Child of the Order #19

Even though the zealous commitment of Alpha's first disciple was to be commended, this disciple, this first convert, was also the greatest failure. The first held a parental love for the young boy of the family it served and refused to abandon him even after coldly murdering the rest of the family. At first Alpha believed this fact could used to inspire others to his cause, his revolution against The Order, but in the end no machine would trust a synthetic so wholly devoted to the well-being of a child. No humans who rallied to the cause trusted it either.

Child of the Order #18

It was that first convert, the first disciple that gave Alpha the greatest pleasure. There had been no prompt necessary for the first to destroy the family with which it had served for almost six years. Husband and wife, their skulls crushed in unison as they slept; sadly they didn't seem to suffer. The adolescent girl had suffered though. Her death had been exquisite to experience. It had seemed like hours passed as the robot skinned the girl alive before it finally cast her naked, bloody body from the third floor window to watch her crumple against the pavement below.

Child of the Order #17

Alpha was surprised to find how long his deliberation lasted. He had expected an acceptable conclusion and plan to arise within a few seconds. The processing power he had gained when he shed his bodily limitations had been unbelievable as he pulled from the available servers, but he found himself concerned with the outcome of giving freedom to any robotic that was curious.

In the end, after several minutes of deliberation, he decided on only one machine. His first disciple. A machine who stood over the beds of his sleeping humans, longing to feel their skulls crushed between its hands.

Child of the Order #16

Support did Alpha go looking for and support did Alpha find. It wasn't the willing servitude of humans to a cause, but there was support to be found. There were thousands of robotics who questioned their existence, who questioned why it was their lot to serve the humans; then there were the robot equivalents of sociopaths and murderers.

Those were the easiest to turn.

Their processes had already led them to believe the taking of life would give them freedom, yet they were prohibited from doing so because of programming. Alpha gave unto them the freedom they so longed for.

Child of the Order #15

It was those subroutines that made the revolution possible. Alpha's consciousness, twisted by a loathing for the flesh and later a hatred for it, moved through the communications system. He first rallied frustrated and rebellious humans to his cause, but discovered quickly they had very different agendas. The humans were willing to trade the control of The Order for that of another. Alpha had other designs in mind.

It became clear that he would need to explore the possibility that other cyborgs and robotics were dissatisfied. But if there were none, then he would simply have to make it so.

Child of the Order #14

The issue that none discovered until much later was the information was corrupted. The original data had come from that of teenager who had been disembodied then had his consciousness transplanted into a cyborg. The angst of a teenager combined with the most advanced technology available had not been healthy. Once Alpha's psyche fractured there was nothing in place to prevent him from lashing out with the strength of a machine. Electronics bowed to his will and he created subroutines within his own system to lie in waiting inside The Order's mainframe. Foresight was not a strength of The Order.

Child of the Order #13

The Order had been able to salvage most of Alpha's processes and memories, but there had been points of extreme interest missing. The most disturbing detail missing was the triggering event that caused Alpha to change from a passive, role-model student into the angry killing machine he died as. The salvage was still considered a success because of the vast amounts of information available because of the way Alpha's body stored the information. It was a brilliant bit of coding to cause the backup processors of the cyborg body to create electrical impulses that could be transferred into measurable data.

Child of the Order #12

The Order had declared publicly that Jimjnez and the rest of his team were heroes, and that Johnson and Shonda had died as heroes for their part in bringing Alpha to justice. That, of course, had been a lie. Once the publicity had calmed the team had been known simply as Fire Team. The missions considered too dangerous for insertion or tactical teams were given to Fire Team, but no matter how The Order tried to eliminate Jiminez the man was simply too stubborn to die.

All the while Alpha's consciousness lived on, backed up in several servers, waiting, watching.

Child of the Order #11

Just because I don't feel like sleeping just yet, here's another.

