second cousin. Thrice removed. Or some dumb shit like that. I tuned out any time my aunt bullied me into a corner to “explain how things go in the family.”

Her advice didn’t cover handling a drunk Mick before the cops heard him ranting. If they could hear him over the meaty thwak—his fist testing the strength of my ribcage. So far, so good.

I never signed up to babysit the groom on his stag night. I’d come into town to talk sense into his betrothed.

And take a dip in a pool I hadn’t enjoyed since we grew up across the street with each other. Maggie had a way about her that’d calm the wildest beast. Mick’s beast couldn’t be tamed. But it could be distracted.

“Mick” —blood slipped over my bottom lip and I caught it before he noticed the first stain on his boot— “There’s another bar down the street.”

“This is me pub, Dennis. They can’t kick me out of me own pub. Tyrants.” At least he spoke into my good ear. Mick’s club-like fist took a break from tenderizing my flesh and thumped the locked door beside us. Great. No calvary coming to my aid from there. They washed their hands of us the second Mick’s shadow hit the sidewalk.

“Looks like they’re closed for the night.” The curtain three windows down the pub’s storefront fluttered. I raised my voice. “Probably a gas leak. Never trust these old buildings. They’ll come right down on your head if you’re not paying any mind.”

The curtain stilled. Seconds later, the gas lamps inside died.

“How dare they endanger me by opening with faulty gas.” Shaking a leg—possibly a threat to kick the reportedly derelict building—Mick spat a curse. “I want to see me lass.”

I wanted to, as well, but without the audience. There was no ditching Mick. He’d bonded with me. I was stuck until he passed out.

Oh, that’s a thought.

“Mick, buddy. A birdie told me the lasses at Sean Tarbh are something to behold tonight. Their wash went missing.” Mick took it five hours ago, convinced he could use the skirts as fae traps. He wouldn’t remember that. Shouldn’t, at least. Not with the amount of beer in his gut and what I planned to dump on top. When he passed out, I’d be free.

“I know that place. I’ll lead the way to the bull.” Pausing, Mick snatched a discarded ratty green skirt. “In case the fae get wily and try ta take me before the big day.”

All Mick could catch in that skirt was a scratch on his cock bad enough to drive a saint to wish the pox on God himself. The fae weren’t real. If they were, they sure as hell weren’t camped in this piss-bucket village. I paused long enough to grab a torch before following the drunk on his next adventure.

Half a kilometer down the road, Mick paused to feed the sprouting wildflowers. The stench killed the grass fifty meters around us. I waited far upwind, letting Mick and his fae catcher handle their business. Maybe the wee folk favored previously-tasted spirits.

Maybe I could leave him here . . . .

I stepped back two paces. Mick gave another rendition of Huu-oh-God-I’ll-never-drink-again, but paid me no mind. A cow murmurred from the field behind me. Three fields over, Maggie would be sitting at the fire, wicked fingers occupied with her knitting. If I made it out of sight by the time Mick emptied his gut, he’d have no chance of finding me in the dark.

“About time you showed up,” Mick slurred.

I froze. Mick didn’t raise his head. The damned fae-trap-slash-skirt blocked his view of me. “Been here the whole time, cousin.”

“Not you, stupid git. Her.”

A nude woman passed from the shaded tree line fifteen meters back from the road. With a nod, she accepted the ratty green skirt and wrapped it around her torso. Her sun-kissed skin glowed from within, as though she’d swallowed a portion of the glowing orb.

“You’ve had too much again,” the woman said, no sound of reproach in her voice. Only fact.

“Sorry, Gran. Big day tomorrow.” Mick unloaded another pint, missing his mostly-nude guest by a hair’s breadth.

Wait, did he call her . . . “Gran?”

A trip of blonde curls tumbled over the woman’s shoulder as she looked my way. “Dennis, you should pay more attention to the family history.” She set her hand on Mick’s head and continued, “Your mother’s line has devoted one pairing in every generation to sealing the pact between our kind. Humans utilize the land here where it is richest. Fae stick to the river and the forest.”

“I’m never missing a family gathering again.”

“Actually,” Mick said around a dry heave. “You are.”

Rough green fabric flew into my face, wrapped around my head. Someone ripped the torch out of my left hand. The light bounded away. My blunted nails broke even shorter digging at the skirt. It wouldn’t budge, though no hands held it in place.

Sour breath invaded the musty air trapped against my nose. “Gran said someone has to seal the pact.”

I’d assumed she meant Mick or Luke, his equally useless younger brother.

