kintsugi-sheep

[kintsugi-sheep]

Olive, again!

[kintsugi-sheep]

Grass Unicorn! 

It was a good little practice painting after so long! 

Couldn’t decide if I wanted a border of not, so here we go! I really like how it came out!!:D

[kintsugi-sheep]

GPT’s King Crimson

SPOILERS: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

There’s a stand—a sort of psychic supernatural ability—in JJBA: Vento Aureo called King Crimson. It’s primary and most distinctive ability is to remove fragments of time, to skip ahead to the end of a process. If you have to climb a staircase, you can activate King Crimson from the bottom and you’ll be at the top a second later. It’s a power that’s all about the results.

This isn’t the first time I’ve written an article in my miniscule corner of a site that’s not my own. It’s one of the most uncomfortable parts about what I hope to make my career. But, it’s necessary. I’ve always known it was necessary, but I could never bring myself to stick with it. I’d bail. The results never came fast enough.

I’ve spent years studying and learning how to be a better writer. How to build better stories and tell them in more entertaining ways. I’ve looked into how to build a platform. I tried being a critic and abandoned it because the ability to observe something doesn’t translate into writing skill. I’ve joined and abandoned writing groups because of the writers’ overwhelming selfishness, a predisposition to sell to readers before entertaining them, a devotion to one’s own education and opinion as doctrine, and other reasons. I’d try to go where the readers actually are, posting writing prompts on Reddit for instance, and get drowned out immediately.

And with every setback I’d drop it all. I’d focus on my day job, doing a bit of studying over here and a bit of worldbuilding over there. I’d cringe at my work and close my accounts. Or I’d disappear for months on end only to come back and give it another shot.

And now A.I. is ramping up.

As it stands, they don’t have the level of craft necessary to supplant artists. The greatest danger comes from how they’ll swell the midlist. Anyone who reads regularly knows how it feels to be disappointed by what you’d hoped would be a good book. The onset of A.I. will only ramp up that frequency. It’ll be harder than it’s ever been to get one’s foot in the door of the creative world as an indie author.

I only have myself to thank for my complacency.

So much wasted time. Ego, perfectionism, resistance, whatever you want to call it, I just couldn’t summon what was necessary to do what it takes. I couldn’t find the strength to believe in myself or my skills. My track record showed me that I didn’t have it. That I’d never be perfect.

But, telling stories is the only thing I truly want as a career. There’s the Dionysian satisfaction of writing a journal entry, getting your thoughts and feelings pouring our freely from the tap onto the page. There’s the Apollonian satisfaction that comes with constructing an outline, strengthening the consistency in a world, or focusing for hours on end while you study the hard skills of writing. Then there’s storytelling, where it all comes together in an ouroboros of pleasure.

The world doesn’t need my stories. I just need to tell them.

Hayao Miyazaki was watching footage of an A.I. in early development. The presenting team said they would hope it develops the skill of a human artist. Miyazaki would later say, “I feel like we’re living in the end times. People are losing the ability to believe in themselves.” Everything you interact with is there because someone was able to make it exist. And that someone could’ve been anybody, could’ve been you.

The bestselling author, the renowned artist, the beloved chef.

But people don’t believe in themselves. They can’t turn their envy into a compass that points them to their desires, only seethe from the shore at those who had the will to push out to sea, and thus receive the praise they long for. Outside of a classroom, they can’t practice the patience to develop skills. And when we feel weak, the perpetually left-brained see opportunity.

Art as a commodity. No more of the blissful release of the Dionysian or the logistical intricacies and satisfaction of the Apollonian, but a result. Fifteen minutes between conception and end product, ready for sale the same day, so the “creator” behind it can scrape up their earnings. Integrity, ethics, reception, or reputation be damned. They got theirs and they’re done. The dopamine kicks in when the check clears.

Circling back to JoJo, in the same plotline a character has a conversation with a cop who’s investigating a robbery, checking a recycling bin on the opposite side of the street where the crime was committed on the off chance that he’ll find the perpetrator’s fingerprints.

“It’s my job,” the officer says.

He’s pressed further, presented with situations in which, regardless of his search, the perp still goes free, and is asked what makes him keep working so hard despite those problems.

The cop says, “I’m not just after the result. When all you want is the result, you start to look for shortcuts. And if you take the shortcut, you might lose sight of the truth. You’ll become less motivated. I think the most important thing is the will to find the truth. As long as you have that, even if the suspect gets away this time, you’ll get them eventually, right? Because that’s what you’re after.”

This isn’t the poignant article I hoped it’d be. It doesn’t resonant like I’d have liked it to. My study was for speculative fiction, not essays, so I can feel in my bones how this is lacking, though I’m ill-equipped to repair it. But I’ve often heard it’s better to start before you’re ready. And life has taught me that, in truth, you never will be.