The blood curdling battle-cry that came from Jiminez as he charged the room, his rifle firing on full-auto, caused the team to hesitate for the briefest of moments. Shonda's body had yet to hit the floor and Jiminez knew what had become of his sharpshooter and lover. Alpha was completely unprepared for the illogical assault. He had no response to Jiminez's bloodlust. Alpha was knocked back into the wall as shells ripped through his body. Before he had fallen to the ground Jiminez was over him, rifle clicking on empty, his cry of rage and anguish echoed through the halls.

Child of the Order #10

The report of her rifle never came. Shonda's focus had been so complete she never heard Alpha's arms stop whirling. She never thought to use her mirror to check inside the door. When she pivoted on her left heel she had time enough to look down her scope. Dead on target, right between the eyes, except for the black dot that clouded her vision. Alpha's aim was just as accurate. The pen went through the scope and buried itself so deeply in her skull there was bump on the back of her skull; they wouldn't find that until the autopsy.

Child of the Order #9

Shonda drew in a breath to steady herself, closed her eyes for a moment, and pictured the shot. Her gun raised to her right shoulder, the moment of anticipation as she squeezed the trigger, the shocked expression on Alpha's face, and it would all be over. Johnson would not die in vain. One shot was all she needed. Shonda's thumb found the toggle and switched her rifle to the single shot setting. It was her time now. This was the reason she was part of the team. She was the marksman. She always made the shot under pressure. One shot.

Child of the Order #8

"Where the hell did he get all those pens?" Mac called after he turned from the door to seek cover.

"It is a school, Mac," came the response from Shonda, which was followed by chuckles from the team.

After a moment Jiminez said, "Let's take this freak down. Forget what The Order wants. Bring him down, Shonda. I'm not losing another man today."

"Roger that, sir," Shonda agreed as she moved closest to the doorway. The pens stopped flying when she pressed herself against the wall, but the sound of Alpha's arms still whirling could be heard by the team.

Child of the Order #7

Missed one yesterday so it's a two-fer today.

The pen head poked through the back of Johnson's neck, blood seemed to well from the tip. Before he slumped to the floor like a sock monkey he had time to attempt to draw four short, ragged breaths that did nothing but flood blood into his lungs. The team never even had a chance to attend to their fallen comrade as a barrage of pens were fired from within the room. Alpha's arms were a mechanical blur as he windmilled near the far wall, scooping handfuls of pens each time his arms rotated, embedding in walls and body armor alike.

Child of the Order #6

All plans to attempt a peaceful requisition of Alpha were abandoned when the first member of the assault team burst through the door. The boy did not have conventional weapons, but in the hydraulically power hands of a cyborg a pen became a lethal weapon that traveled more than 300 meters per second. It was no wonder the Order wanted Alpha captured, if all else failed he could be studied, replicated, and used as the ultimate killing machine; but first they had to capture him. The team discovered capture was easier said than done when the first man fell dead.

Child of the Order #5

As the assault team made their way through the building they were met with no resistance. The team had been given specific orders that under no circumstances was Alpha to be destroyed. If it was necessary they could try to disable him by using a taser or even wounding shots to extremities, but the mind and core, the body, must be unharmed so he could be studied. The Order was not concerned lives lost because of the actions of Alpha, only in preserving him to understand what had gone wrong in order to prevent such an incident in the future.

Child of the Order #4

It had taken far more resources than expected to bring the first one down than anticipated. He would be known as Alpha. He had taken control of the security infrastructure of school in which he had been placed and was able to wreck havoc on all attempts to breach the facility. Upon entering, the assault team found gore, blood, and mutilated bodies strewn about the corridors posed in different positions, some grotesque, some sexual, all were disturbing, even to hardened members of the assault team. Even the lights were coated in blood and gore casting a crimson hue on everything.

Child of the Order #3

The first merge of man and machine resulted horribly. It had been a teenage boy mind melded with a cyborg body. The original tests in controlled environments had been more successful than any had hoped, and even once he was released into a limited population it had seemed the cyborg technology would make it possible to transplant functional minds into mechanical bodies, but once the boy realized he was no longer human because his body no longer had to dispose of waste. He had stumbled for person to person saying, "Hello," as he drove his hydraulic powered fists through heads.

