Frustrations and Other Thoughts

Hello all.

Me again.

I find myself complaining a lot lately, more commonly about the lack of time and the fact that there are only so many hours in the day. For instance, today is my day off and I have to get some writing done, clean my apartment, go to the bank, and record a video, all before my wife comes home (family always comes before work and we haven't spent much time together lately). So, I think today's blog post is going to have to be a brief one, on the count of having so much to do.

But, before we get into the post, Born Again is still free on Kindle until tomorrow night! So hurry up and get it downloaded before it goes back up to its full price! https://www.amazon.com/Born-Again-Kyle-Atwood-ebook/dp/B0719RNDMX/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1521484301&sr=8-2&keywords=kyle+atwood

Anyway, on with the rest of the post.

I already mentioned that time and I have not been getting along lately. It just seems that whenever I think I have time to catch up, I have to do something, whether it be going to work or going to the doctors or whatever have you, and that's fine, that's just how life is. What is not fine, is the fact that it still bothers me, despite me saying, "that's just how life is" and it sucks. Often times, while I'm at work, I'll keep repeating to myself that, "I'd rather be writing" and that is very true. The funny thing is, though, is that when I finally sit down to write, I get a great big case of writer's block and I end up sitting there for hours writing no more than a hundred or so words. That's life though.

My next frustration is marketing (it's only the eightieth time I've complained about it). Ironically enough, I've sold more books for Born Again last week when it was full priced, than I have when it has been free. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I wish the problem could be highlighted in blood red for me.

Frustration numero tres: I just feel like, the moment I start getting excited about something, be that YouTube or the articles I have been writing lately, I get no results from the work I put into them. Like, I don't want to record a video today because I know it will get no views and I'll probably even lose a subscriber, if I haven't already (and a subscriber for a channel with only twenty-four of them is like losing a thousand subscribers over night, it's bothersome). My articles generated more readers when I was writing them every couple of months, now I'm writing them every week or so, dedicate three days to writing each one and I wind up getting no more than ten views, I just feel wronged somehow. I'm insecure and all, boohoo, pity me and buy a book, eh? Just kidding, but I am insecure.

Frustration 4: I really want to own my domain name of my website and update it immensely, but I don't have enough money to do so. Day job doesn't pay me enough and I'm not generating nearly enough income from my books to afford that.

However, despite everything else moving like a slug, my blog has been generating more readers and that is FREAKING AWESOME! I went from having one or two people reading my posts, to ten, twenty, or thirty reading them and it makes me VERY HAPPY! Thank you guys.

Another fantastic side note is that my Twitter account has BLOWN up in the past month, surpassing my Facebook follower count (214 people) by hitting 220 followers, granted, about ten of them are probably lusty sex bots, but until they are banned from Twitter, I'M COUNTIN' 'EM!

You know, despite my frustrations, I'm actually rather happy. Don't know if I'm exactly optimistic about the future of my work, but at this exact moment, I feel excited for what I will be releasing starting with my poetry collection being released in a little under a month from now.

Anyway, be sure to download Born Again . It's free. What have you got to lose? Plus, it'll make me feel all warm and toasty inside.

Check out my latest article at:
https://hubpages.com/entertainment/The-Golden-Age-of-Slasher-Films

So, that's all for today's post, guys, I've gotta get started on cleaning (my apartment is a complete disaster and no that is not an over exaggeration, it is complete fact).

Stay rotten, everybody.

The Brook Horse Sneak Peek

Healing

They lay me down

In a field of daisies

And ask me to sleep.

They open my chest,

They pull out my heart,

My stomach, lungs, kidneys, and more

And hang them on a wire

To heal in the sun,

But the crows have come

And are eating away.

-2018-

Yes, The Brook Horse is indeed a poetry collection.

In the past, I have talked about writing poetry again and again. It is, after all, how I
started my journey.

There will be poems ranging from the year 2012, to current day.

The collection will range from free verse narratives to more traditional, emotion driven
poems.

Not only will this collection be another release, but also a look back at the evolution of
myself as a writer.

A Bit More Backstory

From the years 2010-2013 I wanted to be a musician. My passion started out driven by hard rock/metal groups such as Staind, Nine Inch Nails, Linkin Park, Metallica, Alice Cooper, etc. I eventually calmed down and became heavily inspired by Johnny Cash, Iron and Wine, and numerous other indie/acoustic groups. So you'll see a few of those songs that I have written strictly from the later years, in this collection as well. Ironically enough, the self-titled poem The Brook Horse, that will be in this collection, started out as a song that I tried to write two years ago (it turned into a poem, of course).

Anyway, anyone who has known me personally for the past six years knows that I was extremely passionate about my music. Well, I wasn't anymore. I had way too many major disappointments and music became a punishment to myself, wasting time on building so many things only to break them down moments later. Music also ruined many relationships for me and even began to twist my mind, a narcissistic twisting motion that inflated my ego and kept me from pursuing my future. As I said, music became a punishment.

That's when I wrote my first poem and then another, and another, then... many... MANY poems later, I wrote my first short story, then another, and then I wrote my first book, Never Forgive Me, Never Forget Me.

Don't get me wrong, I still absolutely love music it is one of my most favorite forms of art, but as a musician, I was just in a bad place.