I’ll seek the truth. And I’ll seek those who appreciate it. Even from my insignificant, quiet corner.

[kintsugi-sheep]

If we were to rate movies just by how accurate their titles are, Drive would be considered the greatest movie ever made

[kintsugi-sheep]

style study and having fun with my new watercolour paints

[kintsugi-sheep]

Love project

[kintsugi-sheep]

Happy new year of the rabbit with best bunny girl Usagi ／(＞×＜)＼

[kintsugi-sheep]

[kintsugi-sheep]

A Quick Duel in Everdust

The Sun crawled along the firmament, shooing the obscuring clouds from his view. With his great, amber eyes he peered toward the desert town, the intensity of his focus raising the temperature further.

Everdust stood isolated from greater civilization at all sides, build by a party of pioneers who gave up pursuit of the promised land. And now, the citizens had given up their homes. Man and woman, child and old, human, dwarf, and faery alike, sat perched upon the great boulders encircling the town. Many squinted toward Everdust, while others used ramshackle binoculars to look into the town. No one dared set foot into the sacred circle—a ritual symbol of confrontation—surrounding their home until the quarrel was settled.

The Sun turned his attention to the firmament again. His hundred steeds pulled his great wagon. Their hooves thundered against the air, dragging the great flaming orb in tow, only their divine might made this slog along the sky possible every day. And soon, they would reach the twelfth sea of the firmament, the vast domain of Lady Noon.

The Sun looked to the center of Everdust. Two mages, each having finished their preparations of the magic circle, stood a bolt’s length from each other. Each wore a great hat to fend off the heat and a large poncho to obscure their wands, tomes, vials, and familiars.

The first was a wizard. His cerulean hat shifted with the patterns of the seven hundred and twenty-two constellations. His azure cloak was dotted with symbols both erudite and blasphemous. He shifted in his boots, visibly uncomfortable with their fit, but his eyes were weighty with malice and confidence.

The other was a thaumaturgist. His clothing was pitch black, a symbol of humility. Magic was a divine gift, not a right inherent to those of arcane study, and to flaunt your ability through dress was considered an act of contempt. Sweat slipped across the bridge of his freckled nose. He was nervous, but resolute.

The Sun looked before him. Lady Noon sat perched at the boundary to her realm, long legs outstretched, her infinite mane flowing behind her, a glass of the finest of the primordial waters at her plump limps.

She gave the Sun a smile and a wink before tilting her head back and imbibing.

Each mage took their stance, dragging their feet shoulder-width apart, mirroring each other.

The townsfolk looked on with excitement.

The ponchos flew open, revealing their contents beneath.

The horses stampeded toward noon.

A staff of ivory was reached for; carved from the tooth of a great leviathan with a sapphire bleached by the rain, runic numbers of a dead tongue carved delicately along its length.

Lady Noon poured herself a new glass.

A staff of wood was extended; shaped from a branch of Yggdrasil and sprouting acorns along its surface, emerald light shimmered from the leaves that floated about its head.

The Sun passed the boundary of noon, taking a glass from the Lady as his chariot sped across.

A pulse of green aura collided with a pulse of blue. Then another. And another.

Each mage fired successive shots, their spells popping against each other like fireworks before they could hit their mark.

With a flip of the wrist, a spin, and a flourish, the wizard shot an arc of lightning at his adversary.

Using the blood of his forefinger, the thaumaturgist traced a sacred symbol in the air.

Lighting crackled against the scarlet shield before dissipating, another flurry of green orbs shooting from the blue mist.

Undeterred, the wizard dashed forward, parrying the projectiles into nearby property with the shifting tip of his wand.

He pointed down and shot a gust of air beneath himself to fly directly over his opponent’s head. And what should have been an opportunity for an easy shot became a need for evasive action.

The thaumaturgist dodged just as the blackened tendrils shot out from beneath the wizard’s robes, their black flesh slick with sweaty shadow, their lengths lined with chattering teeth. The wizard’s familiar kept him aloft as he advanced on his opponent.

Ducking into a nearby alley, the thaumaturgist made use of his preparations. This fight was months in the making and that time was well spent. Slapping the side of a house, one he remembered drawing a magic circle on the interior of, the wood of the home twisted with a snarl.

It grew and warped, reverting to the tree from which it came before warping further, taking on the shape of a great hound.

It lunged at the wizard, severing his tentacles from his shadow. The wizard rolled across the creatures leafy back as it feasted on his familiar, preparing to push his way through the brush.

Unfortunately for him, his opponent was already breaking through. Each looked at the other in shock before raising their wands at each other again.

The thaumaturgist staggered on the shifting beast beneath him, falling to one knee in time for a bolt of lighting to zip over his head. With one hand palmed at the base and the other twisting the shaft, he marched forward, a stream of fire releasing from the head of his wand at the retreating wizard.

