VIN28- Raw

This is a raw week. For everyone. Myself included. Here too.

The state of things in this country, they’re rough. But they’re not as bad as they seem. I know this, because I’ve spent the last too-many-hours feeling like the most utter dog-shit a Human-being can without being terminal. On top of everything else.

Folks, I’ve had some rough ones, but this one put me out.

If you read my stories regularly, you may wonder what the deal is this week. We seemed to have branched off into a personal land of weirdly astounding proportions. I mean that so globally, I still can’t comprehend the scope of what I’m talking about.

Generally speaking, I don’t do that. Not in my work. Off-the-cuff isn’t how I like to play it. And even now, I’m not really. Just playing it “close to the chest.” It’s tough for me.

But guess what? A few hours ago, I couldn’t eat. I was too ill. I don’t know why. I know I awoke, and started to feel better because of the people I love. That’s pretty right-on to me. I mean, dead-on. That’s what life is.

We need to all remember this.

I have been numb for a decade due to some not-so-hidden emotional issues. I’ve finished hiding those issues, because I see now how important it is for all of us to know, that no matter what the fuck we say or do, we have all felt like I’ve felt so recently. RAW.

Worst, this time around we felt it together. Whatever the reason.

Yet we don’t always have to. And when we don’t, the people there in those moments are what buoy us against the others, the raw ones. Even if not as raw as lately.

I am the youngest, only son, of a family of three strong and empowered women. Not because they wanted to be, but because they had to be. My father left us bleeding. He has his reasons. He is an old man now. I wish he could fix those himself, so maybe, we could all heal better. With him.

There are plenty of reasons to want that. There are more children now. Young ones. They are our light. He is missing that. We have all missed much: the imparting of wisdoms, follies, bare truths. All of us, myself included.

I personally, missed something crucial as well. I missed a true role-model for how to be. In that, I sought it so brashly I hurt not only myself but those that loved me of their own accord. For no reason other than that spark which draws the reader back, week-after-week, day-after-day, ramble-for-bloody-ramble.

Since then, I have spent a decade in exile trying to learn and grow and understand.

I have seen the faces of cowards and liars and cheats, faces I recognize well and have seen in myself, claim things I never thought possible.

One does not weep to wound. We weep to heal.

Fools! All of them. The lot of them. Interfering in the affairs of Wizards and Shaman!

We have bled together as a species this week. We are still bleeding. We are wounded and we need our healers, our Shaman– digital or otherwise. They are being denied us by those very forces we set in motion to bring them about.

No creature claims to be of heart and weeps to wound if it truly be. None. It is irreconcilable with the existent-anti-existent nature of Death, the Multiverse, and Nothing.

Remember that while our wounds are laid bare. For we are stronger than we know in soul. As a species. As peoples. As cultures. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the universe. We have each other. Even if rat-bastards do too.

Remember though, even that saying is no longer true. Rats love. They are family-oriented. So what does this make those others? Personally? Human.

And that we can never forget, lest we repeat their mistakes.

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Special Announcement

So I’m here. I think anyhow. These things are scheduled so I might actually be there now. Here or there’s hardly the point. The point… oh right, I remember now.

The time is coming friends, readers, space-goers of far-distant reaches. Soon. Very soon, I will be releasing my first novel. Where and when is still to come, but I assure you it will be soon. There’s a few technical things to be finished but rest-assured it’s in motion. I will also be launching a crowdfunding venture for those whom wish to support me in my quest as a Wordsmith of Sol. In other words, as a writer.

For those wondering why the hell you’d ever want to give me money, I say; hey you’ve gotta’ a big mouth, how’d you like if I garnish my vanquished-foe hearts with it? I can, you know. If that didn’t shut you up, and you’re still wondering why you’d want to give me money– especially now that I’ve threatened you with certain dismemberment– I say… okay, you got me there.

The point is, I need to eat. The hearts of vanquished foes are a delicacy, and without them, I can’t subsist. (The thumbs of enlightened friends just aren’t filling past a certain age.) So in order to keep my Vanquished-Foe-Heart supply full and fresh, I need some compensatory method.

So here’s the deal, I do what I do, you do what you do, but in the meantime, you can commit an sum to me monthly so I can continue doing what I do– providing content three-times weekly minimum, as well as bonus stuff other-times. Plus, an income means I’ll be able to add to the existing content with cool, new stuff. (I’m seriously entertaining the notion of a scifi podcast.)

So to recap, you support me and my work, and I get to continue it, add in awesome stuff, and then in a few weeks (or perhaps a few more depending on how technical things play-out) my first book will go up and the crowdfunding will be launched.

