VIN26- The Best “Worst” Decision

We all have wishes. Skee-Lo had the most, at least in the publicized market. I had the second, but mine was written in words across pages invisible to all. Even if they hadn’t been, it was doubtful anyone would have found them. Even then, they’d never have enjoyed them.
It was simple mathematics, really. Take the amount of people in the world, multiplied by the amount of non-Skee-Lo wishes, then divided by each level of exclusion required to reach them.
In my case, that was invisible pages, requiring active readers, whom would not only ferret them out, but also enjoy them. Recursion that deep requires consideration.
But it happened. All of those infinitesimally small chances, and it happened.
What the fuck was I thinking?

Initially, It was from loss. Something I needed to do. Music had failed… sort of. Then, anyhow. I knew my body was too damaged and my spirit too wounded to do anything else. So, I tried to heal. Not knowing I was seeking to heal.
My dumb-ass went and put pen to paper.

For non-writers: the feeling of writing is intoxicating. It is more than a drug. It is like missing a crucial part of your genetic material and needing to supplement it with lifelong therapy. It is my theory that writers are Bodhisattvas: that we were the first to be reborn as Human, and needed to identify one another.
So, we began writing.
Only then, because we knew it would take lifetimes to make work, could we begin to understand that it was us, ourselves, that were the Bodhis now. Those old stories, their Buddhas, had already ascended the Godly realms. We were last in line, but richer for it, because we’d get to share all that extra time with the rest of this existence.
Righteous.
Wicked. Righteous.

The point I assume in this theory is that we are all building toward Enlightenment, Nirvana, or the Liberation from samsara. The cycle of Birth, Dying and Death, and Rebirth. It has put all of us, through the aforementioned, nearer to attaining that.
Seeing that, understanding that, is the way forward for Humanity and each of us as individuals.
Now, at every turn, the systems we’ve built around us to aid this are working against us. Justice is unjust. Corruption is purity. Fleas are jumping ship, yet the bridge isn’t burning. All the same, we know the waters are disturbed there’s a smell about there air. Something bigger is afoot.

Vermin fear predators.

I remember a story about a rally cry being heard in the distance at war-time. The village nearby immediately mustered its defenses and revealed its number. The rally never came. Days later, an army thousands strong had been amassed to encircle the village. They surrendered wholesale.
“Deception is the Art of War,” so sayeth Sun Tzu.
“Justice is blind,” retorts Lady Liberty.
Neither is wrong, yet others still bleed. It hurts somewhere. Deep. Even if we don’t care… we do. Even when we have every reason, rhyme, and conviction in the world not to, we do. Deep down. That is the condition: Human. The soul. The conscience. It is the effect of violation in that which is otherwise your norm and comfort.
No matter how comfortable you pretend to be with it, how much you smother it, it remains.

Becoming a writer was one of the best, worst-decisions of my life. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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VIN 22- Halls of The Universe, pt. 1

I started writing when I was about six. Doesn’t everyone?

As soon as I could pick up a pen, I began writing. My mother, an oldschool reader, subscribed to volumes of collections of fairy-tales as a child and filled the house with books until the shelves sagged. My father, though not traditionally “literate,” held true the written word enough to have learned most skill through self-teaching manuals.

Thus, the vein of story is pure and deep within me. It’s no surprise I became a writer. Though spending life attempting to please others is not the way to go, it does not devalue what you learn of yourself along the way. For me, that was fiction. Stories. Information. Then later, technology and science, truth and justice. Text. Words.

For words are power: true, eternal power.

What separates us from the so-called inferior boils down to language. One need only look to history books to see as much. Especially with regard to North American and European history, the barrier between “civilized” and “savage” was based upon whether one spoke specific languages– usually, those of whites, Caucasians, Europeans, and later, North Americans.

This extreme and prejudicial example is no less repeated in regard to anthropocentric– that is, Human-centered, views on Death, the Multiverse, and Nothing. The problem is, these views are subject to mob mentality as a result of their manifest by the group. Simply: Death, the Multiverse, and Nothing, are concepts too big for one person alone to understand and thus require the effort of the group.

Big jobs need more people. Simple enough, right? Right.

