Archive for fantasy

Too Sick to Write or Too Sick Not To?

Posted in The Writing Process (How do I Come up These Beats?) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 05/07/2013 by Angel D. Vargas

A funny thing happened to me in bed two nights ago.

And this is the point where you roll your eyes and ask, “Are you serious?”

Considering that I am now recovering from a cold, I couldn’t be more serious if I tried. Post nasal drip has a way of embarrassing a young writer even in front of the characters in his or her head.

The best part is I then get to put the “Snotgate” incident in one of my other short stories for fun. Quick, what are some original descriptors for “a big ole strand o’ snot?” 😉

The best part I can say about being sick (other than the fact that I am being taken care of at the moment by a very sweet and sexy girlfriend) is that I come up with arguably some of my most insane or brilliant writing ideas when my brain is being turned into “Grey-Matter Stew.”

Why is this the case? I have no idea. It can be argued that some of the most brilliant creative minds in the history of art were some of the most wounded or “ill.” Van Gogh wanted to give his girlfriend a new earring for Christmas once, right? The only problem was the earring was his actual ear. Other than that, kudos to him for his insane passion and devotion – the SAME madness, one could argue, he applied with frantic candor to his famous works of art. Who could look at “Starry Night” and NOT know that this man, brilliant as he was, had some issues? Do you think Munch painted “The Scream” because he was a “happy-go-lucky chap?”

Could “mind altering conditions” of insane variety be responsible for other creative masterpieces? Of course they could! Nobody can argue that Earnest Hemmingway and Virginia Wolf weren’t perhaps some of the most mentally unstable people of the 20th century. There isn’t anyone who would say that Walt Whitman was the most “well-adjusted” fellow, even though some of his poetry is considered worthy enough to be included in classical education curriculum.

And I don’t know what to tell you all about musical names like “Nirvana, Jimi Hendrix,  Radiohead, Prodigy, and Lords of Acid.”

And if you think cinema is getting out of this blog piece unscathed, I got two words for you. Star Wars.

Enough said.

So what am I, an aspiring writer with a penchant for horror and action adventure stories going to contribute with my own illness-inspired insanity?  I won’t really know until enough people read my writing and take a shining to it. (“Heeeeere’s Johnny!”) What I can tell you is that at roughly two in the morning, my fever-melted brain decided to cogitate on the way that the plot of my “ancient Chinese action/adventure-horror” manuscript was evolving. Maybe it was time for me to play “chapter and paragraph” Jenga in order to make sure that two story arcs were unfolding in an interesting and creative enough way so that when the final chapter of the first half of my book was written, everything could come together in one exciting “KABOOM” moment.

And what the hell, you might ask, would constitute a “KABOOM” moment for a bunch of action heroes, mythical monsters,  and their supporting characters in Ancient freakin’ China? Don’t bother asking Marvin the Martian. He isn’t writing this book.

I don’t want to give anything away. But I will say that I can write a hell of a sword fight scene now that I’ve read a book on Chinese sword fighting techniques AND I’ve had a couple of beers.

Does that mean I encourage the ingesting of mind-altering substances whenever authors decide to sit down and commit their fingers to keyboard? No. Frankly, I think that ultimately sets a dangerous, self-limiting precedent, and it doesn’t give you anything interesting to say in those “twelve-step” meetings.  But I don’t discount the possibility that every once in a while, an artist’s body has to be pushed to some rather uncomfortable limits in order for their mind to shut down what’s not important. Once that happens, an artist can focus on the creative essence of their work, and they may come up with some interesting scenarios, ideas or techniques that they never would have pondered if their minds weren’t simmering in “Grey-Matter Stew!”

“Halleluyah. Holy shit. Where’s the tylenol?”

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Chapters 1-5

Posted in Drum Roll with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 10/23/2012 by Angel D. Vargas

Howdy, readers.

It seems that the website for Jukepopserials.com has evolved. Either that, or I’ve discovered a feature that’s new to me.  Each of the serials on the site now reports the number of votes that each story has obtained. I was able to hover the point of my mouse over my serial, “Unbreakable,” and read the total number of votes I’ve gotten so far for my five chapters. That number is 22. I’m happy!

I am able to see where I rank literally by looking at where the cover for “Unbreakable” is in relation to the other covers to other serials. It would seem that this can be done by genre.

I’ll just say I aim to be the best.

I think in time, I will garner more votes. I prefer to allow my writing to speak for itself. But I know my kick-ass  new cover is going to get more and more attention. It seems that people need to get onto the site and create an account to cast their votes. I urge as many of you as possible to do this. I just KNOW you’ll like my story, so I’ve no need to worry that you’ll sign up and cast a vote my way, right? 😉

I no longer feel a need to project a false humility about my talent. It’s there. But pure talent is not enough. Practice makes perfect, and there is no way for me to hone my craft if there are no readers to appreciate it.  So go, read, enjoy! The moment you elect to read more of my chapters, I get a vote. I just hope to keep my readers’ interest in the long run with my crazy imagination.

Chapter 6 of ‘Unbreakable’ will be arriving this Thursday. It’s already underway. Let’s just say things are about to take a turn ..