Now, onto the meat of it.

What is the book?

The Omega Device is an action/Sci-Fi novel set in near present-day that follows Tattoo Artist Maggie Doherty and Homicide Detective Russell Williams. As they discover why they have become targets for an organization known only as Omega, they must also evade capture, survive harrowing attempts on their lives, and uncover the truth of a war between two, secret organizations and the ancient weapon at its center. What they find will not only radically change their view of Humanity, but also force them to act in the hopes of saving it.

You can find an excerpt below.

Russell’s lapse of consciousness ended with the Impala’s horn droning beneath his forehead. His vision flickered, body ached. He lifted his head with a groan. He knew what had happened– the van had purposely hit them, but the impact wasn’t enough to detonate the Impala’s airbag. His face had hit the wheel instead. He opened his eyes to smoke rising from the crushed front-end, felt something jerk at his seat belt. Maggie’s foggy shape came into focus.

Her hands fumbled at his side, “Damn it, wake up!” She glanced around anxiously, fought with the belt’s latch. “C’mon, before they get closer!”

He snapped back to reality, quickly disconnected the belt.

She urged him forward at a hush, “Good. Let’s go.”

And since I have you all here; If you wish to follow me or keep track of my work through other mediums you may also find me here:

Twitter: @authorsmnolan

Facebook: authorsmnolan

But that’s not all!

I’m also working on compiling the stories and poems on the site into a regular series called The Logbook Archives. Volume One is well on its way to being finished and actually already has a cover, to be revealed here soon. Unfortunately as mentioned before for the time being these compilations must remain paid. Provided I receive enough support, I can make them free. For now, they’re simply too much work and time from my regular routine to offer free. (But I am more than willing to offer them free down the line if support is received.)

Last but not least, I will also be releasing my Novellas in Ebook format with full covers and arranged as a novel might be. Some may not make the cut, but I am already certain of at least The Collective being on the list.

However, all of these items will be extremely modestly priced. As I said before, I don’t want to be a billionaire, but vanquished hearts are at a premium these days. That said, expect novels to be in the five dollar range and other things to be between 1-3 dollars. As before, these things are subject to change provided certain conditions are met, but that’s a conversation for another day.

And just so you don’t think I’m spewing madness, I’d like to mention I have eight novels, twenty short-stories, and thirty poems in various states of readiness and unreadiness. (and that number is ever-growing) So apart from my weekly posts, I’m always hard at work, but it’s high-time something more of it sees the world.

So until next time, thanks for reading, farewell, goodbye and glurbleflurble reeeeowww to you.

Short Story: His(Its?) Image

Nobody believed it. Who would blame them though? It was a difficult thing to believe that one; there was confirmation of God’s existence; two, he was actually hooked into the internet, hip to all of the millions of slangs and cultures; and three that all those social-media posts begging for likes to save cancer-victims, help lost puppies, and vote on the newest teen idol were actually serious.

For his– or rather Its, which is a whole, other complicated conversation we’re not having right now– part, God seemed to be an okay guy (thing?). At least in the last few thousand years, he hadn’t directly caused any kind of mass murder, flooding, or pestilence. Not that there weren’t any, just none he had a direct hand in. Even the good things were none of his doing, sliced bread, the internet, free porn– those were things we’d given ourselves through the freewill he’d set in motion. (If you believe the stories, anyway.)

It was like he– it? Can a limitless entity really be confined to a single gender? I’m sure all those homophobic preachers might have something to say about it, but not me. Mostly I’m focused on the existential properties of the question, and whether or not human language will have to compensate for this new class of being, especially if it turns out he is not the only one. Like I said, ‘nother conversation for ‘nother day.

Anyway, it was like he’d set us up on this crazy green and blue rock, then loosed us to the rigors of time so he might come back later and reap the rewards. The internet had to have been one of those things that finally drew him back. Before he’d sent an ambassador (more than one if you believe the various stories) to speak to us in his name, each with their own language and ways to best keep the people in those parts of the world on the straight and narrow. Really gotta’ hand it to him, did a mostly good job– you know aside from the middle east and the third of the world starving.

But that’s yet another conversation for yet another day. Staying on track.

Seems the Good Lord had set up a kind of system networked into social-media of all things. In retrospect, it wasn’t a bad idea. There’s billions of computers hooked into the net, almost as many people behind them watching everything from social-media updates to, well, porn, and not a one of them was really listening to the Good Lord’s words anymore.