The wizard leapt to the ground, pulling his familiar’s core from shredded, purple pulp, and reached into his poncho for a vial. He smashed them together, a blue mist forming and shifting into an enormous owl.

The wooden hound poised itself for a jump, but a bellowing hoot from the owl stopped it.

The thaumaturgist looked on in confusion as his creature turned its head back to him, a wicked snarl spread along its root teeth.

With a howl branches shot forth from beneath his feet, tearing his black hat from his head and taking a bit of flesh with it.

He retreated further down an alley, the wizard and his two familiars in pursuit.

Through the pulses of energy, the bolts of electricity, and the gnashing of teeth, the thaumaturgist realized he’d nowhere left to run.

In that moment, closer to death than he’d ever imagined he’d be, he remembered his training.

A thaumaturgist believed their power to be of divine origin. They were to say their thanks for their power. They were to use it to the fullest of their ability. And, when backed into a corner, they were to repeat step one.

He ran into the center of town. Out in the open. The bird advanced overhead. The dog advanced from the alley.

He raised his wand.

The dog leapt.

He thrust it into the ground.

The beast arced.

He prayed, years of training granting him the speed to speak his divine appellation in one word.

The dog closed its mouth around him.

The Sun rolled his shoulders and gave a mighty wink to the thaumaturgist. The young man had prayed, after all.

Veins of flame raked along the tree-like surface of the hound like a lava flow, rupturing into searing puss as they went. The dying screech it gave out was heartbreaking.

The wizard looked toward his opponent.

His freckles glowed with golden light. His blood—now ichor—retreated into his skull and sealed his wound shut. His spirit, now evaporating from his body like boiling water, crackled like the sun. His irises distorted, warping into magic circles that spread across the surface of his sclera.

The thaumaturgist looked to the owl, its wings flapping, and spoke a divine word.

The bird stopped flapping.

It descended. Slowly.

Landing to the ground, it dissipated.

The wizard stood still, worn, his breathing labored from the smoldering hole in his chest. His left lung, heart, and ribs were gone, regeneration impossible due to the blackened cauterization lining the inside of the injury.

He removed his poncho and his hat, his vials and his wands, and prostrated himself before his opponent.

..........

In the Deep Frontier, the last virgin land within the realm of the universe, sits a poor town called Everdust. Off the grid, at the mercy of desert storms, abandoned to die in the uncaring sands, these people call for the aid of mages to help get them through. However, when the mayor becomes so bold as to request the assistance of two mages, the townsfolk learn two important things. Not all magic is created equal. And not all mages get along.

I felt like trying my hand at writing fight scenes by employing two things I learned recently. First is to avoid being too technical. The second is to have it read fast, to better capture the pace of an actual fight. I feel like I did okay on the first one, but stumbled on the second. Mainly because of how cumbersome the word "thaumaturgist" is.

"[WP] Describe a duel between two cowboy wizards in the Wild West"

[kintsugi-sheep]

Fire from Above

Spot. Hold. Hold. Fire.

An ethereal arrow burrowed a smoldering hole into a temple and out of a jawline. It planted itself in the ground, evaporating into shards of solar dust, the patch of grass beneath it growing inches taller than those around it.

The target staggered, dying before their body collapsed beneath them. They fell to the ground, weighty. Soundless from the distance of the one holding the bow.

Past the viridescent obscuration of the trees…

Further than the borders of the small country…

Above the reach of the furthest cloud that scraped the borders of the heavens…

Past the leagues of vacuum that made space for the stars…

The archer sat perched on her post. She reached into her knapsack and withdrew a nut. She placed it between her molars and crunched through the thick shell.

She chewed, molding the pulpy substance with her saliva. When she spat into her palm, the gob was large, seeping over the corners of her hand. With practiced motions, she rolled it between her fingers as she drew focus to her list.

The pulp in her palm shaped into an arrow. Impossibly long to survive the decimation of divine flight. Vines spiraled around the shaft, with great leaves to absorb the powers of the sun and stars as it ripped through the void. The tip was miniscule beyond measure, and any attempt by a mortal to witness it resulted in the spontaneous manifestation of puncture wounds around the heart.

She confirmed her target. Rolling the list in her had to shape it back into a great bow. It would take a company of men to draw it. It would take a legion of men’s lives to fire it.

In the midst of a great kingdom, in a small home near the edge of town, sitting in the living room, was a woman, gently rocking her newest grandchild in her arms.

Nearby, her other grandchildren played. Her son-in-law spoke to her about his promotion at the bank and listed his new responsibilities. Her daughter was returning from the kitchen. A large tray of food held in her arms.

Spot. Hold. Hold. Fire.

