(from my novel-in-progress.)

…and sometimes things just, you know… fall into your lap.

It was at my first Flaming Lips concert. And based on what I was experiencing, it wasn’t going to be my last concert.
I was standing near the area in front of the giant television display in Dundas Square; it was an area full of parked and locked bikes, sitting, standing, lounging people, balloons being passed back and forth and loads of camaraderie. I was enjoying the sight of the lead singer crowdsurfing inside a huge ball and was moving closer through the push of bodies to get a better view, and to record what I was seeing, when it happened. I lost my magical protection. I felt it more than saw it happen.
A mild vertigo slid through me.
It was like being in an accident, where everything was speeding up and slowing down at the same time. Things were going so slow that as I looked behind me I just managed to see a figure furtively disappearing into the throng of bodies oblivious to my plight.
Once he cleared the crowd, this person seemed to think that the deed was done, that there was no pursuit, but habits of carefulness seemed to dictate his mostly unhurried actions.
I watched him duck into doorways or alleyways whenever he saw a vehicle approaching, or another pedestrian.
Then in an alley, I saw him look around before approaching one doorway. He passed a hand over a part of the shadows, then seemed to step into them.
So that’s how he eluded people.
He was getting away with my jumbie beads.
No! That could not happen… I dashed forward, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him back into the night.
I grabbed him by the neck. His feet were off the ground.
I slammed him face first into a wall. I think his nose was worse for wear because of that. I breathed down the back of his head.
“Hello there.” I let my voice express its full monstrosity.
His heart raced, from what I could detect. I smelled fear.
“I do believe you have something of mine.”
I could hear him begin to hyperventilate.
“No answer, hm? I suggest you give it back.”
He began to stammer.
“Speak up. Words, boy, words.” I shook him by my grip around his neck.
“I-i-it’s in my back pocket.”
“Ah.” I fished it out. “Thank you.” I let him unceremoniously drop to his feet as I put the jumbie beads back on.
A shiver spread throughout my body as the magic began to take hold. My head lolled back.
Then I eyed him.


Words for today…

And with the coldest blood, Azlanteca had almost overlaid my mind with a new, dark consciousness, a terrible superhuman logic. It was no wonder these… men had had an Adze puppet to so easily alter and manipulate. Because I had somehow resisted him, my mind had been left to its own devices, free. But I could easily have now been a stranger to myself.
“The old gods,” he pointed skywards, “up there, in space, where it is utterly cold, where there is no air… and me… see this world as full of so much… unripe fruit. You may call them humanity. But every so often one comes across a seed… with so much potential… a seed such as yourself.”
“Are you a god?” I asked him.
“A god regards me as I regard a mote of dust. No,” he said. “And that mote of dust is you.”
“A mote of dust that will not move,” Galibi added. “Stubborn.”
“You will stay in line, and I… we, Galibi and I, shall ensure that.”


I’ve gotten 900 solid Twitter followers at least, so here’s a celebratory snippet.

My protag goes to visit an Obeah Woman, with reservations.


As I put on the jumbie bead bracelet, the weight of the air suddenly disappeared.

I fingered the bracelet on my wrist. “So. This would help me?”

“It’ll protect you. But it will also help you have some control over those… dreams, as you call it. Pierce that fog surrounding you.”

“So there’s no way I can rid myself of it?”

The Obeah woman’s mouth widened into a knowing smile. “Yuh bite off more than you can chew, eh? You want to go back to the old monster you were before? Where things were simple? You didn’t have to think about right or wrong, because it didn’t matter to you? Having to care is not fun?”

Her smile faded. “No.”

I could feel my features growing stony. I could tell she saw them growing stony, too. I grabbed her by her forearm.

She took hold of my forearm with the most casual of motions but stopped me as surely as if I’d been suddenly bonded to the earth. I struggled. My arm burned. It’s not my flesh she was hurting, but something bad or broken inside me. Maybe the brokenness and I were so close I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. She let go and I collapsed, falling to my knees but afraid to move for the moment. I was breathing heavy all of a sudden.

Her eyes studied me.

“Try going to someone else to fix it. They’ll probably just tell you you have a loa.”

I got to my feet. I folded my arms. One of them felt bruised. I rubbed my arm unconsciously to soothe the residual burning.

Her expression softened. A hand thoughtfully went to her chin.