The catch, as always: this reality means the mob-mentality– or that state of chaos roused by inexplicable rage, fear, or inner turmoil, can also exist.

This is not seen in other animals. However, the reason’s likely a result of Human intellectuality placing them as ecologically dominant. It is quite possible, given enough Evolution, any remaining lineage of Earth-animal surviving alongside Humanity long enough would inherit its traits. Intelligence being its defining trait, would only increase the likelihood of that trait being made manifest.

Evolution would need only, as a result of the same naturally-selective processes, on social-scales, eliminate those traits. To do otherwise would avoid evolutionary paths-of-least-resistance, which is counter to nature’s tendencies.

In essence, if dogs or cats could live in large, intelligent enough groups, for long enough, they might too become as complex socially as Humans. Canids and Felidae alongside Homo sapiens in the halls of the Universe isn’t the worst idea, but it does require compromise on the largest scales of Human Ego.

Then again, maybe that’s the point.

Update from the Author

So, you may have noticed (or not) that July 15th has come and gone without much celebration on the part of the Logbook. Partially by design, and partially due to time constraints, I’m scaling back some of the site. Mostly, in the form of ending novellas (for the time being).

Though I love writing them, they’re much more time consuming and equivalent to writing books than I can afford to devote without further income. However, whilst doing one now, I’m incapable of the other.

SO, that means novellas are out for now. Books are in.

Fridays will become wildcards, like Mondays. Leaving the bulk of the content on Tues. Weds. Thurs. If that bums you out like it does me, you can buy one of my books or spread the word with Authorsmnolan.com. Only with that can I start to focus more on my work, and thus the site, in a professional capacity.

Though I intend to finish the series I’ve begun sometime in the distant future, their format and release are far too indeterminate for now. So, it is not so much so long to an era as it is see you later. Sooner or later, these characters will return and delight, thrill, or frighten again.

On the flip-side, I do intend to continue not only Short Stories, but also Vignettes and Poetry. So these three days (Tue, Wed, Thurs) are still filled. The various graphics will also eventually be altered to reflect the changes.

Beyond this, I still have other projects I intend for this site, but temporarily they are either on hiatus or delayed for the foreseeable future.

SO. AGAIN. Basically, I’m focusing on books and getting rid of serials/novellas for now. (Unless people begin to donate or support).

Much easier, right?

Now, BEHIND THE SCENES:

I’m working on a new fantasy-scifi world, fleshing it out bit-by-bit. Some of what’s posted will be canonical. Others won’t. Some stories may be subject to addition, others removal, based on what I feel best befits the world.

All of this will support other, larger works anchoring their “Worlds” via larger, lore-based events and reactions in specific timelines.

Basically what this means is, from here on, just about everything posted can or might be connected in someway. Otherwise, it will likely be obvious what is not based on setting or style.

TLDR: everything is chaos and logic has failed. Down is up. Gravity, anti. Dark, Light. Cats cleaning the dogs’ tails: whatever these omens portend, revolve the Tues, Weds, Thurs, mantra.

A Quick Raw One From The Author

Hi friends, SMN here to drop a quick update on some things.

First, I managed to get an updated version of The Omega Device put together and uploaded to Smashwords and Kindle.(available in the sidebar->) If you previously purchased my book from Kindle, it will now be consistent with the former edition. (or should update itself to be in the next day or so.)

Second, I’ll be adding an experimental thing this (or possibly, next) week. A Wednesday Vignette series meant to be more disconnected and expository. I felt I needed a catch-all for anything interesting I have/am writing to give a bit more content for you.

So keep an eye on that for WEDNESDAYS.

Last but not least, I want to say a huge thank you to new and returning readers and remind them to check out the other places I’m at. (also sidebar ->) The last couple of months has seen surges in my readership.

Normally, that kind of stuff wouldn’t mean much to people, but it does to me. So, I feel I should say again, “Thank you for everything!”

Especially nowadays, its tough to do anything creative for a living, but I know the traction I’ve seen the last couple of months means I’m headed in the right direction. So, I want you to know how much it means to me that you are all the cause of that.

Until next time,

SMN

 

 

Short Story: Powers of Ten

He sat at the kitchen table, knowing exactly what was to happen. She sat too, only some idea buried beneath a hopeful fear. There’d be no denials. She’d try and try, he knew. Every step. But the truth was undeniable.