I can only imagine that to a creature like God the internet represented this vast, instant-feedback system where the commodity of information was like a tasty morsel of ambrosia. See, that’s the thing we never think about when we think of a God, or rather the God. Omnipotent may mean unlimited power, but who the hell has the time to be paying that much attention? I mean, if we’re created in his— it’s?– image, wouldn’t He/It be just as prone toward Attention Deficit Disorder?

Each of us has some form of ADD. Granted not everyone needs medication for it, but we all have a point where we can no longer stand to pay attention. Be it from hunger, exhaustion, or sheer boredom, we’ll each eventually turn away, look away, or pass out until we can come back with fresh eyes. It’s the human condition. We’re just sort of flawed in that way. It runs deep too, so deep, it was almost easy for us to miss that He/It was the same way.

After all, familiarity is comfort, and all beings that we know of seek comfort. Why would He/it be different? In the end, maybe that’s the whole “meaning of life thing:” so no one has to be alone. I mean, sure there were creatures before us, but they weren’t sentient. It’s more than likely that if He/It did anything to create us, it was with a push to the hominid populous’ evolution toward our creation. Then, let it stew for a few million years, and voila, sentient life!

But then we sort of spiraled out of control. We bred like rabbits and took over the face of the Earth. Those telepathic communications that he told us about in his books became overwhelming. Then, for a few millenia, he just sort of slinked away from us for a couple aspirin and a drink. Then one drink turned into five, then five into ten and soon enough he was passed out on the bar-room floor, only to awake in an alley-way dumpster with a hang-over and no shoes– wait, that was exactly my last Friday— Still you get the point. He/it got overwhelmed and he took off for a bit to unwind, prepared to come back later with fresh eyes. (Not literally of course, from all evidence we have He/It doesn’t need new eyes, though I’m sure He/It could conjure them in a moment.)

Maybe those fresh eyes helped, or maybe the hangover finally pounded a realization into his head– like that time I woke up in the Rusty Clam’s Alley with a hooker kicking me and telling me I was scaring off the Johns. I mean really, like I was the problem there. Get over yourself guy. What was I saying? Oh right, the epiphany. It was like that time I woke up and realized maybe the smell in my pants was my fault, and I should probably quit drinking before the hooker kicked me one too many times.

For Him/It, the realization was probably two-fold; we had internet, (Holy shit, free Porn! He/It exclaimed if I’m anything like His/Its image) and now he had an awesome little tool to make all those telepathic prayers easier to deal with.

So, He/It did what any smart Deity would and set up a kind of super-cool bot-net that translated the telepathic message into their own, electronic equivalents. Those lists were somehow programmed to prioritize and post themselves across the ‘net with “Like” and “Share” Goals. If they reached those goals, the bot-net would activate the telepathy machine– the same used to transfer prayers to text– and it would shell out a dose of miracles for whomever the prayer was for or about.

But see, that’s where He/It got things a little wrong. God forgot we’re created in his image, and we’re more than a little deficit in attention ourselves. So what happened? Well first off, no-one believed the profile actually was God. Then, nobody believed God would try to pass out prayers so cheaply. And Then? Some one found out it was real.

Oh yeah. You know that memetic saying that’s flooded every possible forum, chat-room, and website with comments that goes “don’t feed the trolls?” Well, that’s extremely difficult when everyone becomes a troll. See, the atheists weren’t angry that they’d been proven wrong, they were excited. With them were all of those would-be pious that lined up to beg and plead and pray.

But God? Well He/It’s kind’a got a funny sense of humor like that. I guess sort of like me too, in a way. He didn’t shut the bot-net down. Now, I can’t be sure what the hell he’s up to, but I know it’s still running. Every day, billions of posts flood His/Its little corner of the net, and every day, billions of people scramble to pray harder and like and share the ones that might be theirs. Its just so damned hard to tell anyway, so many people need money, or the cure for cancer, or for their pants to stop smelling strange, that it’s difficult to know exactly whose prayer is getting answered when they vote.

And here we come to my devious, devilishly simple bit of mischief. It isn’t mean, not even really difficult to do. In a way, I think He/It might agree with my cleverness. I created a second bot-net. One to spam the hell out of those posts. It’ll be sort of like that heaven and hell war, only digital and without any losers. Everyone will get what they want, have their prayers answered. It’s mischief, sure, but I was made in His/Its image, and he’s just as lazy, deficit, and cunning as I am if you believe it. In the end, maybe he’ll smite me. Or maybe, he’ll do nothing, happy that our ingenuity triumphed. Or maybe even, he’ll flip up the table and rage-quit and run back to the bar.

If so, cheers friend; maybe tomorrow my pants won’t smell so bad and you’ll have another one of your epiphanies. Until then, let the games begin and bring on the porn!