The First Poem I Wrote

The first poem I ever wrote has been lost to time, unfortunately, but the earliest poem I do still have was not at all a full length poem. It was a tanka and, for those of you who don't know, a tanka is an ancient Japanese style of poetry that consists of five lines in a syllable pattern of 5-7-5-7-7. It is basically a longer version of a haiku (three lines in 5-7-5). This is still my favorite form of poetry, I have a thing with short and sweet and both tanka and haiku provide me with such a thing and I always feel extremely relieved and satisfied when finishing one of these poems. In fact, you'll see quite a bit of those in The Brook Horse. Anyway, I'm feeling gracious today and I'll give you guys another sneak peek at one of the tankas that will be in the collection. Again, this is the oldest poem I have written that I have managed to keep for six years.

This Curse

This anathema,

Pertinacious to ruin

The vestige of me.

I am not venerable,

I am obstreperous here.

-2012-

I'll admit, while I was writing this, I had this study packet for a Nathaniel Hawthorne book we were reading called The House of the Seven Gables and, as per usual with books from the 1800's, there was some words that sounded pretty but I had no idea what they meant. So I wanted to make a poem with the old way of speaking, I was blending antique English language with ancient Japanese style in hopes of making the poem sound more profound. It worked and it sparked my first dozen fans and I figured, "Hey, I'm pretty good at this and it made me feel good! I should start doing this more!".

Another confession, I had forgotten what most of these words meant and I had to Google them again to make sure this poem made enough sense, to not only publish, but also share on my blog.

Another quick note: I just love how the physical appearance of the poem presents itself when finished. Dumb, fun fact.

My Goal for the Collection

My goal is to have over 140 poems inside of this collection, some new and freshly written, others from the vault known as my memory box (and believe me, I have written more than 200 poems in my life, just never published them). Hell, as I write this blog post I'm even considering changing the name of the collection, but as of right now, I think The Brook Horse is a very fitting name, and that will become apparent as we grow closer to its release, and crystal clear when it is released. I'm also using this release as a way to, basically, re-brand and experiment with other mediums to pair alongside the release, more towards my YouTube channel.

As a bonus, I'll share one of my songs I wrote in 2010 (no it is not going into the collection, it's horrible).

Sadness the Addiction

Sadness is a sick addiction 

and loneliness is the needle 

I choose to stick into my veins.

Yeah,

Fill me up

Off we go

Time to die

Never was so bold.

Sadness the addiction

A dumbass little bitch

Sadness the addiction

I hope it'll make me rich.

Collapse my veins,

Collapse my heart,

And collapse my life.

Yeah,

Fill me up

Off we go

Time to die

Never was so bold

Sadness the addiction

A dumbass little bitch

Sadness the addiction

I hope it'll make me rich.

Conclusion

So I hope you guys enjoyed the poems and be on the lookout for more news regarding The Brook Horse. I am aiming to release the collection in two months, but that is not set in stone. AT THE VERY LATEST it will be four months from now. More on that later.

So, take care guys, and, as always, stay rotten, everybody.

My Writing Process

Alright, I'll admit it, I got this idea from another article on Google. But I thought it was a good idea because I think it's an interesting insight into my life. I'm narcissistic like that. Anyway, let's get on with it shall we?

Now, an ideal writing situation for me is when I am off of work early or just completely and my wife is at work, so that way I can focus solely on my writing.

Before

Before I sit down at my desk and begin punching my way through, seemingly, endless waves of paragraphs, I get a stack of movies or music (or click the fitting playlist on my media player) and clear off my work space. To be honest, lately, it's been movies that help keep me focused, they keep me involved with the setting of my book and give me a visual stimulant when I need to look away for a moment. So I'll pop the disc into some device and wait for the sounds to come, I then grab two water bottles (or pop if I'm feeling naughty), grab a small healthy, filling snack, and then I sit down.

During

Alright, I open Google docs and begin typing away. I use to use OpenOffice before, and Microsoft Word before that, but Word was too expensive and OpenOffice was too basic, Docs was just right for me. However, I do still use OpenOffice for formatting my books for Amazon because Docs doesn't do anything like that, from what I understand.

I use to write out a kind of road map for my novels, but I decided to quit doing that. It's more exciting for me when I let my characters take ME for the ride instead of me taking them. In fact, a lot of my favorite moments in my previous books were from unscripted events that I stuck into my stories. I mean, I know what I want to happen to the characters, I just don't know how it will happen. For instance, I want my main character Jimmy Bob to die, but how and why is the real meat and I love leaving that up to chance. This also makes the story seem more real to me, and I hope it does the same for my readers. Unfortunately, however, this method does involve a MASSIVE amount of doctoring before I send it off to my editor; often times, I lose patience and decide to pay my editor a doubled price to get a more in depth edit.

Another thing that I do is I'll give myself a set word goal before I go on my "lunch break", I also have a set word goal for the entire day and if I go way over that, I reward myself with a brownie or something. It's childish, and a little weird, but it works for me and I'm happy to do it, it also helps me organize better in my daily life.

I do also try to find time to record a video or two for my YouTube channel.

I usually take my break at the halfway point for my word goal or when my second movie, or third CD is finished.

I do not finish until either A: the stack of movies or CD's  has run out or B: I finish the story. Unfortunately, I can't keep working through a playlist, because each of my playlists are about sixteen hours long at least, and I have a life outside of work to keep up with, such as a day job and a wife.

The Lunch Break

I'll make myself something and either watch YouTube, Hulu, Netflix, do some research, or look up tips on how to improve my marketing strategy or my writing.