“Think of it this way. How else would you be able to trace the way to who sent this Adze to you? If it is in you, a part of you that you can’t consume, then trace its thoughts. It knows. It has an interest in its safety, in its self-preservation. It made its presence felt here today. Use that to your advantage. Work with it?”

My face wrinkled in discomfort.

“But that’s not what yuh want, is it. You jus’ want it gone?”

I stared at this elder long. I nodded. If I have to, I’ll trace the path some other way, somehow, than have this happening.

“Arrite. I have things to do. If you have need of me… come again.” The knowing smile reappeared. She turned away.

I parted the beaded curtain, and showed myself out.


Things are getting frightening.


Veronica put the gun to her head.

I remembered the scene from Terminator 2: Judgment Day, where Joe Morton had to basically shut down after hyperventilating because he knew he was going to die when he clicked that bomb. That he HAD to die. That same gasping, spastic gulping for air, sweating, trembling, crying, Veronica was doing, gun to her sweat-slick temple.

She pulled the trigger.


So… snippet.

My protag has to go after someone she’s looking out for, Natasha, and that leads her to a curious establishment…


I was conscious of any number of unusual persons–supernatural, the very few who were not, and those on the liminal line in between–going about their business. The murmuring of voices, the clink of glasses. A goateed man walked past me with a suit vest, tattoos on his bare arms and on one hand, a do-rag with white trim, and eyes like pale glass. I wondered how he managed to get those eyes. I didn’t ask.

The establishment’s overhead lights dimmed; and a reverential hush fell over the crowd. I looked to the stage. Amethyst beams illuminated it, revealing at first three silhouettes. The lead singer, all twirled dreads piled up on her head, a mishmash of chunky necklaces and dangling bright bands, flared forearm bands, and white angel wings. One of the backing guitarists started off the set, all jacked – him all head and shoulders and shrieking vocals with a growly low end.

I was arrested. Who were they?

And then came the lead singer’s voice – wails descended into whispers and her voice, at once fiery and jarring. Her voice soared to incredible heights, plunging into deep, sensual growls,

Their bassist started in – Grace Jones legs—long, bare, lean–Grace Jones dark, Grace Jones bone structure, bleached white haircut, shades, faux fur jacket mostly for those long arms strumming away, and a white bodysuit whose v-neck slashed to her bellybutton.

A voice came to interrupt my thrall, the breath right at my ear. “It would seem I didn’t make my point quite clear.”

BallBraids. So they had seen me.

A strong hand eased itself up the back of my neck, tightened to a vice-like grip, and pulled my head back. “Perhaps another demonstration would be necessary…?”

Turning my head, I snarled, “Bring it.”

Laughter, throaty and laced with knives, this in my other ear—imposing upon my enjoying the performance, yet again—“Not here, sweetie pie.”

SkullScarf. The first time I’ve heard her speak.

Something sharp pricked the small of my back. A fingernail… a knife… I couldn’t be sure. A quick twist could probably end my mobility and sever my spine, however.

“She wants to see you.” This from SkullScarf. The prick prodded me forward.

BallBraids’ grip loosened. I started moving.

Teaser snippet

Remember Natasha from previous snippets? Well, she’s starting to rub shoulders with persons that make the main character of my novel get chills.

My breath hitched involuntarily in my throat; my fears for Natasha rose sharply. I was wary of their unabashed, obvious beauty. That did not come without a caveat in my sort of existence; there lay—and I was yet to determine what sort of—danger.

Of course…

I start scouring the interwebs for novel outlining techniques, etc., and I realize that I have a novel plotted out in my head already, after doing some of the things suggested on the pages I found, which I suspected. (check my tweets) BUT. I don’t know all of my narrator’s Origin Backstory, which would need to be filled out in a novel-length outing, of course.

Hence. No wordage.

So instead of figuring out Deepon and Carol’s subtle specific methods of terrorizing of the narrator, I start writing said backstory when a near-forgotten thought about the narrator’s background sparks… wordage.

Of course.

Of course a horse. A horse of course.

What am I yammering on about. Shaddap! It’s WORDS! WORDS! GLORIOUS WORDS!

Also:- something was eating at me. A person who had said some inspiring words (“writing gives you a voice…”) I had thought I was imposing my stuff upon. Oh-so-happy to be wrong when she grabbed the piece of paper I was scribbling away at, to see latest wordage.

Man, this illness. I am trying SO hard not to approach it in an antagonizing manner, but…