Soft fingers brushed over my shoulder. The beer-and-vomit smell faded. “When Mick found his true love, he bargained with me–his birthright given to another before the night of his wedding. If he could not secure an acceptable replacement, he’d go with me tonight.”

“Told you I know how to pick ‘em, Gran.”

A rock skitted off the side of my left boot. Soft breaths pushed the fabric locked around my head. I had the impression our fae ancestor sized me up like a cow at market.

“He can’t enter the wild lands like this.”

Of course not, I couldn’t see a fucking thing.

White-hot agony raced up my forearms. A release pulled my shoulders down until I toppled over. The fabric over my eyes darkened, becoming brown-red in the torch light. My wrists blazed with pain. Blood caked with dirt coated my hands as I fought to free myself from the makeshift blindfold.

“Hush, Dennis. It won’t take much longer.”

Why kill me if I’m to meet the other side of the family?

A chuckle by my ear. “If you’d listened to your aunt, you’d know that there’s been a long line of missing first-children. She sacrificed her eldest for the previous generation and fully understood the sacrifice. Humans cannot enter our lands. Spirits, however, can be channeled into fae bodies.”

Shimmering grey light swallowed what little I saw within the blindfold. It wouldn’t be too bad, dying and being popped into whatever fae guy drew the short stick.

“And in fifty years when you’ve matured as our kind do, then you shall take your bride as thanks for bringing you into our world.”

Ah, shit. This was the reason why I never wanted to deal with my mother’s side of the family. As the sound around me sucked into oblivion, I wondered if my mother was hot.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be all bad meeting the new in-laws.

An Epiphany

Guys . . . . I have an odd realization to run by you: For the first time an extremely long time, I’m excited about writing again.

And it is fucking wonderful.

Not to be a flagrant potty mouth, but that’s the gods-honest truth. I sat down a few moments ago—in pain from my scalp to my hips and medicated beyond comprehension–and automatically opened the current novel-in-progress. I’m pretty sure the last time this happened was nine months ago when I lost myself putting the finals chapters into what I think we’re calling Infliction, the second Inbetween novel in my series from Just Ink Press. That’s a long time ago, guys. I’ve been seriously unhappy with myself since then. Crowley

No creative outlet? Bleh. It isn’t normal. Not for me, anyway.

Actually, not for most of the people around me. One way or another, they manage to make their passion and creativity a career. It’s inspiring in ways I can’t correctly convey here. I hope and trust you have one person in your life who you look at and think, “To have an ounce of the grace with which they lead their life, that would be an incredible thing.” Those people nudged me back to this place. I trust they know who they are. A-holes.

And now that I’ve blubbered all over the internet, I’m going to torment vampires and ogle Winchester boys—occasionally channeling Crowley on accident—because I can. It makes me happy. No one is harmed . . . unless they’re fictional folks living in the worlds I created. Then anyone could end up worm food. Right, Jinxie?

Three . . . two . . . one . . . . She likely just called me a bad name. I can’t wait until you guys are in on the fun once Infliction is released.

Hold on to your hats.

Dumb as a Brick

Last week, I had all these grand plans.

Finish all my editing clients’ first rounds: Done

Write All The WordsKinda . . . . 

Review All The Shows: HA!

Schedule book promo posts: Halfway there. I think.

Blog four times a week: You were serious about some of these?The_Angry_Tooth_Fairy_by_Scottleroc

Needless to say, my lofty goals were not met on some of the to-do list items from last week. Looking at what I’d written, it honestly wasn’t beyond my capabilities to tackle everything with a little breathing room—maybe even reward myself a nap on the couch with Limos or stroll outside.

Nope. My wisdom tooth had other plans.

I must have the world’s slowest wisdom teeth. It’s taken until now for this one to break through and now the little motherfucker is joyfully rearranging my lower jaw. If that pain wasn’t chipper enough, the headache that paired with it after the first day is surely something to marvel. There came a point on Thursday where I looked at the to-do list, rubbed my poor jaw, and shoved everything onto this week’s list.

I never do that. Never call it quits on a work week because of pain. This isn’t normal pain, though. It’s pain sent straight from Lucifer.

Must’ve made one too many pink thong jokes at his expense.

The pain is still hanging in there. I’m not. Seeing as my personal convention season begins in ten (holy shit, really???) days, something’s gotta give.

Pulling up my Big Girl Panties. It’s time to continue my global takeover. But, please, no iced drinks at my victory party.

 

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