Thing a Week 9: Revenge of the Return of the Master of the Lycanthromancersaurs

After a discussion with one of my brothers, I decided to actually think about doing another installment of the single most epic thing that has ever been written, ever. I'm going to assume my original post about this bilge was the prologue, and start running with it. Plot line contradictions can be expected!
This chapter is sponsored by Barnabas & sons clothiers, selling high quality men's garment since a while ago
Chapter 1: A Legend Grows Into Birth

On a dark and stormy night, a dark and gloomy figure walked into the dank and dismal tavern, cloaked in shadows and a heavy gauge wool burnoose, specially designed to withstand the elements (Now available at Barnabas & Sons for only 89.99 plus tax, in a wide variety of flattering colors). He stalked over to a small figure in a corner, with an air of such quiet menace that the entire room fell into menacing quiet.
"Where is it?" he asked, picking the figure up by some part of its garment whose name has been lost to history (something which a Barnabas & Sons garment is insured against, incidentally) and slamming him into one of the taverns walls.
"I would probably be able to answer that better if i had even the slightest clue what on earth you're talking about" said the figure.
"OH"
And then he walked out, into the glowering night, his proportions set off in the twilight outside by the dappled forest green of his tunic.

Thats all folks, its too late to give this thing a proper finish! Sorry, better one next week.

Thing a Week 8: Posted in the 51st minute of the 11th hour (eastern standard time)

I have a theory, that if you go to bed an hour later than you normally do, you will feel like a zombie. But, if you go to bed say, EIGHT hours later than you normally do, and get barely enough sleep to maintain consciousness, then you end up being so tired that you don't even realize you're operating at less than subsistence level, and you end up feeling nothing so much as a warm fuzzy feeling and general goodwill to all men. I believe that this is because your body looks at the shape it's in, and then says "Well, it's basically shot. We aren't going to be able to do anything to this heap without several hours of solid sleep, so until then let's just double endorphin production, shift to the lowest gear, and cruise". And so (in theory) I'll feel fantastic until my body gets the chance to recuperate. In practice, whenever I try to pull this off I become a shambling hulk that grumbles blearily at people until it can go back to bed. I also tend to trying to write downer poetry. I don't know why, it just pops out. The end result of this is one piece that I wrote yesterday, that I think is kind of funny, and one piece that doesn't rhyme at all really, and doesn't have a particularly unified meter either, but feels like poetry to me. Call it poetresque.
Anyway, here is this weeks OFFICIAL post.

Someday, I will go out to a
field, full of dead grass and old memories
left over from winter
And I will lie down
on top of an abandoned voles nest
and squint at a sky made entirely from
surprisingly bright variations on the on the color
gray.
I will watch storm clouds form and fail
to be awed by their glory
I will squint harder when the raindrops come
and think of how their acidity could
upset my PH balance
In another 3 months,
It will be too muggy to enjoy nature.

And Thus Leaves a Man of Enormous Enormance

Today I would like to commemorate two truly great people
I found out about the death of Paul Harvey yesterday, but I think the depth of the loss is still sinking in to me. He was the only radio personality I can remember enjoying every time I heard him, and probably the only one I ever actually actively seeked out to listen to. One of the most enjoyably recognizable voices I have ever had the pleasure to hear is gone, and the world will miss him.
In happier news, today is the birthday of Doctor Theodore Suesse Geissel, in my opinion probably the greatest children's author of the twentieth century. I had a conversation today, in which the comment "He wrote KIDS BOOKS" was used as a riposte to my claim that he was a genius. Yes, he did. He wrote books for children. He wrote fantastically illustrated books that brought joy to me and millions of others, and cultivated (in me, at least) an unhealthy pleasure for fantasy and the realm of the imagination. He inspired me, and showed me at an early age what kind of thing i wanted to create if i grew up. If that isn't genius, then I don't want to be brilliant.

Thing a Week 7: Almost Late is Still on Time

Before I begin this post in earnest, I would like to make an apology. Last weeks post said some less than kind things about amateur fiction writers, and I would like to make a partial retraction on it. To be fair, many amateur writers do come out with some good stuff, and I've enjoyed the scribblings of fellow students of the pen before. But I gotta say: a lot is just as bad as I said before. In the spirit of this new kinder, gentler me, I have decided to embrace the oft neglected art form of badly thought out fiction in the form of a blatantly less than kind parody. It is with with great pride, humility, hubris, and self contradiction that I present:

Master of the Lycanthromancersaurs
Part I in the thrilling Throne of the Darkenkingdom Series, already being described by critics as "absolutely... worth reading" (Wall Street Journal)

There are legends told by some, of places which are more legendary than the place where the person telling the legend is. And one of the most famous of these legendary myths is the Legend of the Dark Elfborg Drix'Makl'Akl'Hi, he who was Spawnsimmilated by the Makl'hy'Nie'hy'Nie'Hogh clan on the crags of Dread Mount Karg'klz'xix, home of the Dark Trollsguids of Karg'klz'xix, he who clave the Crystal of Glax'Hlp'mi'M'Tchoxing with the Blade of the Morning, Lyiythr'Ryll. Yea, even he who was Master Of The Lycanthromancersaurs. This Is The Legend This Story Is About.