After

After I finish writing for the day, I save everything like three times, close out the windows and switch my computer off. I leave my office, sit on the couch and start up a video game. If my wife is home, I either eat dinner or start dinner, ask her if she wants to go out to see a movie, spend some time with her, or, if she wants to go to bed early, I'll go back to playing my video games, or even I'll sneak in some more writing before I go to sleep.

So this is, usually, how my day's off from the day job look. Yes, it is exhausting, and yes, it does bother me to see how little results I am getting for putting in this much effort. But my motto for 2018, is, in fact, "Keep your chin up. It could always be worse."

I hope this post gave you guys a little more insight about my writing life, and I hope it was somewhat interesting to you. I appreciate you reading the post.

Tell your friends and stay rotten, everybody!

I Ordered a Salad

I had ordered a salad.

Pretty basic thing.

The waitress was kind and genuine, and a real looker to boot. I ordered a diet Pepsi with my salad too, can't stand the taste of water or coffee. So she came back and gave me my diet Pepsi and I drank it down fast, I was thirsty and the damn drink just tasted so good.

The waitress came back with another diet Pepsi and my salad, gave me a quick smile and returned to her work.

I got about halfway through the salad when the waitress came back and asked me if everything was good and I, of course, said yes. She smiled again. She gave me her number after that and said I was cute or something... I don't know. Just as she finished writing down that number, the bell signaling the arrival of another customer dinged.

"I'll call you later," I said, giving her a quick glare.

CRACK!

She went down like a sack of potatoes, leaving a bit of warm, sticky residue on my face.

I stood up and held my father's pistol at the young couple behind me and fired off three more shots. One into the back of his girlfriend's head, and the other two in his chest.

Five more shots and five more people who attempted to flee, fell to the floor. Damn, I'm glad I took those classes! Perfect headshots!

The others didn't even try to escape, probably thinking I was going to spare their lives.

I killed most of them.

Only two remained and I could not find them anywhere, an old man and his grand daughter probably got away today.

The cops pulled up and I continued pulling off a few more shots, taking down one of them. His partner got the upper hand, however, and now here I am lying on my back staring up at a ceiling fan waiting to die.

And who said you can't start a good story with "I ordered a salad?"

An Analysis of Cult Films: Begotten

An Artistic and Unsettling Cult Film

In 1991, director Elias Merhige released his movie Begotten, a new view point on the book of Genesis (yes, the bible). This film serves as a unique reminder that not all movies need to be cut from the same cloth, in fact, this one spun its own and forged itself from the frayed knots.

A daring motion picture, birthed by an inspired artist might chew up tradition and flunk expectations. 

A bizarre, incredibly gory piece about life and death. Begotten expresses itself entirely in grainy black-and-white and told without dialogue.

A Truly Possessed Film?

As the film begins, a God-like being kills itself, giving birth to "Mother-Earth" from his entrails, who, shortly after, brings the corpse to arousal and manages to absorb its seed. After a strange, and brief period of time, "Mother-Earth" gives birth to a human-seeming son named the "Son of Earth", who, including his mother, is then dragged away and abused in every possible way by strange natives from a nearby community. The “Son of Earth” creates life and food for them in a kind of enforced fertility, and the villagers then proceed to kill Mother Earth (after raping her for some time) and her son. Life springs anew from their grave, and the cycle of life and death repeats itself.

At a cost of $33,000.00, Begotten never explains its narrative, and fails even to comment on its setting. It is the medium of film reduced to building blocks: virtually silent, with images of light and darkness that we must interpret for ourselves. An opening card gives us a sole clue: “Language bearers, Photographers, and Diary makers you with your memory are dead, frozen lost in a present that never stops passing. Here lives the incantation of matter. A language forever.”

The imagery is grainy, dirty, obscuring, and the result is that the movie, as it commences, instills a deep sense of dread and discomfort. Because we have never seen anything like this before, anything seems possible. And in those possibilities, that unpredictability, horror blooms like a rotting orchid (or Son of Earth, if that fits well?).

What one does successfully register within, throughout the duration of Begotten,seems wholly concerned with suffering and brutality. The film thus resembles a nightmare of Earth herself.

The director, Merhige, even spoke about the film in an interview as a sort of "shamanistic" ritual during its filming.

So, could the film itself be possessed as the director so strongly infers?

The Central Debate About Begotten Remains This: is Merhige's 1991 Film a Poetic Work of Art, or a Work of an Enormous Ego?

The answer is complicated. The film is unarguably fascinating in presentation, and I’m surprised, as well as relieved, more aspiring filmmakers have not adopted this dynamic visual approach, utilizing black-and-white, frame-by-frame re-photography (a lengthy process which took ten hours for each minute of running time).

Yet beyond the one-of-a-kind appearance of Begotten -- there is one problem that is rather massive for some. Scenes go on and on, lingering past the initial point of the film and grows rather repetitive quickly, and the overall effects of the camera angles tends to generate a strong sense of distance. What interests us and frightens us at first, seems to push us away by the film's midpoint. The film hammers us with so much information, so hard, we take cover inside of ourselves multiple times during the film.

If Merhige's brain baby wanted to challenge film conventions (as a medium of expression) and exploit audience comforts such as dialogue, clarity, sound, plus a regular narrative and characterization, then there is no reason for his movie to last as long as it did. Begotten could be the same film at a half-hour length. Merhige removes so many comforts of traditional narratives in Begotten, yet keeps one convention... a full feature length film. I don’t know if this flaw is a choice I just haven't understood yet, or just a misinformed director trying too hard to make something so incredibly different from the status quo.

