7 posts tagged “story”

So, for some reason, I've been thinking a lot about a story idea that I just can't seem to get out of my head. It's basically about a fallen angel who happens to be possessing a private investigator. I'm not sure if they're partners, or if the angel's the one in charge.

Hmm. That actually sounds sort of cool. Maybe I'll let this one develop a bit?

If you've been following me on Twitter, you'll know that I've been doing constant updates on the status of my NaNoWriMo project. But if you haven't seen that and you were wondering how it's going, here's a little update. So far, it's been great! I've written every day since the first of November, and I'm up to about 8971 words. My goal is about 2000 words a day, which has been a little tough to do, but I'm still plugging away. Most of all, I'm just happy that I've been able to be consistent with this. Committing to a project and not getting distracted is something that's really difficult for me. I think that forcing myself to not stall and just dedicate myself to one task will really help.

I will keep you updated, maybe even post some details about the story here soon! If you're interested in more up-to-date progress, keep an eye on my twitter account; I log each session's progress when I finish.

Here's to 50,000 words in 30 days!

Wow, has it really been that long since my last post? Didn't feel like it to me. Maybe you noticed it, though, especially if you visited multiple times in the hopes of seeing something new. Does anybody do that? Feel free to post a comment if you do, because it will boost my ego and a boosted ego is always more conducive towards posting things here. It makes me feel like I might actually be talking to somebody aside from myself for once.

But, I do have something for you today, aside from rambling. Actually, I have two somethings.

Authentically, I have the promise of two somethings, but that's something I really intend to deliver on this time; it's not like I'm making the promise of creating and delivering content... I actually have content ready to go. The only reason I haven't posted it already is because I left my flash drive at home and I'm at work.

But, very soon, you can expect one story, possibly two.

I have to get back to work now, so check back in tonight or tomorrow and I'll have the goods. I mean it, this time.

-Draxle

I just typed up a 5600 word back-story for my new D&D character.

I feel so fucking alive right now. This is the most writing I've done in months, and even though it's all just character fluff, it felt so very, very awesome to do that much writing again, to just sort of lose myself in the story and let it all flow out in one great, big torrent. Those are the moments that I really live for, that make being a creative writer worth it... when four hours fly by in a rush without me even noticing because I'm so caught up in what I'm working on.

God, it feels great.

I'd post what I wrote, but I know that some of my gaming friends read this blog and I don't want to spoil my surprises for them.

-Draxle

See, I told you I'd keep my promise. Not much preamble for this installment, other than to say how this one didn't go at all the way I planned. From the moment I started writing him, Daniel Corner just began going in his own direction. I love it when they do that. Anyway, enjoy.

As always, please comment and criticize as you see fit. I've been loving the feedback I've gotten for this piece.

-Draxle

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"Beyond the Darkened Veil, Part Two"
By: Matt Ciarvella