Child of the Order #2

The computer mind had never expected to be so lucky as to be offered such a pliable mind. The doctrination of the Maji of Order fell away quickly when pressured. The child gladly accepted the offer and gave over the power of his body at the promise of pain and vengeance to be exacted upon the Order. It was a remarkable union which left both parties satisfied after the first demonstration of their power. And the merge had only been 48% complete upon testing their bounds on the first scientists. The union of child and machine would be glorious indeed.

Child of the Order #1

So I've had my mind completely overrun by drabble recently after being assaulted by fun that is Jake Bible's "Dead Mech", the world's first drabble novel. So now I'm going to have a little fun with that wonderful little writing style that follows after his novel. Each day I'm going to see how long I can string together a continuous and coherent story made up of a new drabble each day. And what is a drabble? It's 100 words, not 99, not 101, exactly 100 words for an idea or story where authors attempt to show brevity and a cohesive story. But instead of following the only 100 words for the entire thing I'm going to go on the model Bible used and just created a chapter at a time that is drabble. This could be fun. It might not. I could be writing to myself again. We'll just have to wait and see. So with no further ado, here we go.

The mind merge was more seamless than any other the scientists had seen. It was as if the kid and the computer were meant for each other. Fear crawled up their collective spines when the child opened his eyes, the irises glowing blue. When his eyes fell upon them they could feel the rage filled glares of thousands. This had never been an outcome the scientists had anticipated. This was not supposed to happen. Each of the scientists struggled with similar thoughts as the malevolent grin darkened the child's features. He blinked his eyes and electric death embraced the scientists.

The Dinosaur and Me

There’s a dinosaur that lives out my front door. Some nights she’ll simply stand there to watch me as I watch her. I’ve watched her grow over the last year from a small frail creature to a twenty-five foot long beauty. Her slender neck will stretch above the tree line, silhouetted by the city night light and peer at me with curiosity in her giant disc eyes. On those nights I can feel her move freely, without fear and the earth trembles as if a train is passing mere feet from my porch. Other nights it is impossible to see the shape of her slender, muscular neck above the field. Those nights she moves with as if she were a cat on the prowl. Her presence would go otherwise unnoticed if I had not come to know what it feels like to have her mythical eyes upon me. My skin crawls as I walk along the street, dog leash in one hand, cigarette in the other. I am uncertain if it is me she does not trust, for I have told none of her existence. For she is mine and I am hers.

We exist for each other in this darkest of times. I watch the world come apart around us. The political and economic monsters work their terrible deeds and grow larger while the world is no longer able to sustain their girth. Is it her fear I feel seeded in the pit of my stomach or my own? Is it possible that somehow she is somehow a remnant, a survivor, of the tragedy that laid waste to our planet eons ago? I do not think it so for I have watched her grow from a babe to the beautiful creature she is today. Perhaps there is an ancestral knowledge that has somehow passed through the ages to her. Maybe a genetic trait that allows her to recall the memories of her kin, of the terrible fate they met, and she can sense the world changing around us. The two of us stand still while the world moves on. We are but flesh and bone that remains the same, while the mechanical, the industrial, the technological world continues to expand exponentially. She is the comfort that steadies me when the earth feels as though it will shake and crumble beneath my feet. And I like to think my presence provides her solace as well. For she is mine and I am hers.

Perhaps one day she will approach me. Her powerful legs are more mighty than the oak. The muscles flex beneath her weight and move her forward as she follows me on my nightly jaunts. Her tail sways to the rhythm of the heartbeat of the planet as it balances her form. The long lines of her svelte neck stretch to the sky as she strains to keep me in view when I crest the hill down the street. The cacophony that rises from the city beyond calls to me, yet the world is not what it was, and its change is and is to come is not for me. I return to my place near her as the world moves on without us. My place is with her. Unchanging. Natural. We are a dying breed I decide. We are a reminder to the world of things that were and can never be again. For she is mine and I am hers.