However, considering this film is experimental, I can look past the running times and take this film for what it is. A work of art. So, as a moving work of art, an experience, Begotten is certainly revolutionary, unsettling, and interesting in its entirety. As a film, its running time and sense of confusion it left us with, fell a little flat; but the chills and discomfort was in fact very strong and left an impression on us for sure.

Sheer, Vivid, Morbid, Beauty Presented in Black and White

Begotten appears as though it has been remastered from the dawn of time itself, or at least the 1920's (Again, released in 1991). Of course, cinematography is an art form established long after the fruition of man, but if cinematography was around during the dawn of time, Begotten is exactly what we would see. The images are powerful, painful and poetic, yet simple in the most beautiful way. 

Lacking narrative and visual certainties, Begotten leaves much to the imagination and pounds the questions from the unknown of our origins into its viewers minds.

Begotten seems very painful. Watching this vision of suffering, our minds jump to the idea of man painfully re-shaping Earth to suit our needs; to bring life and greed from unforgiving torment of our planet. 

After some interval of suffering, water falls upon on the tortured ground in the form of rain (and we hear water bubbling on the soundtrack, which otherwise mostly consists of crickets and inhuman moaning).

Conclusion

Begotten is a one-of-a-kind cinematic experience, even if it outstays its welcome more often than not. The characters, the settings, even the film quality are symbols, and they suffer -- God how they suffer (such is the bitter reality of life)-- yet we still wish to understand more. Within the usual agenda of film we seek comfort, familiarity and yes, innovation, and that's why this movie is so fantastic, because it breaks that mold and pushes the boundaries and uses our imagination against us while also being innovative. Hats off to you, Merhige, for making a film of such a remarkable visual approach and symbolism, even while finding the overall film a bit too long for some to really embrace. I was impressed with Begotten, and a strange part of me really enjoyed it and its disturbing imagery.

Begotten is totally original, totally intriguing. I recommend it for the visuals seeking something new in the horror scene, considering this is more of an experience than an actual movie. As a general movie goer, this certainly wouldn't be your cup of tea (my wife hated it, while I loved it. I'm a bit of a prissy movie watcher, analyzing every fine detail I can find, where she is more oriented on dialogue, obvious plot devices, and familiar conventions, which isn't a bad thing at all, not everyone needs to over analyze a movie, but instead unwind and just enjoy a good film and there is nothing wrong with that).

Wedding Ring

There once was a woman who smelled awfully bad. The kids all avoided her from blocks away, even her neighbors vacated their houses for fear of every time she stepped outside.
Margaret wasn't a bad person, she struggled a great deal in her life. Once she was pregnant by her husband, but her husband was shot dead while on the force. The stress was too much for her. Being two.months along, she had a miscarriage. When the procedure came that she needed to get her child out of her body, she asked the doctor to keep it for her and the doctor ubderstood, as odd of a request as that was. So he put the fetus into a small plastic vial and sent it and its mother home after a full recovery on her part.
Well, many years passed and Margaret passed away from a stroke. When the mortician noticed that her left ringfinger had been horribly discolored and reeked of rot, he decided to investigate. Forced to cut the ring off of the finger, he noticed that it had a bit of flesh leaking out of it. He obtained the necessary tools and broke open the ring. He discovers, inside, the rotting remains of Margaret's fetus. Smashed into the tight chambers of the ring. All these years she had found some way to keep the meat moist, but failed at keeping it fresh.

"Oh my God!" Said the coroner.

Then he spewed his lunch all over the tile floor,

SNEAK PREVIEW OF A ROUGH DRAFT STORY IN "203"

Innocent Moon ROUGH PREVIEW

I've lost track of the days since I was put here. I only know that I was taken when I was only eight years old. I am now twenty-five, I think, and have spent my life in this lonely, tiny hardwood room.

I miss my parents and my brother.

Somehow, I've managed to hold onto my sanity all these years by scribbling down my thoughts and a few notes to myself, on parchments provided to me by my kidnappers.

I'm not treated poorly here, in fact, I'm treated rather well aside from not being allowed to leave this room without anyone by me. I have only seen three people since I was put it in here and that bothers me, I had many friends as a girl and now the only face that I see is the elder's, a girl who brushes my hair, and the man that has stood outside my door for almost two decades.

Aside from that, twice a week the girl comes and gently brushes my hair and tells me how pretty it is and how soft my skin is, she showers me with compliments in fact. I'm given fresh kimonos daily, I have a very soft bed and many, many beautiful dolls, I'm fed as much as I want anytime of the day.

I'm examining one of the dolls now, my newest one, she looked a lot like me in fact. She had lock black hair, a white kimono with a red sash and she had very majestic make-up painted on her little, gently smiling face. I usually pretend the dolls are my daughters, but not this time, this time all I was doing was looking at her growing more and more angry by the second-- I was suppose to have a husband by now and a family, but my isolation has kept me from that! I just want to go home! I don't care about any of this! I want my life and my family back!

I threw the doll across the room from my bed, as hard as I could and I watched her face explode against the wall, leaving a small crack on the surface.

My face fell to my knees and I sobbed. Why me of all people? I was a good girl and a great daughter!

Moments after, the door unlocked and was pulled open; Elder Misurugi stepped in, looked at the doll and frowned as he looked at me. He approached me and knelt beside me on the bed and said,

“What's the matter, Tachiba? Are you growing bored with your dolls? Getting too old perhaps?”