The man’s face was shocked. The tray the woman was holding fell. The infant rolled from two lifeless arms.

A fresh notch in the dresser sprouted a twig.

..........

Day after year after age, perched in on her divine station like a bird of prey, she watches. Death is a tragedy for the living. If there's no suffering the dead don't mind. End them at their happiest; when that glint appears in their eye.

If there's one thing I like to do, it's take a prompt and twist it in a way the creator didn't intend. The more specific a prompt is the more fun it is to work your way round it. While my first instinct is to usually focus on the brutality that occurs in death, this time I tried to go for cold detachment. I feel like I still could've gotten further from it, though.

"[WP] Scope, breathe out, fire. Scope, breathe out, fire. Scope, breathe out, fire. Such is the life of a sniper."

[kintsugi-sheep]

Now You Die

“Found him, Jackie!” Dakota barked over the thunder, grabbing the man by his leg and pulling from beneath the shrub he’d buried himself in.

The sandy earth bent around his thin body and the flies that had begun to gnaw at his still-warm flesh flew away.

The man jolted awake, seemingly back to life, and tried to bring his mind back to the moment. He was dazed, nearly drifting, when he was pulled from his makeshift tomb. He forced himself upright and tried to focus on the figure approaching him.

A man in a tattered trench coat approached him, his clothes dark both by color and by accrued dirt. His boots were caked in crusted earth and his jeans were bound with multiple straps and sacks and miscellaneous tools and equipment.

He looked to his foot and spotted the dog that had dragged him from the bushes. And he nearly fainted when the dog spoke.

“Easy, mate,” he said with the soothing voice of a tired parent settling an agitated child. “Breathe.”

The man tried, but struggled. The air was acrid, heavy with blacked specs that made breathing an exercise.

“Step aside, Dakota,” Jack said, gently kicking his friend out of the way. He stooped beside the man, pulling out two flasks and laying them before him. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a journal. It was leatherbound, worn, and patchy, with the words “Book of Life” artfully scribbled on the front. Opening the book and pulling a quill from a bookmarked page, Jack poised his hand and asked, “What’s your name? Do you remember?”

The man wheezed, coughing out an answer that only Jack could decipher. He scribbled it down and thrust one of the flasks into his hand.

The man unscrewed the cap hurriedly and brought it to his lips. The water was cool, if unnaturally frigid, but it didn’t matter. The man leaned back as he drank, expecting the flow to taper off. When it didn’t, he choked and doubled over, coughing and dropping the flask.

After a moment of hacking, he was about to apologize for wasting the water. That’s when he noticed that it had continued pouring out. He watched for seconds, neither he nor the two who found him reaching to pick it up, as the flow became a creek.

He finally lifted the flask and set it over his head, dousing himself.

“The second one is Merlot,” Dakota offered, “but I don’t reckon you’ll want to be bathing yourself in that one.”

“He might,” Jack stated.

“To each his own,” he gave a toothy, canine grin. “Don’t matter to me none. We’re pretty much at the end.”

The man lowered the flash of water and reached for the flask of alcohol. He asked, a raspy whisper, “The end?” before bringing the flask to his lips.

“Aye,” Dakota said.

“This is the end,” Jack affirmed.

After nearly a full minute of uninterrupted drinking, he gasped and asked, “Are you the grim reaper?”

Jack and Dakota chuckled lightly. “No.”

There was hesitancy on the man’s face. “Are you an angel?”

“Decidedly not.”

“A devil?”

“That’s more him than me,” Jack said, bobbing his head to the dog at his side.

They were silent for a moment, giving the man more time to gather his thoughts. He looked around him. What a decade ago was a lush, verdant swamp had dried up. Not just the water, but the earth had deteriorated into a sterile sand. The sky was always overcast, always heavy with thunder, but it almost never rained. Most trees were dead, the rest were dying. At least half-buried under a bush, he’d have access to fresher air.

He looked back to Jack, then to Dakota. “What happens now?”

“Now,” the dog began, “you die.”

The idea didn’t shock the man, he was surprised he’d made it this long. “Are there any others?”

“No," Jack answered, rising to his feet again. “Just you.”

“And you,” he offered.

“No,” he was corrected. “Just you.”

The was silence. “So, I die?” His company nodded. “How?”

“Up to you really,” Dakota answered.

The man brought the flask of Merlot to his lips and drank. And drank.

..........

Another round of the game of the gods, another loss for the travelling pair. They scour what remains, cutting their loses. Disappointed at having failed, but not discouraged enough to not try once more.

Second entry into Apocrypha.

"[WP] You are immortal, you have seen the humanity changeable evolve for millions of years, today you hold the hand of the last living human right as they finally die."