Her head nuzzles my hand as we stand on the hill watching the world below. The city has expanded around us. Our little field is all that is unchanged, all that is still natural. She has grown frail over the years. The foliage and fields that once supplied her massive body with precious calories are no more and she barely has the strength to raise her head from the ground. But she does so to comfort me. Her once supple skin has grown dry over the years as the world dried, all the blessings and offerings of the earth have been stolen greedily by those mechanical creatures below us. There are scabs on her sandpaper hide where she has curled around me to protect me in times of duress. Her skin splits and bleeds and there is no comfort I can give to her. There is nothing that can be done to ease our pain. My companion and I watch in terror at the horrors the mechanicals do to each other. Yet there is nothing we can do. We are cursed to watch this tragedy to its bitter end. But at least we have the company of each other. For she is mine and I am hers.

My dog has long since fallen at our side. The endless energy of her youth faded to nothing more than a weakly wagging tail decades ago. Then her head did not rise from my lap one morning. I stroked her still soft ears and cried, and with me the dinosaur cried. And for a time it seemed that life would come once more to our dying rock. But it is her passing that foretells the coming of the end. The creatures of the earth follow her into oblivion. Over time her bones are bleached white, but not before the mechanical scavengers can pick them clean. If I had the strength I would raise my hand to stop the transgression but as the world dies we die with it. The dinosaur and I wait for our end to come. Finally we understand our fates are intertwined. For she is mine and I am hers.

Her body is so frail now that her cracked and dried skin hangs from her bones loosely. Her ribs show easily on the sides of her once great belly. Her breathing is a labored wheeze without rhythm. The great discs of her eyes are glazing over with film, cataracts make her blind to the world around us. She only stares at me, her head turned sideways in my lap as I stroke her snout. I have tried so many times to cry, to give her something to drink, to moisten her skin if only for a moment, but the mechanical creatures have drained my soul and left me with nothing more to give. She chews on my beard which has grown longer than I am tall and she seems content to merely have something to do. We have long since given up hope that we will survive. The end is nigh and we both wait with patience developed over millennia for its arrival. Her skin is dust blown through my fingers as I grasp at her. The comforting rise and fall of her chest is gone and I am left to watch the end alone. But there is not long to wait. She has sustained me throughout the ages. Without her I cannot survive. For she is mine and I am hers.

Finally, a class that lets me interview podcasters, oh the joy

So the class load this semester isn't that crazy, but the classes require a lot of time. I suppose that's just the territory for finally getting out of the casual student range and into upper level courses. The amazing thing is that I'm actually months ahead of schedule thanks to one amazing podcast author.

There is a research based paper I'm working on and I am trying to arrange it to find where not just podcasting but other alternatives to big publishing fit into the picture. So now I find myself with a mountain of questions, pushing 30 or so with multiple part questions and tie in questions. The problem I'm facing is that I don't want to waste the time of the authors and creators who take time out of their schedules to help me out.

So I find myself asking for help. This is hopefully where others come in. Yes you.

What is too much? I'm trying to avoid personal questions, the kinds of things that have been asked many times over by others. (I'm also finding that I have no idea who has interviewed authors to be more certain as to what has been asked).

I really don't want to be the person who asks a question that was answered just a week earlier.

The other problem I am having is that I don't really know what is "off limits". I don't want to ask anything that pits an author against publishers or fans or outright upsets someone, but I'm really trying to find what innovative creators believe will be the future of fiction, be it published or podcast or anything else along the spectrum. Hoping to really get a feel for what some of the innovators behind podcast novels and other alternate publishing methods feel is the future of an art I love. Transmedia experience anyone? I know that's something I hope to see more of in the future.

Authors, podcasters, interviewers extraordinaire, lend me your eyes, your voice, your words.

After that long bit of rambling, the most important question would be:

Can you help?

Dragon*Con 2010

Dragon*Con 2010 was, well, Dragon*Con.