The Elder's heavily wrinkled face held a look of false concern. I looked him in his deathly gray eye and said,

“No, I've grown upset by this room. I want out now! I want to go home!”

The Elder's frown reversed and he laughed as he spoke,

“Don't worry, Tachiba,” he said, “Your wish will be granted later this day,”

They were finally going to let me go free? That easily? After nearly twenty years they might just let me go free? I can see my family again! I will make up for the years I've lost to this wooden box and these glass faces.

“Why later?” I asked, “Why not now?”

“It is not yet time,” the Elder replied.

“When sunset comes, the followers and I will come to collect you and lead you to the shrine--”

“The shrine?” I interrupted, my heart leaping up into my throat, “Why?”

“Your calling, child. You will be elevated and deliver this world into glory,”

Were they going to sacrifice me? Fear gripped my tongue and I could not speak.

“Rest now, Tachiba,” the Elder leaned close to me and place his aged, yet powerful, hand on the top of my head and raised his lips just before my forehead, “You will need all of your strength for tonight,”

Then I felt his lips press against my forehead. They were slimy, warm, and-- rough. After about twenty seconds, the Elder backed away from me, looked me in my eyes and smiled.

Misurugi stood up, turned around and left from the room and the door closed and locked behind him.

The air that rushed in hinted to me that it was early morning.

I will not let them take me! I search the floor for the fragments of the doll's face but found nothing, while the elder spoke with me, the guards came in and swept up the fragments.

Damn them! Damn Misurugi and his 'Followers'!

The door swung open again and two younger men walked in, grinning at me.

“It's an honor to meet you, lady Tachiba,” the younger of the two said.

The younger one was handsome, and built. A tan hakama hung off of his powerful frame. Upon looking him in his eyes, I felt my cheeks grow slightly warm. He was not much older than me either. No, think straight, they are planning to sacrifice me. This is all part of their plan, I imagine, attempting to keep me distracted until it was time.

“My name is Hamada and I am Elder Misurugi's grandson,” the handsome one said, bowing,

“It is my honor as well, Tachiba. I am Hori. I was the guard that sat outside your door since you came to us all those years ago,” the shorter, older, balding one added, also bowing.

I said nothing.

The two lifted their heads and the three of us sat in silence until Hori broke with,

“We've been asked to come and collect you to prepare you for the ceremony.”

And so, without another word, I started forward for the door. Hamada stepped around me, however, and held up one of his powerful hands.

“But first,” he said, “You are required to wear this,”

Hamada lifted the other hand up and within his grip, he held a blindfold.

“Why?” I asked.

“The Elder has requested it.”

I nod and Hamada stepped close to me shortly after. He smelt so clean, and young. He had been the first man I've seen in years except for Elder Misurugi.

I felt a tickling in my lower belly, little lotus began bouncing around my insides and formed a warmth that had begun to sprout between my thighs. I have never felt this before and for a moment, I had felt like a woman instead of a captive girl.

Darkness enveloped me and left me with my fantasies of the young and strong Hamada lifting me in the air with his powerful arms and bouncing me on his-- no. He was just as insane as the rest of them.

–

By the time Hamada had ordered me to stop, my cheeks were burning and the warmth that had blossomed earlier, trailed up my spine.

Hamada released my arm and removed the blindfold.

“Are you feelng well, Tachiba? You're burning up,” he said.

“I'm fine,” I said, “Just nervous,”

“Don't be!” he replied, “Just think of the paradise that awaits you beyond this place as well as the paradise you will bring to all of us!”

Misurugi's grandson stepped aside and exposed a beautiful bathhouse. Indoors, of course, but very well decorated with scrolls and well kept wood. Each picture or word I saw described or depicted some holy scene of a God named-- Giyago. I had never heard of that name before, even with all of the books the Elder allowed me to have.

It was very warm here, warmer than I've felt in a very long time. Despite being so comfortable, I couldn't help but think of the loneliness that I still feel. I miss my family and I want to go back to them soon. Feeling this reminded me of a poem I once read,

The cry of the stag

Is so loud in the empty

Mountains that an echo

Answers him as though

It were a doe.

The only difference between me and that stag was that the stag had the ability to chase after what it wanted where I was trapped by wild dogs who simply muffled my cry.

I hadn't noticed where I was standing and because I was so caught up in remembering that poem, I stumbled forward and was caught by Hamada, His body had been warmer than the bathhouse, and despite my best efforts not to fall victim to his false embrace, I had anyway.

“Careful, lady Tachiba,” Hamada said, smiling charmingly,

It took me a moment but I collected myself from his chest.

He's evil! Just like the rest of this damned cult! I had to remember that. I needed to remain focus on my main objective, escape.

“I will be right outside the door,” Hamada said, “Call out to me if you need anything.”

So he left and I was alone to think of a way out. It hadn't taken me long to realize that there was, in fact, no way out except for the front door. I foolishly decided to accept the bath, thinking it would clear my head.

The family had given me a fresh white kimono to put on after the bath, a basket of apples and an apple slicer. Nothing else. Not a crack, a crawl space, no windows-- nothing. I wasn't strong enough to break through the wood in time either.

My body was already lightly glazed with sweat and moisture and the kimono was growing damp. I undid the ribbon in the back and let the kimono fall about my feet.

My body felt free for the first time in many years, it also felt awry at the same time. Some strange insane part of me had wished that Hamada would enter and see my body.