Once I stop crying the tears of joy created by the Glory of this masterpiece, I'll get started on the next installment of my Magnum Opus. You know you want to keep reading.

Thing a Week 6: Captions are hard to come up with

I have a confession to make: I am terrified of writing non-humorous prose. The thought of making things which don't have the potential to make some future reader laugh so hard they accidentally snort the tortoise they trying to feed into their nose and then they have to go to the doctor to surgically remove it, and the doctor snickers at them and leers suggestively while asking how they managed to achieve THAT little physiological miracle (I hate when that happens, don't you?), and they they sue me for damages... the thought of not writing that kind of stuff scares the heebie-willies out of me. There are couple of reasons why: in the first place, serious writers aren't supposed to use the paragraph long run-on sentences and logical fallacies that I eat like chocolate. Second, i have tried to read some of the fiction produced by my friends and acquaintances. It is like what you would get if you exhumed the corpse J.R.R. Tolkien, then stitched it together with the mangled remnants of C.S. Lewis, Christopher Paolini, and every other fiction writer that has convinced my fellow abusers of the keyboard that they could TOTALLY write like that, no really, they could do that! You know what you get when you stitch together corpses? You get a really big corpse with an unhealthy amount of thread going through it. For those of you who are unclear about these things, that is... bad. And I know in my heart of hearts that if i sat down to make a well thought out piece of serious storytelling, it will start out bad, go to tortured, and then degrade into conversations about how the Great War of the Sutherlings and the Elder Ones of Dal'Gahl'E'Rath began when the Farmlings slaughtered the Fra'as with their own Kryptoses, and no one wants that to happen.

Thing a Week 5: This is not the content you were looking for... BUT IT IS NOW.

So, I was going to put up a short bit of yarning about out of work mercenaries, something humorous, with bits and snatches of jollity laced throughout it. Turns out that my mental blocks are alive and well, and that piece of sunshine is still in it's larval stage, possibly to stay that way. Instead, I present the audience, whoever that person is, with something else. something different. Something, in short, that rhymes. It's true! I do write poetry. I mostly write it, as in this particular case, when I'm tired, and my neurons stop operating at more than subsistence level. BUT I DO WRITE IT.

The Snarglebone:

The Snarglebone,
a squamous beast,
is flat as dinner plate.
It sniffs at everything it sees,
and all that it sniffs
it eats.
It's slavering jaw
and ravening maw
do work in harmony,
so it moves as it eats
and eats as it moves
...ah, nature's a beautiful thing.

By the way, squamous is an actual word. it means flat.

Thing a Week 4: Words are Awesome

I am bad at opening statements. This is my opening statement, and it is irrelevant to the rest of what I'm writing about. Furthermore, it references itself, just for kicks. THIS IS BAD FORM. Anyway, this week I'm talking about words, because they're awesome. English is the lovechild of most languages, immensely complex in it's intricacies, and often self contradictory. In addition, most of the words in it are synonyms for other words, which more economically convey the point of a sentence. In other words, what's not to love? This is actually the root of my problem with most swearwords and insults. If you want to verbally abuse me, you can (and most peole who aren't related to me will) simply say something along the lines of: **** you (fill in the words with the expletive of your choice). Or maybe "You're a ****er/ing
So I ran out of clever thoughts in the middle of writing this, and I can't think if a way to finish it.
Instead, I will speak of cake. Specifically, Birthday cake. Specificallyer, the birthday cakes of my youth. When I was nought but a wee tiny lad, my family used to make me the rad birthday cakes ever. I remember once my aunt made a cake that was a battlefield, with army men and a tank. This was when I learned that feasting on the corpses of ones foes is much tastier when they are made of cake. And then there another one that was a castle, with gummi bears fighting each other, climbing the walls and suff. That one stands out in my mind particulalry, because my siblings made it and they wouldn't let me come home unti lit was finished. as I recall, i was furious at them for making something so awesome without letting me help. There was also a cake that a surfing theme, but I think that one was for my brothers birhtday. Anyway, I'm out of things to alk about, and this is the most horrible piece of writing I've ever done. I think next week will be a story, or maybe monologue. For The Variety!