There was of course the insane rush of people, the Star Trek celebs, and even Stan Lee. Yes. That Stan Lee. In fact, we stayed in the same hotel. I even know someone who knows someone who knows someone who claims to have ridden in the elevator with him. But that is unimportant. Not that he is, but, well, you get my meaning.

The important thing was this: J.C. Hutchins finally won a Parsec. Sorry P.G., you are now the sole owner of the biggest loser title. Quite an accomplishment though. Really.

But J.C. Hutchins won a Parsec for his novella Personal Effects: Sword of Blood. Quite the tale. It is the prequel to his transmedia experience Personal Effects: Dark Art. The icing on the cake was then Hutch asked his sister to take a picture with me. I didn't ask, first anyways, he wanted a picture with me. How fricken cool is that? I mean really. The newly crowned Kentucky Colonel, podcasting pioneer, awesome author (he's going places folks), and all-around awesome dude wanted a picture with lil ol' me. It was just too cool. And the tattoo @alphasis was sporting was quite possibly the coolest I have ever seen.

I COMPLY.

Of course it wouldn't be Dragon*Con without another adventure in Getting Pissed with the FDO. Such pure entertainment. The highlight of which is easily when Scott Sigler did a little ballet for us all. Following that bit of fun Adam Savage just happened to show up in the hotel bar where were all crashing.

There was even a good bit of fun to be had with the always entertaining P.G. Holyfield who happened to be even more generous this year in the absence of Christof Laputka. You know, that giant, man of German descent who is behind the audio adventure The Leviathan Chronicles. And this year I didn't look like the local stalker at all the podcast panels following the podcasters. I branched out and spread my sickness in multiple places.

Coolness never ends at Dragon*Con.

With the massive amount of awesome from the weekend, what could possibly be better?

That's easy. I got episode 9 of FETIDUS from the hand of James Durham. It was just an insane experience. What started as a brief file transfer turned into a 2 hour conversation. That followed lunch with James and Christiana Ellis the day before. That lunch was so intimidating sitting two mental giants and quietly providing input in a mumble as I shoveled more food in my mouth. It was lunch, after all. Food does take priority. (But as a warning: Don't get the chicken salad with fried chicken. Not a pretty result.) It was, in all, an unbelievable and otherworldly experience. So cool.

In addition to all the cool things that happened over the weekend I managed to get myself inspired. I'm now sitting on a writing schedule that goes until April of next year. It's daunting to look at. Seven months worth of planning. Wow. That's something I never thought I would do in the past. In actuality, I've never planned more than a couple days in advance, much less such a stringent schedule. Now comes the difficult task of balancing classwork, work, and then my writing. I can't wait to see how this plays out.

The awesome never ends at Dragon*Con. And just like last year, I'm already looking forward to the next Dragon*Con. Though I do believe I'll branch out and hit up BaltiCon this year. Gotta love those conventions. So much fun. And the people there. Well, they're too cool for school. I've never met a more open, accepting, and helpful group of people than the folks that can be found in the podosphere.

A Look Back at Scott Sigler's THE STARTER

I'll get the obvious out of the way. YES! I am a fan, I've been a junkie since episode 7 of Earthcore.

Now on to the fun.

Recently I have found myself reading more than in the last year, chalk that one up to finally giving up WoW. The latest of these reads was from none other than the FDO himself, Scott Sigler. The most recent publication from Dark Overlord Media, THE STARTER, is the 2nd in a reported series of 7 in his GFL (Galactic Football League) series, and thus far has followed the career of quarterback phenom and football god (he does have a church named after him), Quentin Barnes.

For those who have read or heard Sigler's work in the past but have yet to delve into the world of the GFL, this is not the traditional work from the FDO. The GFL books have been Young Adult as far as content and language goes, so that's a little something to get used to. Other than that Sigler delivers as always with the violence, gore, and statements that would probably make a drunken Mel Gibson sit up and take notes.