I digress. I stepped over the kimono and hadn't hesitated dipping my foot into the warm water, sending a welcoming chill up my cheeks. I eased the rest of my body in and laid back into the water. I look about the room again only to remind myself that there was no where to go. Instead, my sight fell onto the basket of apples, all freshly picked just for me. The steam had begun forming itself on the skin of the apple, defining its crisp skin. My mouth had begun to water and I couldn't help myself, so I snatched one from the basket and sunk my teeth into it.

At that moment, I felt chained to the pool. I released a trembling breath as I sunk my neck into the water. As my body had become use to the heat, I took the biggest bite of the apple I could manage-- careful to contain the rich juices within. Instantly, as the apple chunk slid down my throat, a wave of nostalgia washed over me; visions of my father's orchard on a hot summer's day coarsed itself through my being. I had a cup of tea in my hand, I watched my father bark orders at my brothers as they all slaved and-- played in the unrelenting sun. Mother was beside me, writing her haiku's that I never had the chance to read. Times were so simple as a girl, in fact, time didn't seem to exist at all. Now, all I can think about is how quick time can leave us, like a blossom falling from a tree. Oh, how I miss them. I can't wait to see them again-- but wait, I won't-- I'm stuck here unless I can-- escape!

My head shot out of the water and I stood up, stumblng the rest of my body out of the pool. I must have fallen asleep! How much time have I lost? No time to figure that out now.

I had to cover myself and find some way out if it wasn't too late.

I ran for the white kimono, kicking over the basket of fruits. I snatch the kimono of of its line and wrap myself tightly inside of it, the cloth seemed to cling perfectly to me and define my frame exactly as it should be. My next instinct decided to call out to Hamada. A little more panicked than I should have sounded. Instantly, he barged in, asking me if I was okay.

What now? What could I use? The apple slicer! It's in the pool! Why hadn't I thought of that first?

Hori had entered with Hamada. I had to fight my way out if I planned to escape.

“What is it, Tachiba?” Hori asked,

“Could I have lunch?” I said.

“It's near dinner and it should be ready shortly!” Hamada said, “In fact, why don't we take you to the dining hall now?”

“I'm sorry, but I need a little more time to prepare,”
“I'm afraid it's too late for that. You've been in here for four hours, lady Tachiba. We have servants who will fix you up properly.”

Hori approached me with the blindfold again and I immediately dove into the pool and retrieved the apple slicer.

“Tachiba what are you doing?” Hamada said.

Hori bent down to help me, but I seized the moment to drive the knife into the side of his neck. The blood pulsed out of his neck in rhythm with his rapidly slowing heartbeat and continued to do so until he ceased to moved in a puddle of his own blood. Hamada stood frozen, unable to act as I leaped out of the pool and out the door. I found myself in a long narrow hall and I decided to take a left, then a right, then another right, when I finally heard Hamada call,

“She's running away! Grab her!”

Within a Hayfield

"Fuck, baby, I love you so much!" She screamed.
"Does my throbbing cock feel good?" I replied.

No wonder she's so popular with all the other boys at school! She's tight as fuck and she knows just what to say!

"Bend me over, Ben. I want you in my ass."
"Fuck yeah-- okay--"

Kinky as fuck being out in a hayfield too.  I've never been with a girl as freaky as her. She'll take it any way I want to give it to her!

"First-- hey, baby, look at me-- first I want to suck your fucking hard dick-- get you all wet so you can slide inside."
"Holy fuck--" is all I could manage.

As I leaned back, she spared no time wrapping her fingers around my red, swollen penis and guiding it down her throat.

"My pussy tastes so good on you--" she said.
"Doesn't it?"

A low rattling began to sound out from some farther reach.

"Oh! Oh! Fuuuuuuck!" I cried as my cock exploded in her mouth.

I brush the rattling off as just some blood draining from my ears as I climaxed. She kept sucking and sucking and sucking-- moaning as my semen began to spill out of the sides of her mouth. As she pulled me out of her mouth, the rattling grew louder and seemed to be coming from behind her. Again, I brush it off as my senses returning as the stars explode.

"Your semen is really sweet," she whispered.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the coming head ache.  I've never had an orgasm that literally blew my mind.

Next thing I know, she starts screaming and the rattling is deafening.  I watch her as she begins to be sucked into some giant, bladed, rotating device. Aliens? No! Then I see the blood begin to spew out and practically cover me in a few seconds. I fell back and felt the roller ride over my legs before they come to a stop.

I was in shock.

"A-- harvester?" I mumble
"Oh gawd! Oh gawd!" I heard the farmer say as he stepped out of the cab.

He kept repeating himself and I started to scream finally, I couldn't feel my legs anymore and pain was absent, thankfully; I'm more so afraid of the fact that I just nearly got grinded by a harvester. I'm staring at my mangled, disembodied legs, bent in a way they should never have been bent, oozing and the toes are still-- somehow-- twitching.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Stupid fucking kids!" The farmer said again.

Next thing I know, the farmer climbs back into the cab and starts the engine. Instead of backing up he started the grinder then he-- started moving forward. The last thing I felt was one of the blades coming down on my dick then onto my waste-- then up-- up-- up.

What to Expect From A Stray Child

Hey everyone!

With A Stray Child due for release in eight days, I figured I could give everyone a bit of insight about the content without giving too much away.

First off, there will be a few moments of cringe worthy gore and suggestive scenes. These are installed into the story in hopes of helping the reader understand the brutality of the cult and the God they worship.

A Stray Child is going to be the base of a long pillar of mythos I've set in motion. H.P. Lovecraft is a notable author who did this as well. The God's name is Giyago, a deity as old as time itself... an amalgamation of all things evil and horrid within the cosmos.