[kintsugi-sheep]

The Graveyard at Golfjord Hills

The night was overcast, rain imminent. Past midnight, the only sound was the howling of the wind and the chirping of the crickets. The graveyard was otherwise undisturbed.

Grave markers stood haphazardly, lopsidedly, unevenly spaced to accommodate for the myriad of funerary practices and sizes of creatures buried here. An obelisk leaned to the side, significant chunks eroded away and draped in a cloak of thin ivy. A small mound of dirt lay dormant beside it, the hide bag of organs hidden beneath. A wooden post, one of the oldest markers in the cemetery, carved from a sacred tree, had begun sprouting branches and leaves. A large funeral pyre lay beneath a great oak that hadn’t grown that high when it was built there.

It was on this pyre, beneath the shade of the tree, that Zell reclined, resting.

She was pulled from her trance at the sound of footsteps. Boots slapping weightily into the loose earth beneath their feet. Each step taking considerable time to follow the previous and precede the next.

The form emerged over the hill, imperceptible in the oppressive darkness. Lumbering, hunched, swaying unevenly over mounds and graves and unkempt bushes, burdened with a large bag on its back.

Zell lowered herself from the pyre and stood attentively as the figure approached. Her irises shone with ivory light and she could finally see through the darkness.

The man was large, widely built with a figure hidden beneath the hides of slain animals. His cloak was a mishmash of beasts and birds stitched thoughtlessly into a passible garment, bound with leather straps to hold to his once-colossal form. The pack on his back stood tall, above his head, rope and weaponry dangling from its sides.

He was scarred. Deep gashes streaked his arms like knife-made lightning. His face was marred with burns, an eyelid melted shut and an untouched beard left unable to grow on one side. His knees jerked unnaturally when he walked, like his thigh and shin bones would pop apart beneath his weight whenever he took a step.

More than the damage, he’d gotten old. Older than Zell thought he should’ve been. Not decades, centuries.

Thunder rolled across the sky and the rain began. If it was more of a deluge than a downpour. The rain fell savagely, battering the graveyard with the force to snap small branches from trees and inch tombstones deeper into the ground. The air grew thin through the pressing water.

The man—nearly having to swim through the rain—trudged past Zell, the ends of his cloak plowing over the muddied earth beneath him. She followed closely behind, her small feet and delicate steps making no impression in the muck.

The man stopped when he came upon a hill; a mound that stood apart from the others, untouched by any marker or footprint of any creature.

“Finally,” he groaned, his deep, gurgling voice rumbling like the ocean through the rain.

There was a snap as his legs gave out beneath him. He bellowed in pain. The noise was drowned out by the sound of water.

He was quick to recover and got to work. He pulled his pack from his shoulders and reached inside.

Confusion, maybe even revulsion, ran through Zell. She never thought she’d see her husband like this.

“I apologize. I didn’t think I’d be so long.” He pulled a small painting of her from his bag. Definitely commissioned, made with a delicacy his large hands couldn’t replicate and detail that his shiftless eyes couldn’t see. He stuck it about an inch into the mud, keeping it standing, the rain immediately beginning to wear on the parchment.

“This realm is vast. And there was much to be done.” Next, he took out a pyre ball. Branches weaved together over what would become no-longer-flammable material when exposed to the rain. He stuck it in the ground to keep it from rolling away.

“I…” The man paused; the rain didn’t. His brows furrowed and his mouth bent upwards into a frown. He bared his teeth in a frustrated scowl before swallowing his emotions back down.

‘Centuries,’ Zell mused, ‘and still not close enough.’

He pulled what was once a stuffed animal from his pack. No level of care could preserve a toy for so long. And as he set a warped handful of deteriorated wool and cloth next to her melting visage, he reached into his bag and pulled out another.

“I never stopped thinking about it you know.” He placed the next lump and pulled out another. “The time we spent together.”

Zell looked on, barely minding what he said as he continued to place the once-dolls on the ground. He was an idiot. A zealot of his faith and a self-proclaimed crusader, battling imagined enemies in bouts of philosophy before his devotion drove him from home. But not before the unforgiveable happened.

He didn’t notice when he pulled out her skull, aged and fractured, jaw and teeth missing. He placed it thoughtlessly on a heap of wool and kept digging in his pack, all the while giving his soliloquy about the binary of justice and order and the meaning of necessary sacrifices.

Zell remembered the night he killed her. It wasn’t an accident, like a dispute gone awry in an unhappy marriage. It wasn’t even a traditional murder, brought about by a desire for one’s possessions or the ever-common mutation of love into hatred.

She’d come home to butchery. Her children scattered on the ground in fleshy pieces and smeared along the walls and ceiling. Their roasted bones in a pot, stewing with the vegetables she’d grown. He said he’d need an elixir of strength for his journey. And as he approached her, dripping with the viscera of her family, he said he’d need an elixir of love as well.