A picture was worth a thousand words? He had ten.

For each one, she’d have a new excuse, its complexity growing and tightening the noose until the tenth emerged. Then, the floor would give. The rope would tighten. She dangle, dead or gasping. Likely the latter. She’d assured it. No matter what, he had her this time. She couldn’t escape.

Quentin Pearson had suspected his wife of adultery long ago. He couldn’t pinpoint when, exactly, but ignorance had turned to suspicion. Before long, it became the hand that shook the P-I’s after handing over the signed check that hired him.

Suspicion became knowing. Cheryl had always been off with friends, spending long nights away. Sometimes she called, drunk; they couldn’t drive home. It hadn’t bothered him, she’d always been the social type. He wasn’t. Nor was he the type to complain much about her excursions, so far as he knew.

Only his unexpected clusterfuck avalanche could’ve led him to be sitting with Cheryl now. Full-color 8x10s printed from digital photos between them. She was fucked. He knew it. Somewhere, someone else wasn’t the one fucking for once. Maybe more, too.

After all, Steph hadn’t mentioned how long it’d been since she’d seen Cheryl, only that she’d wanted her to call. That was how Cheryl’s type of recluse imparted long distance pleas. Not one of ‘em could use a damned phone.

Or maybe not, judging by the first photo: Cheryl outside, half-in her car, phone to her ear, talking to someone.

She could use a phone, thus the issue was one of choice. Then again, the whole damned thing was. If she’d chosen to remain faithful, Quentin wouldn’t have hired the PI. If she’d chosen to admit her affairs, neither would’ve remained in such a farcical marriage. But too bad, huh?

Then again, if she’d chosen otherwise, he’d have never been able to confront her. Given his enjoyment, why spoil it?

She was already busy making excuses: she was leaving. Going to the store, to the mall, to see Stephanie. All obvious lies. Or maybe not. There was no way to know how the images were sequenced, only their eventual ends.

Quentin did his best not to see red. It was important to remain calm. Rage ruined the trap he’d lain. He needed her like a startled hare, ankle caught, and dangling. He was too intent, the slow build of panic too insatiable in her, to risk doing things any differently.

When the panic would become too much, he couldn’t say.

He laid the second image between them. Nothing suspicious; her, outside a building. Nondescript. Parking lot. Indifferent to any other. Though he couldn’t place it, she feigned familiarity. Enough said.

Image two, means to an end it was, established the next. Quentin placed the third photo directly beside the second: Wider angle, less zoom. A drugstore forty miles away. One on every corner, he said, why this one in particular?

She’d begin to chew the inside of her lip now, he knew it. Quentin couldn’t see it, subtle as it could be, but always there in her times of distress.

Photos four and five were benign, boring. Yet, imperceptibly important. Doubly so, given photo six. He laid all three out, over the previous three. They’d made their point, word-values expended.

Images four and five only revealed their secret after the emergence of the sixth. With them, Cheryl’s teeth would bite deep into her lip. Deeper. Quentin imagined she’d taste blood. He hoped she would. He wanted her to. Then, he wanted to upper cut her jaw. Make her taste it.

Instead, he let the images settle in. Their existence hovering overhead like a gray cloud of tension, shame. That same fear prey felt before being eaten. She’d was his now.

Cheryl breathed. There it was. A car approaching a nearby parking space, making an arc. Cheryl exiting. Slipping into the vehicle. The driver, male, leaned. Cheryl squirmed, her chair man-eating jam attempting to devour her from the genitals upward. Maybe it was, in some reality. Here, it was another’s hands.

Quentin tempered fury with satisfaction from the belly-full feeling of a soon-to-be fed predator. He’d always loved watching her twitch and spasm, usually atop him. Death would do now. If only in death of a lie. She wouldn’t bother fighting.

Cheryl knew little could be said or done, didn’t care.

Image eight: Cheryl. The man. Deep kissing. It took all of her strength and senses not to flee. It took all of his cowardice not to beat her to death.

Image nine: Mystery man’s car. A cheap motel charging hourly.