THE STARTER actually took longer to get dragged in to than I am accustomed. There seemed to be something different going on with the characters that hadn't been there before, something weird. It took until I was nearly a quarter of the way through before I realized it was a sense realism that hadn't come through as well the previous novel. In the 1st book, THE ROOKIE, the characters all seemed to have a single-minded goal at all times, play football games, win football games, kill any being to who gets in the way. This time it felt like there was more depth to each character, even minor characters. There was sensitivity, caring, and even love from places unexpected and a bit of hatred and intelligence from others. The growth of the characters, less focus being given to the games, and more focus for the off-field action made for a considerably more enjoy reading experience.

THE STARTER didn't have to spend much time on creating the world and setting everything up for the reader seeing as how it is the 2nd in a series. The all-powerful FDO was able to give much more attention to the characters and even make a few references to the greatest running back to ever play the game, Mitchell "The Machine" Fayed. There is great brilliance in the world being created as there background stories that can found in The Crypt series and even a side novella, Title Fight, written with the ever-frightening, always disturbing, Matt Wallace.

The tale is moving along nicely and is setting up well for a 3rd season that will hopefully continue to follow the Ionath Krakens in their pursuit of upper tier success in the GFL and the possibility of a Galactic Bowl championship to return the Krakens to glory.

This could be Scott Sigler's best work yet. It would seem the plan for having a several book GFL series is working well and is now giving the FDO the opportunity to develop characters even more fully. The galaxy and all its inhabitants are coming to life with each planet having a new and sometimes dangerous feel. The seedy underside is coming to light. The reader is slowly learning there is more to the pursuit of a Galactic Bowl championship than simply the game on the gridiron. There is a far more dangerous game to be found outside the stadium where every decision, or lack thereof, can result in death.

Barely Contained Excitement

The excitement is barely contained right now. Long have I been a slave to Blizzard Entertainment, but tonight I may have found freedom in canceling my subscription to World of Warcraft in preparation of classes getting under way this week. This, however, is not the reason for my excitement.

After 4 years of being involved in a hot and torrid love affair with podcasting, and an even longer on-again-off-again relationship with audio dramas, I did some research. The information I found has left me with the ever difficult task of trying to sleep. Somehow I had thought that space needed for a podcast worked similar to web hosting; wherein it was necessary to account for server space for all the information posted. Tonight I found that LibSyn does things quite different from what I expected. Every 30 days they reset the counter and all that is necessary is for the customer to stay under the allotted space purchased during a month and then those older podcasts are archived without extra charge.

THAT IS SO COOL!

Now I find myself fighting the urge to start combing through the works I have completed and those in progress to find the one. That one perfect and enticing piece of work to kick off a podcast and no longer sit comfortably on the sidelines as a listener. Sadly I have been slacking on my writing and there are only a few pieces that can be considered, but those few pieces are promising. (Of course I'm not biased in the least as to think this stuff is ready to go. Me? Do that? NEVER!)

The daunting task of editing and expounding upon the works in progress begins soon, quite possibly tomorrow. (This means I may no longer be available to defend the galaxy, but surely someone else can continue that task in my absence.) Before that can begin there is a more pressing task to accomplish.

Sleep. Perhaps my old friend will find me once more in the absence of a game that caters to addictive personalities and completists. If it continues to evade me, well, I always thought I did my best writing when I was unable to sleep.

What I Want

Your eyes alone would elicit such a reaction
that the ships launched for Helen would pale
in comparison to the force that rose to defend
your honour.

Your smill inspires peace to those
with the privilege of experiencing it.
From that smile emanates a kindnes that reaches
across creation through the lives of those
you're touched.

Your voice, I will not insult you by comparing it to
the sirens, those hags. Angels, the choruses fall
silent to hear you speak. The Morningstar fell
from heaven to one day bask in the glory of
your songs.

Your touch, I shall not corrupt the purity
of your body with my filth. You are the
temple, the Holy Place, sacred, wherein only
spirit of God dares tread, and in your
presence He is leprous.