She watched the ever-growing heap of garbage enthroned her portrait. After all these years that’s all it was; garbage.

“But now, I have returned to give you a proper burial.” He pulled his flint from his pocket and attempted to light the pyre ball. The sound of the scraping stone didn’t overcome the rain, let alone the fire.

The color had nearly completely faded from the picture now, melting into the heap of what were once her children’s toys, interspersed with her own damaged bones. A cord on the ball of wood snapped open, flinging leaves and kindling across the ground.

He froze, watching as the material was pounded into liquid mulch. He leaned forward, cradling his deteriorated shrine in his arms and pulling it towards his chest. His frame shook before he began to weep violently.

“Zenna!” He screamed. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t strong enough!”

He couldn’t even remember her name. She placed an ethereal hand on his heaving back and whispered, “It was a necessary sacrifice,” dryly.

..........

Beneath Golfjord Hills rests a lesser god, slaughtered by his brother and buried to hide his shame. As his essence flowed from him, the earth was burned by his wrath, rising into hills to mitigate the pain. His ichor, however, is still rich within the soil. And it's said that anyone buried there will have their shade anchored to this plane longer than any other place in the world.

Taken from a prompt on Reddit and the first entry into Apocrypha.

[WP] “I’m sorry…” the hero sobbed in front of a lone gravestone, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough.” Although the hero could not hear nor see the ghost beside him/her, the ghost futilely replied anyways, “It was a necessary sacrifice. It’s not your fault.”

[kintsugi-sheep]

Orchard: Vaccination Day

I have a co-worker who once told me a phrase someone told her: “Eat your ugliest frog first.”

And considering how I’ve found myself hamstrung this morning, I guess it’s better to frontload my day with my misfortune.

I scheduled my appointment and managed to land it on a day when I don’t have to work. Went to bed earlier than usual for my weekend, even got to sleep in a little with enough time left over to do my morning ritual before making my way to the bus stop.

I don’t usually trust public transportation when I have to make serious appointments. However, the stop nearest to my house would take me directly to the vaccination site where my appointment was set up. And it’s Monday morning, a weekday, the average person’s business day, so I could actually rely on the bus to arrive at the proper time.

The bus did not arrive at the proper time.

A hiccup. Almost inconsequential. Sure, it was a straight shot and the cheapest option, but who wants to ride for forty minutes in blissful silence on a religiously deserted bus down routes almost scenic in the way they’re lined with trees? Not I, the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority had obviously decided.

Realizing that I’d be even later if I stood around waiting for it, I opted to call an Uber. I remember seeing posters and promotions for Uber recently. Uber has been fully supportive of the mass vaccination efforts. Uber cares about making sure everyone goes and gets their shots. Uber wants you to know that you can rely on them to get you to your designated site.

And at a cost of forty-four dollars, Uber would get you there.

That was a harrowing number to look at. A number attributed to a high rate of the reliable Uber company’s reliable Uber drivers being called. Because they’re so reliable, you see. Still, I needed to make the appointment on time and was willing to bleed myself dry if it meant I could get a ride.

I surrendered my credit card and my firstborn child and the closest Uber driver was on his way. The closest driver actually being over twenty minutes away and in the middle of driving someone else somewhere else.

Even when I’m willing to let myself get robbed, Uber still found a way to screw it up.

Running low on time, my fingers danced across my phone as I reinstalled Lyft. I’m a former user, so set up was nearly non-existent. I was able to breeze into the hub with minimal effort. I remember how I first downloaded Lyft because most Ubers would be operating further into the city when I needed them most. Lyft, conversely, was more spread out.

How much did a ride cost? Around twenty-three dollars. Great. Now I just had to order the ride.

And it took forever to find a driver. I spent a good while watching a little pink bar crawl along the screen, pausing every inch to look up and assure me that Lyft was doing it’s best to find a driver to get me to my destination.

And it did.

My driver was eight minutes away and would be dropping off someone before he came to get me. I rant the numbers and realized I could absolutely make my appointment on time.

If it wasn’t clear already, I was getting antsy. It may seem small, but I rarely make sure to do everything right. I’m perfectly content with waking up in the morning and winging it until I get to work. And on weekends, my Monday-Tuesday weekends, I wake up and wing it with simply being alive.

I’m not a very high-maintenance man. And I don’t expect perfection from others. If someone makes a mistake and I can fix it, I’ll work around it. If something goes wrong and inconveniences me, I can empathize and forgive it.

Usually. But apparently, I was letting this Covid situation get to me more than I thought. So, while crossing and dotting my letters perfectly is an uncommon personal achievement in my eyes, I was really committed to making sure things worked out today. And it would suck to have things screwed up outside of the realm of my control.