The main protagonist is Bryan Howard, a homicide detective just looking to get through the day without really any thoughts about anything else. He's absent minded and brash, just looking for an escape from the mundane and stressful, which makes him a perfect candidate for the cult and their God. He's also very skeptical of all things supernatural or divine, so his journey just seems even more maddening as it gets worse and worse.

On a more personal note, A Stray Child is also my interpretation of the madness that religion forces on its followers, sometimes forcing them to commit insane and horrible. A Stray Child also confronts the stressful and often overwhelmingly difficult things society has now deemed a part of life.

A few notable works that inspired this story:

The Call of Cthulhu
The Shadow Over Innsmouth
Outlast (yes, a video game)

A Stray Child is going to be a bloody thrill ride that will take you all the way to its gruesome core and leave you there to wallow in its blood-red light.

Be sure to pre-order your Kindle edition today!

As always, stay rotten guys.

A Stray Child
Available for Kindle August 10th, 2016

The Delivery

Took me long enough, but I found it. 2238 Maple Street. Would have been a lot quicker if they had managed to cut down some of the shit trailing all over the face of the house, covering the address. Way too much trouble for a small pizza and bread sticks. Anyway, I better get a damned tip from this. Rain too. Fucking hate rain.

I step out from the driver seat, into the pounding rain and go around to my back door, open it and slide out the delivery bag. I hate my job sometimes, until I get those days where I get hundreds of dollars worth of tips. Anyway, time to get this delivered, boss is probably going to chew me out when I get back to the store.

I approach a rotted, dilapidated gate and ease it open and begin up the path towards the front door. Erie as shit, that's for sure. No lights either. They probably gave up and went to bed, if so, then I'm going to eat this fucking pizza for my troubles.

I give the front door a few quick knocks, after a moment, I delivered a few more. Nobody's home? Damn it. No tip, but a free pizza? I guess I've gotta count my blessings. I turn and begin down the path again and I hear a creak from behind me.

“Is that my pizza?” a woman called.

“Uh-- yeah. Sorry I'm so late, I got a bit turned around. Haven't been out this way haha,” I reply.

“I'm sorry sweetheart, meant to get these vines cut, as much as I love 'em. You can come in if you want while I get your money, don't want you getting sick.”

She was a small, not-so-intimidating old lady so I figured, what the hell? I make my way forward again and step into the house. Cliche moth balls smell and the sudden, subconscious requirement to take my shoes off at the door. The house was pitch black, strange for an old lady who seems like she could be blown over with the slightest strong gust of wind.

She's been gone for awhile now. Is she alright?

“I'm going to leave your pizza right here on your coffee table alright? I won't charge you.” I called out,

“Oh-- honey I've fallen and I can't get up-- could you help me?”

“Of course! Where are you?”

“Back bedroom just in front of the door!”

Shit. Just my luck. Could this night get any fucking worse? Might as well go help her.

I feel across the wall for a light switch and find one, flicking it up, I find that the power is out. Perfect!

“Alright, I'm on my way!”

“Please hurry, I've got to use the bathroom so bad.”

Fuck. Me.

She better not piss or-- shit all over me when I help her up. If she does, I'll quit right on the fucking spot. I didn't sign up to be a nurse aid.

I reach the end of the hall and turn into the left bedroom, my foot meeting the bottom of hers.

“Please-- help me up honey--”

“Yep--”

I bend down and wrap my arms around her frail frame. She starts groaning and it almost forces me to drop her due to paranoia, but she was already too high up for me to drop her like a sack of bricks.

“My potty is right behind me-- in front of the nightstand-- set me up there.”

I do as instructed and without warning, she begins to shit-- signaling the fact with a loud fart and a few plops of muddy shit. She couldn't have fucking waited?

“Have a nice night, ma'am. Your pizza's right out on the coffee table,”

“Hold on-- Emily wants to play with you.”

“Emily? I'm sorry ma'am I really have to get back to the restaurant,”

“Emily! Sweetie, he's right here!”

I'm not playing with your fucking cat or dog, lady. I'm not going to spare a single moment getting out of this God forsaken house.

“I'm sorry, ma'am--”
“She'll be here in just a minute. Emily! Where are you? There you are, sweetie.”

The old woman finished emptying her bowels and though it was really dark, I could make out her smiling to something behind me.

“I have to go.” I simply said.

I turn, ignoring anything else she has to say and begin out of the bedroom. Time to leave her to her dementia or whatever--

What the fuck!

The first thing I seen was two white balls staring intently at me, they hung higher than the door too. Her figure was slender and her arms and legs were impossibly stretched and sharpened. A quick flash of lightning revealed set of long, jagged, sharp teeth that seemed to be drooling and-- where her eyes should have been-- there were just two dark holes. But what produced the pale glow? How the Hell is this even possible?

I froze as she started easing her way towards me.

“He's a nice boy, Emily. Play good with him okay?”

The shadowy figure seemed to nod, and after a long moment, she lurched forward and wrapped her arms around me and carried me quickly to some unknown reach of the house.

I was slammed down onto a cold, flat surface and, before I knew it, I felt my stomach begin to sting as her face buried into my abdomen, gnawing on my rib cage and, shortly after, my insides.

Exhaustion

     My hands are raw and every muscle aches.
     How do they expect me to work like this? This is slave labor at best.
     I use to enjoy doing this, back when I was much younger and more angry.
     Oh well, it's the only skill I possess and it pays the bills and then some.
    