A New Scary Short Story

Posted in Short Stories (Some Wicked Little Beats) with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 05/13/2012 by Angel D. Vargas

Happy Mothers Day to the moms I know and the ones I don’t know.  May you all bask in the joys of motherhood.  As I helped my own mom enjoy her new Mother’s Day gift (a Nook), I knew that I would someday have  a more personal relationship with fatherhood.  I could not help but smile.

 

But on a different note, I must warn you the following is  a disturbing story that I came up with recently for a horror based writing prompt about “pie.”  If you seek not to be unnerved today, don’t read this tale.  For the moms who choose to keep reading, take a gander and then go hold your children a little tighter.  Just trust me on this…

 

 

My Cherry Pie

 

A man sat at the window of the Hawthorne Boulevard cafe and simply watched people go by.  He could see the reflection of his watery, tired eyes as they blinked once.  Passersby would not notice him, for he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a memorable man.  He was of average height and build.  He had a perfectly plain face with small, moist brown eyes.  He had a quarter sized bald spot at the back of his sandy haired head.  He didn’t exude the chest swelling, straight backed confidence of other men he met on the street.  Most who ever met him laughed at the fact that he had two first names, but otherwise he became a passing thought to be wafted out of their lives like a fart on the wind.

 

Still, the corners of his mouth twitched as a pretty server with bright blue eyes brought him a black coffee and a piece of pastry on a small plate.

 

He hadn’t yet brought the first piece of desert to his mouth when a female began to walk slowly past the window.  She wore shorts that barely went past the first third of her thighs.  The skin below her shorts was a silky mocha that reminded him of the color of his own, cream filled coffee.  Sunlight accentuated the vermillion streaks amidst her auburn tresses, and it made her green eyes sparkle even as she hefted a small pack in front of her slender torso.  She wasn’t large-breasted, but some were beautiful enough to get away with that.

 

He bit into the piece of desert that dangled from the end of his fork.  His teeth sank into the middle of a hot, buttery crust.  It reminded him of suntan lotion.  The inside of his cheek burned with the acid tartness of cherry filling, and viscous red fluid oozed between his front teeth as he slowly masticated.  He ran his glittering eyes over the young woman’s legs, beginning with the lime green Converse on her small feet and ending with the pockets of her light blue denim shorts.   She bent at the knees as she laughed, and it took him another few chews to realize that she was using a cell phone.  What had that person said to get her to arch her back in mirth, and could he ever say something like that?

 

The young woman turned her head in his direction, and a gap toothed smile remained on her face as she blinked.  He could feel the blood rushing to his face.  He ached to have this woman near him, and she had given him a subtle, smoldering look that suggested she wanted the same.

 

How sweet..

 

He pierced the remaining sweetness on his plate and felt the girding of his loins as he curved his hand and let his plastic fork slice through the desert.  He brought the piece of food to his mouth and let it linger there, the smell entering his nostrils and suffusing his being with thoughts of the young woman’s body writhing underneath his.  He pictured her smiling for him, thrusting her hips against him as she embraced him and bit his lower lip with those imperfect teeth.

 

“No baby, I’ll make sure you look like Giselle fucking Bundchen someday,” he sighed at himself as he bit into the confection once more.

 

The man felt the bolus slide down his throat before he deigned to take a sip from his white, porcelain cup of mocha goodness.  The silky burn made his eyes water and convinced him that he still craved the pain of young love. As he bit his lower lip and leered out the window, he knew one thing:

 

He wanted to be near this nubile young goddess. He yearned to have her undulating underneath his strong hands, her eyes never leaving his as she slid her light pink panties down and exposed her bald vulva to his deserving eyes.  He would be her white night.  He would guard her against the terrors of high school boys and their tawdry desires.  There was no way she could truly understand the while of the teen-aged  boy, but he could recall the unfocused lust of his own adolescent years; a need that drove him to the ear-piercing, wrist slashing madness of his own “self abuse.”

 

And now, he rejoiced at the recollection that his old Catholic priest was dead.  A car crash had rendered him a silent witness to the demon that dwelled within; the monster that growled with insatiable lust.

 

“Original sin is not so easily washed from the hands of our fathers, and neither is blood,” he thought.

 

Cherry red juices similar to menstrual fluid cascaded down the man’s chin as he greedily licked his lips.  The girl bit her lower lip as she closed her eyes, and he knew she was thinking of his beard tickling her between her luscious thighs.

 

She heaved her pack upon her back and walked away then.  A pen dropped from an open zipper on her backpack like a paratrooper falling into a life or death mission over the jungles of the Congo.  He rose quickly, spearing the leftover cherry pie on his plate like a hunter about to claim the pelt of his latest kill.  His chest heaved, and he forgot about the bill as he hurried from the cafe and dashed toward the pen that lay abandoned on the ground.  His eyes narrowed as he observed the swaying ass of his newest love receding into the distance with every confident runway stomp of her lithe legs.  He ran a sweaty, trembling hand through his hair and stalked off after her.

 

Jesύs Martín could feel the bulge of the knife at his belt as his ordinary legs picked up speed against the dull grey asphalt.  He would be the son of God that absolved her of original sin.

 

Cherry Pie had never tasted better..

 

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