I reopened Lyft after a few minutes to see where my driver was. I was greeted, once again, by the crawling pink caterpillar, who said, “Sorry. Your driver had to cancel. We’re looking for another one right now though.”

I canceled the ride, walked home, and talked with a representative about how to go about rescheduling.

I had sometime to think. I was never scared of Covid. I’m a pretty clean guy who makes sure to put his mask on and was socially distancing before it was cool. Nor was I annoyed by it. The metro was empty and quiet, there were no customers staring through our kitchen window while we worked, and the streets were less busy.

I’m not ashamed to admit that my issue was one of luxury. My nearest Korean barbecue is open for dining in and I can’t responsibly go unless I’ve been vaccinated.

No one can stop me from going. If I went, they wouldn’t kick me out either. And I could always order for pick up, maybe even delivery. But Korean barbecue is an experience that is best enjoyed, and this isn’t easy for me to say, socially.

Going as a party of four and ordering enough raw meat for a party of eight. Trying to listen to the huge television but not hearing it over the volume of sizzling pork. Picking off rice or gyoza or kimchi or takoyaki while you wait for your meat to cook. Drinking sake and soju until the colors in the room invert.

That’s the type of thing I want my vaccine for.

I dejectedly went home and ordered some McDonald’s for breakfast. I got an unsweetened tea instead of the sweetened one I asked for.

I’ll close as I opened, with a quote from my co-worker: “Don’t rely on other people. Other people suck.”

[kintsugi-sheep]

Orchard, 21.03.21: Vitamin Z

Vitamin Z

This week I was reminded of why I started this course of changes. I don’t know how appropriate it is to refer to someone as your muse today, but I knew regardless. It’s like an adrenaline shot to the heart, one of those cinematic, dramatic ones that snaps you out of the in-and-out, humdrum, mundane world around you and pulls you, heart-first, back into why you started what you were doing.

I probably won’t meet her again. I’m sure that ship is at a nicer dock perched on a virtuous coastline and carved out of six-pack abs. But, I’m grateful.

It’s easy to find the flaws in someone who rejected you. In her case, I couldn’t find any. She was just right to turn me down.

I missed her. I miss her. But there’s wonderful women everywhere. And I’ll take to heart the changes I need to make so that I don’t miss the next her that crosses my path.

 Budget

In the spirit of that, I sat down to figure out my budget for the next year. And it’s looking surprisingly optimistic.

My goal is to move up to Syracuse. With my financials figured out, I just need to not lose my job and I should be able to make it my next June.

Needless to say, I was happy to learn that.

 Facebook Writers

What I wasn’t so happy about is the series of Facebook groups I’ve joined. As you can tell, writing personal things isn’t really my strong suit. Certainly not in situations like this, where I’m making myself do it. But, considering that I am one writer out of hundreds of millions in the world, I imagined it be nice to acquaint myself with some people. Marketing for writers isn’t easy, after all. Especially when you’re not named.

But the communities are all pretty…vitriolic.

A man asked which of two covers worked better for his book. Being a group of writers, he received dozens of detailed responses. Answers wherein the speaker was more interested in showing off their understanding of literary and publishing nuances than actually answering the questions.

My response: “Number 1.”

A woman made a detailed list of the stereotypes applied when male writers write sexually active males against how they write sexually active females. Of course, the problem was these were stereotypes in writing. “Men who sleep around are great! But women who sleep around are sluts!” “Men who aren’t interested in sex are focused, driven by success in life! Women who aren’t interested in sex are lesbians!”

She applied this long list of writing faux pas on the shoulders of male writers. And this led to more arguing.

People post clips of their book as they’re writing it. A commenter tells them to use more commas and write shorter sentences. A poster volunteers themselves to give out their opinion, making sure to note that they’ve run a blog for the last ten years, so you know their word has value.

A Facebook certified “Conversation Starter” describes The Face by Dean Koontz as “tiresome, tedious, ostentatious” with “florid prose and so many extended metaphors”. This followed by a flood of comments about how much Dean Koontz sucks and questions of how he got so popular.

I’ve never read Dean Koontz, but I’ve heard of him. I don’t recognize any of these people by face or name.

Crabs in a barrel. There’s no success too small for these people to put down. There’s no templar too noble for them to not shit on. There’s a million complex, pretentious, “it depends”, pseudointellectual answers to simple questions like, “Does the blue cover or black cover look better?”

I’m happy I didn’t go to college to write. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to some out this exhausting.

It feels like people don’t understand that there’s success to be had for everybody when it comes to writing. There’s not always fame and critical success. Or an interview tour or a movie deal. Or a place in a high school text book or pop mythology. Or billions of dollars in the bank and vacations to hunt sharks with a shotgun.

But success is available to everyone. Appearance may vary.