Image ten: death knell. Shot from outside, through a window. Difficult angle. Subject matter clear. Her, impassioned-back bent; mystery man’s face averted from behind, thrusting. Her in ecstasy. Happy. Dreaming. Wishing. Presently squirming. Quentin smug, tasting victory on the air.

“I hate you,” she said, quietly guilty. “And I’m leaving.”

His victory slipped from his grasp, replaced by sickening emptiness.

“You’ve terrorized me for years. Beat and belittled me. Sucked away what happiness I had. Smiled at my misery. I’d call you a monster, but nothing like you is known.”

He was eviscerated. Victory and life snatched away and his own arrogance rubbed into his face all at once. He couldn’t even muster the wrath she knew as his trademark.

She was never more alive. She rose to leave. Years ago, his sudden, surprising lack of anger might have led her to believe in him. Might have led her to hope he could change. She wasn’t a girl anymore, didn’t.

Cheryl drew tri-folded papers from her purse, set them on the table. “I expect you’ll sign these,sooner or later. I commenced divorce proceedings the day I learned you’d takenover a thousand dollars from our savings. I knew you were either using, or spying. I didn’t care which. Maybe one day, you’ll be human again– if you ever were.”

Neither of them knew it until long after, but her final words rang out into a disemboweling emptiness. “Goodbye, Quentin.”

She knew only the sound of the closing door. The lifting of a weight that comes from shedding that which has burdened one for far too long. Cheryl breathed and climbed into her car. From then on she lived free.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Haven’t Started

One more last page.
One more closed book.
I’ve said it all before.
I’m never on the hook.

If only I could write,
every thought at light speed,
perhaps then the pages,
wouldn’t be worth a re-read.

Until then the seas,
and sun and moon,
the stars,
serve as my guides,
my only prison bars.

So one last page,
and one more new book.
I’m nowhere near done,
keep on the “out” look.

I haven’t even started.

Happy 2nd Birthday to the Logbook!

Incoming transmission from the Wordsmith of Sol, please stand-by:

So, here we are. Two years later. Wow. That’s a long time. In my case, it was quite a bit of hair ago too! To all the strands pulled and lost, I salute ye.

BUT! This is a celebration, right!? Right. And more than that, it’s my annual extra-special-thank-you, my readers. Thank you for making my job worthwhile. And most of all, possible. That’s the most important part, you make it possible. I’ll keep things light and short, but your support means the world.

So… Now to fess up: It’s been a tough year. Externally and internally. The internals are the toughest things of all. So, of course, it’s taken me a bit longer to do somethings I promised to. Namely, the Novella collection.

As said, it will be free. It is also, as a result of my making it free, and the aforementioned toughness, not out yet. I promised it a year ago, so I want to apologize for its absence. Rest assured, it is coming. I have a cover in the works to be revealed soon, so keep an eye out!

I also want to announce The Logbook Archives Vol. 2 will release soon! (Actual date TBA) More than that, my next book’s on its way. Free-Fall  follows an amnesiac fighting to cope with his wholly synthetic world. More information can be found on Book Excerpts which I will update soon.

But wait there’s more!

This year I’ve done a lot of writing. A lot. Like… a lot. Mostly, Novellas. Which are, frankly, exhausting. I intend to keep up with my schedule, but I may have to choose between Novellas and books in the future. Should that occur, the latter will take precedent, but I will make it known well in advance, and it would only be a hiatus from Novellas.

Part of that is the result of the aforementioned toughness. Simply, it’s difficult to keep producing work when you’re experiencing hardship– financial, physical, or emotional. I have all three. There I said it.

That said, to help insure my resolve, please consider Funding me on Patreon, buying my books, or spreading the word through twitter and facebook.

I understand things are tough all over. Monetary support isn’t always an option. If you find yourself limited in that way, please merely spread the word. I love my work. I love all of you. Most of all, I’d love continuing my work without, you know, eating out of garbage cans. (The smell kills my appetite)

On that rather jaunty note, here’s a few things I’m currently working on:

Logbook Archives Vol.2
New Logo
“Free-Fall”
Custom domain name
Advertising (to spread reach new readers)
And obviously, more stories and poems!

Now that that’s outta’ the way, we return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Thank you again for 2 great years, and here’s to many more!

SMN

Transmission ends.