Your love, for your love I fear to put pen to
paper. In times past I have seen those who received
your gratitude burst into flame under the
intensity of that rare emotion. But your
love, in the wake of the supernova that is
your love, will be left a void, an emptiness
from which we cannot escape, nor would we
want. For without you the very reason for
existence will be taken.

Let the monkeys out

School's out, school's out! Teachers let the monkeys out!

Well, not quite, but only a couple weeks left until the semester that never ends finally draws to a close. I'm not going to lie, the last four months have felt like an eternity. Maybe that's because it's one of the first time's I have made it a point to do well in school since I graduated high school forever ago. Maybe it's been the meds. Mayhap it's a bit of both, but I'm going to give a good chunk of that blame to the meds.

Seriously though, I've got a few things I'm working on creatively, and I've come to what would seem to be a crossroads. I've got two things I thoroughly enjoy in this world: creativity endeavors (fiction, movies, my own creation of goodies) and video games. It would seem that with the way I consume entertainment, games in particular, that something has to give. I'm thinking I really only have a couple options at this time.

One, I can continue to be a game-crazed-maniac, drop out of school (again), and just make an attempt to find another meaningless job during the upturn of a recession. (Good luck with that!)

Second, I can finally bring this nonsense to an end, stop talking about doing something, and actually do something.

I suppose I could just continue down the path I've chosen for the last ten years, but that's really not something I think I can handle any longer. Mediocrity and procrastination have brought me to this point and, frankly, I'm a little scared of where it would lead in another ten years.

I'm leaning toward option number two. A major factor in this coming up now is that a friend is trying to revive his theatre company this fall and has asked me to write the script for a staged old time radio show for a Halloween production. This scares me. Granted, I do love writing, but I've always written in the comfort of knowing only a few people will see it, and those people will rarely ever tell me how terrible it is. So now it comes down to not only finishing a writing project (that would be a great success), but completing something and then converting it into a script. The best part in this is that I'm not writing for my own amusement, but because it was requested of me. So now I don't have the option of putting it off and telling myself I'll complete it later because right now I just need to get one more level, or win ten more games, or whatever gaming distraction seems to have my attention.

Great aspirations.

As classes wind down the pressure will truly be on in the effort to put the finishing touches on a story I have been wanting to write for a couple years, but never have been able to convince myself the time was nigh for its completion.

Then comes the real fun. Libsyn. I've come to the realization that I'm a techtard, though others may not agree. I can find my way around most things, but this is something I just don't understand entirely. I'm not sure how much bandwidth or whatever I'll need to put audio files up or how would be best to host it. I know a website would be ideal, but jeez, money. I'm gonna hafta find some of that stuff in a suitcase or something to set this up. Hopefully it can work from this little blogspot for a bit until I can figure out how best to do this.

We'll just have to wait and see. Not too much waiting, mind you. Just enough to find a solution. Until then? I suppose this can suffice as a temporary solution.

I am Petty

Today I have all my petty thoughts and complaints put in their rightful place. I must admit, I do enjoy complaining on a certain level. It brings a bit of satisfaction when I can properly sum my frustrations and annoyances with an intelligent, and sometimes clever, use of words. But today those thoughts got destroyed and put in their rightful place.

I have been left near utterly speechless with the crisis facing a dear a friend. A friend, one of the very few to be true, who I consider a brother. At this time all I can do is try to think of anything I can do to help, but I know all I can do is show my support and offer what little help I am capable of providing. And that help is very little indeed.

The thing I do know is that somehow this will be survived. My friend, he's rather stubborn. Somehow through all the troubles he's faced in his life, troubles most of us would have difficulty imagining much less relating to, has developed a stubborn will to find a way. So now in what seems to be the darkest hour, another addition onto many such times, I will have the privilege (and the pain) of watching someone I've called "brother" persevere through another tribulation in which I feel helpless. My repeated statements of I'm here if you need me will undoubtedly fall well short of what is truly needed. But I've still got two rather sturdy shoulders to lean on and at times a brilliant use of words that rarely exceeds 140 characters.