     I don't have a wife anymore, or any kids. Sometimes I wish I did, but I would end up coming home and unable to unwind, probably dead of a heart attack already because of her bitching all the time.
     I wish this was still fun for me, but now it's just-- exhausting.

"No! Please!" He screamed,
"Shhh..  I need some quiet time," I said, gagging his mouth.

     I turn around and face my table of tools. I think I'll go with the chainsaw this time. The vibrations and violent shaking of the bodies usually arouses me.
     He's my last client, then I can go home, hire a wore and deal with myself. Release a bit of this exhaustion.
   

Mirror

I unlocked the bottom lock on my front door and slam through it, I stomp in and stumble over my family’s shoes and fall face first onto the floor. Snow fell from my hair and my coat, I’m so repulsive not even snows wants to stay with me. I lay there in front of the open door, sobbing heavily into the ground. I cursed and I questioned, turning the brown carpet a darker and warmer stain from my tears.

“Why me? What the fuck did I ever do to deserve this? I fucking hate this shitty planet. I hate my shitty self.” I cry vibrating the white, blank walls of my home, “Fuck!” I run my knuckles straight into the ground, feeling the…. Glorious sting and ache; so I did it again, and again, and again. I felt my right hand, middle finger break or spring, I don’t care, all I know is that the pain was worse and I loved it!

I began bashing the side of my head against the carpet, harder and harder every time, hoping soon I will either be unconscious or brain damaged. As I continued, lifting my head and heavily bringing it down with a thud, I felt a zit burst on my forehead, that makes me stop and touch it, puss and blood raced down the side of my head, only from the zit though.

“Can’t even knock my own damn self out, pathetic.” I whisper only to be answered by the February winter winds whistling over my house.

I got up steadily and made my way to my bathroom, entered and closed the door, I put down the lid and sat myself upon it; I looked up and focused on a flower that had multiple, small brown droplets dripping from its two dimensional, white pedals, we never bothered to clean that up or even guess what that was. 

I raised up, still hearing my heart pound against my chest and my brain scrunch with near insanity.

“You greasy headed in-bred mother fucker, kill your self, nobody on this fucking planet cares about you!” I shout at my reflection in the badly fingerprinted mirror. I looked myself in my wet, red eyes and watched as the blood raced down the side of my head and around each field of red and white headed blemish. 

I put the back of my hand up to the puss and blood coated wound and felt its contents layer on to my skin. I observed myself again.

“have you ever had a girlfriend? I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t.” they’d say, 
“Haha, look Ned he pissed himself!” their minions would say,
“No you pricks kicked me in the ass, as I was taking a piss.” I’d reply
“Sure Higgins, sure.” they’d laugh again, I would reply with a fist to the asshole’s temple and he’d go down, then his dumb fucks would jump on me, punch me in the balls a couple of times, then move to my gut and finally to my face and when I wanted to take a breath they dip my head in an unlashed stall toilet, forcing me to drink the urine and shit and used toilet paper.

I would walk around school for the rest of the day, with a head and breath smelling like feces.

Valentine’s day was tomorrow, and God do I want to shoot each one of those ignorant couples without a care in the world.

“Hi Clary.” I’d say
“Uh- hey Higgins.” she’d say
“I was wondering, since you have been the nicest person to me, would you go to prom with me? I mean just as friends, I don’t want anything more I promise.” I’d say again and she would giggle and look to her girlfriends around her,
“With you Higgins? I’m sorry, but I’d rather eat my own barf then to go with you, look don’t talk to me, you broke that chance long ago with that horrible body odor of yours!” she’d giggle and wander off with her friends.

I came back into this sickening reality and still felt my popped blemish, pulsate with anger and pain. I let out a cry and punch my reflection square in the nose, shattering the mirror and slicing open three of my four right hand knuckles. The blood dripped from my hand, but I didn’t squint, I laughed……. ‘that sting, it feels so good!’ I thought, out of good measure I bashed my head a single time against the wall, the spot went numb from the pulsating pain and I felt it grow just above my temple. I was light headed after that one and I stumbled over the sink.

I gathered myself and looked down at the fragments of glass lying spread out among the bathroom and the sink. I seen my reflection once more and I gritted my teeth and let out a sob that sounded almost like an insane laugh. 

I gently pick up a piece of glass and spin it around in my hand, it gleamed in the dying light bulb’s light. Its clean and straight lines were perfect.

The mirror, a thing to help ensure and improve a person’s beauty, will serve that purpose a final time before my mother scoops it all up and throws it away. I turned it so that I could see my fractured image reveal itself. My cheeks were raised into a grin and my eyes bulged with glee. I raise up the shard and I squeezed it tight feeling it open my palm’s surface.

I let the blood run down my arm and soak into my dark blue shirt and I drive the shard into the place my zit used to be, and I pull it down the left side of my face and guide it through my fresh welt. It stung beyond Hell, my body shuttered with pain as I went around my temple and just reaching my cheek, my horribly zited cheek. I screamed feeling my skin wrap tighter around the now slick glass and I felt my tears pour around and in the wounds stinging it further. I watched as the blood fell onto the dirty porcelain and over the faucet;  ‘I’ll be beautiful now.’ I think and laugh gently.

Before I could maneuver over my cheek bone, my brain pulsated again and my vision began to tunnel and then it all went black and I fell over and felt my head bounce off of the counter of the bathroom sink and the glass land on the tile with a ting.