    When Dan Corner walked into my bar, I did not expect him to tell me that the Apocalypse, or the Rapture, or whatever the fuck it’s supposed to be called, was mere moments away. I did not expect that his arrival meant the final hours of humankind’s dominance were coming to a swift and crimson end. Drunks at this hour just don’t say that. They don’t say much of anything, really.
    To be honest, I didn’t expect anything from him when he arrived. I didn’t even notice him, until his polite “ahem” made me look up from the traditional cliche of bartenders everywhere, wiping the mugs clean with a rag.
    “What?” I’m not used to being politely ‘ahem-ed’ at in this joint, certainly not by a thin, dainty little dandy in his custom Armani suit and gold rimmed glasses. I glanced at the dust-smeared clock on the wall behind him. Less than fifteen minutes till closing. Most of the drunks had already staggered out to grab a prime piece of sleeping real estate under one of the nearby bridges.
    “What do you want?” I sounded gruff, even for me. He hadn’t even said a word and already, I didn’t like him. Maybe I had a feeling, even then, that no good would come out of meeting him. Or maybe I just didn’t like his suit, which probably cost more than I’ve made in the twenty years I’ve been tending this shit hole.
    “A beer, please.”
    “I’m closing in fifteen minutes, pal. And from the looks of it, you seem like you got better places to be than here.”
    He smiled at me. Something about his smile made me want to reach over and choke him, or at least give him a good shiner for it. And that sudden urge to deck him; that frightened me, see, because twenty years tending bar has given me a real, real strong level of tolerance. Sure, I’ve hauled out the guy who had too many and was making a scene, and I’ve thrown fists when some scum would try to dispute his tab. But that was always business, just business. I wasn’t mad then. I don’t get mad.
    That’s why this bland little man with his bland little smile, and the rage it instilled in me, threw me off my game, a bit. Looking back on it, maybe I knew, with one of those “sixth sense” things the new age yuppies ramble about. Maybe I knew, even then, that meeting Daniel Corner was not going to end well.
    He continued to smile pleasantly at me. “This is where I believe I should be right now,” he said after a long pause. “This is where I want to be.”
    “Suit yourself,” I said. “A beer then. Could you at least be specific? I got a lot of different beers back here.”
    “I do not care.”
    “Fine.” I poured him a beer, without even seeing what it was. I never do that. Never did that, rather. I put the mug down in front of him. “Enjoy.”
    He didn’t even touch the glass. “What is your name?”
    I stared at him. “Why the hell would you even care?”
    “Your name is Burns. Michael Burns. The other employees call you Burnie, even though you hate it.”
    I pressed my lips into a thin smile that felt so tight I wondered, for a moment, if my teeth might shatter. “So, you’re a con man. Not the first I’ve had come through here, pretending to be a psychic. What are you after, pal? As you can see, there ain’t much here worth your time.” He didn’t say anything, so I continued, still angry. “Why don’t you just finish that beer, pay me, and get the fuck out of my bar so that I can close up and go home. Your little magic tricks don’t scare me.”
    “No,” he said in agreement. “Not much scares you. You’ve seen too many things, too much darkness and despair to scare easily. This place, this bar,” he made a dismissive gesture to the dive around us, “this is where souls come to die. They come in to gather and die, even though the body stumbles out the next morning, still living, still breathing, but, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.”
    “Listen, pal, you’re really starting to piss me off. Why don’t you just get the fuck out if you’re not going to drink that?”
    He stood up and strode over to the television set in the corner of the room. He turned it on, which gave me a cold jolt, because I remember gluing the buttons so that only the remote control could turn the thing on or change the channel. Corner, though, didn’t seem to notice, as he began flipping through channels. Despite myself, I leaned over the bar to try to catch a glimpse of how he had managed to do that. Finally, he settled on a channel, some news program of some sort.
    “There is a world outside of your bar, Michael Burns,” he said without looking at me. “A world that has not forgotten you, though you seem to have forgotten it.”
    “What’s your point?”
    “My point, Michael Burns, is that you should have turned this screen to something other than infomercials once in a while. Because if you had, you would realize that your life, my life, and all lives are, in less than six minutes, going to change forever.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about? Get the fuck out of my bar, you lunatic.” I considered grabbing Mickey’s shotgun. I know he keeps it under the register and I know it’s loaded, because I always pop the shells in at the beginning of my shift, just in case. But this guy was small, much smaller than me, and I was certain I could take him with my fists, if I had to. The shotgun is a nice comfort, but cops, and Mickey, don’t usually like it being pulled on somebody for no good reason. The nutcase continued his calm, quiet rant.
    “If you had known that your life was nearly over, would you have wasted it in this place of soulless death and despair? Would you have lived for so long amongst the soulless dead? Please tell me, Michael Burns, and do not lie.” He turned and looked back at me.
    We made eye contact and before I realized what was happening, I was gripping the edge of the bar, trying not to collapse. He smiled blandly.
    “What did you just do to me? What the fuck are you?”
    “Very good, Michael Burns. You do not ask who, but what. You are far too perceptive to have withered for so long in such a place. Or, perhaps you acquired your acute perception because of your time here. It does not matter, though. Now that I have your attention, I have something important to tell you.”
    I felt dizzy, drained, hung over in the worst way. The room would spin if I moved my eyes and it was all I could do to not throw up, right there on the bar. He did something to me when he looked at me, something strange, and even though I was never one to go for that supernatural magic shit, this whole experience was making me a true believer pretty damn fast.
    Corner directed my attention to the television. I realized I was compelled to follow, my eyes moving towards the dusty box without my brain telling them to do so. I felt a very real and very deep sense of terror then, the first real emotion I’d experienced in the past twenty years. My eyes started to water and I felt a cold chill deep in my gut.
    Now, understand that I’m not a church man. The last time I stepped foot in God’s house was when I was still small enough that my mother was able to force me. So, believe me when I say I’m not one who sees Satan’s clawed hand in all the darkness and shit that life throws at a man. I don’t really buy the whole Anti-Christ bullshit. That stuff’s for movies and scaring people into behaving better.
    I never thought it could be real, but faced with Daniel Corner, alone in the bar with him, utterly helpless and at his whim, well, I suddenly wasn’t sure what to believe.
    All I knew is that I was terrified. “Are you the devil?” I asked. My voice was a meek little whisper. Like a small boy. I hated it, hated myself for my own fear and helplessness.
    “In a manner of speaking, Michael Burns. But the concept of Satan is far too limited to accurately describe me. I am not a fallen angel. I am not the great Deceiver of Man, the Enemy, the Beast, the Red Dragon. Those are all fine titles, but they are myths, attempts made by mortal minds to describe immortal intricacies.”
    “Then what... then what the hell are you?” I couldn’t raise my voice above a terrified whisper no matter how much I tried. I wasn’t sure whether he was making that happen, or if it was just my own fear.
    “Listen and watch, Michael Burns, and I will show you what I am. And then I will show you what is about to happen to your world and why everything you know is about to be undone.”