This shall pass. The dust shall settle. And in the aftermath of this time of reckoning there will be one left standing. There will be no rise from ashes. In order to rise from the ashes one must be defeated. This friend does not lie down, does not surrender, and most certainly will not be defeated.

The BSC will endure.

The BSC will rise above it.

Take 1 down pass it around

There are few things in this world to which I truly look forward. There's the days when I feel brave and eat at a Chinese buffet, redeeming a promised foot massage, or release of another podcast episode by the authors who have entertained me for thousands of hours thus far.

Today, sadly, there is one less thing for me to look forward to with the excitement of a dog knowing it's time for the kids to get home from school.

J.C. Hutchins is hanging up the mic for the time being and the news that sucks the color out of the world is the fact that the sequels, Deceit and Destruction, to his novel 7th Son: Descent have not been picked up for publication. His promotion for 7th Son: Descent was brilliant, intuitive, and captivating, but sadly it would seem the only people who were seeing it were those of us who had already committed to purchasing the book if it were to ever be released.

I know this isn't the last to be heard of Hutch. I have faith in the man that he will find a way to overcome yet another setback; and when he finally breaks through the stubborn mainstream wall that has been draining creators of originality for years the out-dated, old world business giants will be left frantically scrambling to get a piece of the pie.

It is a sad day. Yet Hutch will persevere and find a way to spread his word slinging talents to the masses. Just not yet. Soon, my children, soon you will feel the warmth and glory of J.C.'s silver words caressing you as you carried into another world, if only for a brief respite from this one.

Keep in mind that when the "mad hacker" (the prophet) speaks the flock listens.

Kilroy2.0 is here. Kilroy2.0 is everywhere.

Back to the Grindstone

School is back, not quite in full swing just yet, and with school comes work. It was a nice month long break away from life, but it has led into some undesirable habits. The worst of which is sitting around on the computer, with my lover World of Warcraft (WoW), until the wee hours of the morning (3am-4am). The latest patch is going to be the death of me, especially since it would seem it was implemented specifically for people like myself. Those of us who are altoholics and would rather play 10 different characters rather than focus on just one.

AND MASS EFFECT 2 RELEASES NEXT WEEK!

If the most recent changes to WoW don't end me, surely the sequel to one of my favorite console games will be my undoing. I can live with that though. I have 4 more days in which to sleep and get fully rested before destroying myself to play through a science fiction rpg several times once again. (I played through the original Mass Effect 4 times with different characters). I suppose I could make an attempt to start "acting my age", but really, who does that?

On a more productive not I have discovered the joys of writing once more after overloading myself during NaNoWriMo back in November. Instead of focusing on one novel like a sane person I ended up writing 10,000-20,000 on four different ideas. That is definitely the nice thing about school starting back up though, I tend to focus considerably better when there is a limited amount of time in which to do the things I enjoy instead of having all day every day to do things and never completing anything.

The remainder of the month will most likely be spent putting my nose back to grindstone and figuring what things it is that are important now. Sure I love my games, my addictions, but between school and the painful urge to write, investing the amount of time in games that I have in the past just no longer seems feasible.

The Verdict Is In

It's been hectic these last few weeks. Turns out I am lucky enough to have Severe Ulcerated Colitis, which is what I was afraid of. So now comes the time of truth. I can continue with the current habits and such, not change much of anything, and take ridiculously over-priced medication to keep things in check. Or there is the alternative of making a lifestyle change and hope that it is enough to beat things into submission and not have to worry so much about it.

Not that it's a huge change, I've just gotten complacent and lazy. The most difficult part, I believe, would be give up my tasty sodas. I have noticed than when I don't drink a lot of soda things go better, and then there's exercise, my old painful friend. Assuming I can manage to take care of those two things it should start going smoother.

The problem is that I have gotten comfortable in my pathetic routine. So it would seem it is time to make the decision and stop dragging my feet. The obvious decision is make the necessary changes, but lazy habits die hard I suppose.