I have not forgotten my promise!

But I do have seventeen chapters to read out of a novel that needs to be done by tonight, so please forgive me if I do that instead of writing. As long as part two is posted before Friday is over, we'll be cool, yeah? I promise, I'm not screwing around playing video games.

Okay, I should go read. Expect part two of 'Beyond the Darkened Veil" sometime tomorrow!

-Draxle

The impossible has finally happened. I wrote something that was not a rant or an odd, off the cuff observation, or a link to a YouTube video. I wrote a piece of fiction that I'm marginally proud of, and after finding out that, despite the fact that I never get a comment on this blog, people actually do read it, I'm inspired to finally make good on the promise I make to myself every other week: that I will write and post things for people to read, and comment on, if such should be their inkling.

This could be the start of an exciting new trend!

Man, as I get ready to post this, I find myself really, really longing for the "extended entry" feature that exists on Movable Type. This blog would look so much more presentable if I didn't have to slam these huge entries up in big chunks. Ah well. At least I've written a piece of fiction, finally.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. The next chapter will be up by Friday, and that's a promise.

-Draxle
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"Beyond the Darkened Veil"
By: Matt Ciarvella

    My name is Michael Burns. I have been a bartender for over twenty years. People sometimes ask me why I’ve chosen to stay in this life as long as I have and I don’t know what to tell them. It’s not loyalty to the joint or the owner; to be honest, even after all these years, I think the place is a dive and Mickey is a right asshole on a good day.
    It’s not because I like the work or even because I’m particularly good at it. Trust me, I know guys who can mix you a concoction so potent, so intense that after the first sip, you’ll wonder if anything you’ve felt up until that point was real.
    I guess I would say I’ve stayed around as long as I have because of the people, but that’s not entirely true either. See, I don’t get the prime shifts. That work goes to the younger guys, the twenty-somethings who go to law school during the day and pour brews Friday and Saturday nights during Happy Hour. You probably know the type: young guys, smart, ambitious, working in a place like this to earn the extra dough needed to keep their clockwork lives running smoothly. Of course, if you ask me, they all run on clocks wound just a little too tightly, but then, nobody asks me any more. But they’re the ones who get the good hours, because tending bar on a Friday night is a younger man’s job.
    I’m the guy who tends bar during the graveyard hours. I don’t get the parties, the celebrations, the ball games. I get the dregs, the runoff, the excess. The trash, if you will; the ones who come in to drink themselves into a stupor, the ones who brood silently for hours, the ones who only say a work when you cut them off and haul them out. The ones who have nowhere else to go, no one else to go to, and nothing else to live for except the bottom of the next bottle.
    A greedier man would refer to them as the ones who never tip, or even remember to pay the tab half the time.
    Maybe some of the bright eyed kids, the ones still crawling through law school, might think these fellows would be interesting, that maybe they’d have stories to tell. They’d think that there is something beyond the exterior that worth a second glance, or at least, a listening ear. But those kids are young, fresh, unused to the realities of a hard world outside their little university bubble. I’ve been around long enough to know that not every sad drunk who shambles in at half past two on a Tuesday morning has a story worth hearing. As I said, few of them ever talk. They just drink and drink. And for my part, I just pour the brews, keep the tab tallied up and try to avoid getting stiffed.
    It is not a fun life, pouring drinks for these people. It isn’t rewarding, or interesting, or worthwhile. It’s just a lot of numb emptiness, a void where a man’s heart should be. Ironically, I’m no better than they are. I’ve got an ex-wife I haven’t seen or spoken to in almost eight years. I have a daughter, she’s grown up and married. Last time I saw her was when my grandson was born. Almost six years ago, there. I think they’re living in California now. San Diego or maybe San Francisco. I don’t know.
    No friends to speak of, no other family. No hobbies, no hopes, no ambitions. No dreams, if you want to compare me to the clockwork kids. Nothing except this dead end job, with these dead end shifts, serving swill to winos and rejects. In so many ways, the only difference between me and them is that I don’t go home drunk every night. My own bottle doesn’t come open until long after the sun’s come up and the normal people have started their normal days. And then it’s just a lot of drinking, a lot of dreamless sleeping and a lot of waiting until my next shift.
    Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed here so long. Maybe it’s because this job is it. Maybe it’s because this job is my whole life and without it, I’d have nothing. And then I’d be just like the rest of them.
    Well. That’s not entirely true. I’ll always that have one shift, the night Daniel Corner walked into my bar. The one night something happened.
    That was back when the television still worked, back when there was at least an illusion of life in this hopeless dive. I learned after the fact that the artificial life of informercials and reruns was far better than the deathly silence that came after the set burnt out. I wish like hell Mickey would buy a replacement set. This place just haven’t been the same since that night.
    That night. So many things happened that night. Daniel Corner came in for a drink. The television broke. That was the night.
    That was the night the world pierced the Veil and everything changed.