I don’t know if I’ll stay in these groups. Or if a non-collegiate writer like me would be expunged. But I take peace in the knowledge that if I ever want to know what type of writer I don’t want to be I can just open up Facebook, click on the group, scroll half a page down, and find some example of how not to pursue this career.

 In the Name of Love for Shaman King

I should also make it clear that I’m going to forego the Shaman King breakdown I intended to write. I have enough distractions from what it is I need to do.

I’m disappointed twice over. First, I don’t have the ability to pick up a new discipline and edit a video together. Maybe if I were more patient or observant, but I’m just not there yet. Secondly, I let the new viewers, the ones who get legitimately excited to experience something I used to love, who craft theories and breakdown themes, get to me.

My love of Shaman King inspired me as an artist and a writer. And while I put down my colored pencils nearly a decade ago now, I still write. And I still carry those themes of spirituality and optimism into the stories I craft.

And that’s the best way for me to present my love. Through my actual work. Through what actually inspires me. Through patience. And not a six-hour list of things I love about the series.

And that wasn’t a jab at legitimate reviewers. That was the plan.

 Mom

Also, I was given a mattress by my mom this week.

Family’s a weird point for me. I don’t know if I’m ready to get into that, but I feel that I need to do a better job as someone who owes his existence to other people. I forgot who it was, but someone once said that there are two types of parents. You can be a role model or you can be a cautionary tale.

 Coworkers

I’m in a good place with my coworkers, too.

The front-of-house is mostly college-aged—closer to my age than most of back-of-house—and their optimistic look on life keeps me grounded in positivity as well.

I didn’t work in too many kitchens after culinary school, but they could definitely get rough. It’s nice to be able to enjoy your work.

 Commitment to Making Flash Fiction as Flash Fiction

I needed to reassure myself in my commitment to writing flash fiction.

I made an assurance to edit one of the stories when I posted it to Reddit a few days ago. It didn’t take me long to realize I shouldn’t have done that. Flash fiction is the nice decompressing poop that you take in the morning before you begin the stuff you legitimately work on. And if it’s nice enough you may even be compelled to mold that poop into a decent short.

I got myself caught up. I was afraid that, having posted many of these low-quality poops online, people would begin to judge me as nothing more than a poop writer. And when it came time to actually try to get people to read my web serial, they’d be like, “I don’t care if it’s free. You’re a poop writer. I can’t waste my time with you.”

Yahtzee Croshaw does a series called “Dev Diary” on YouTube, where he breaks down the process of making indie video games. In one of them he talked about how perfectionism sinks in. How it’s tempting to keep your work to yourself, to keep it from being judged so that others may not, by extension, judge you. He said he had to remember that he was not his work.

And I suppose I have to do the same. I’m not a hobbyist with a single story that I’m convinced will put my name on the map. I’m a writer with dozens of different ideas and could get excited about a dozen new ones in the next week.

Boxing matches are won by throwing many small punches, not throwing one with all of your bodyweight and hoping it’s a hit.

 A Non-Racist Uber Driver

I had a race-related discussion with an Uber driver.

It was nice.

 Pre-College Memories

I reflected on my lackadaisical approach when it came to applying for college. I was short tempered and impatient and ignorant.

It’s thanks to Vitamin Z that I realized I don’t have to actually go back to school to do what I need to do.

But the effort I need to put forward will be monumental nonetheless.

I told you I’d come back more positive.

[kintsugi-sheep]

Good Samaritan

Casey McGinty looked out over the edge of the bridge. The cold iron of the frame bit into his hands. He’d be upset about it, but the least he could do was leave his gloves to his sister back home. It was about all he could do.

He looked out over the city. At three o’clock in the morning the streets weren’t busy, but there sure were a lot of lights on. The line of apartments glowed like fireflies, their light reflecting into the frigid river about half a high rise’s height beneath the bridge.

Casey doubted the thought of jumping was pleasant. Especially now, the late January waters chunky with blocks of ice. He heard that hitting water after a jump was no different than hitting the pavement.

But what did those people know? They were alive after all.

Casey shifted, bracing himself.

He leaned his torso out over the water.

He rocked himself back.

He leaned out again.

And he rocked himself back.

This time, the snow beneath his sneakers gave way. His legs shot out in front of him, his arm clinging futilely to the beam of the bridge as the back of his head collided with what was once his foothold.

It hurt. Badly. The falling sensation pushed at his stomach. Tears slipped from the corner of his eyes. That wasn’t how he wanted to go. Undignified with a lump on his head.

“You’re pretty superficial for a guy committing suicide.”

The voice was terrifyingly close. Casey locked eyes with a man, his face only a few inches from the boy’s own, falling in tandem with him.

“Who the hell are you?” he barked.

��Language, please,” the man said with a shake of his head. “And I was just passing through when I caught you about to make a serious mistake.”

The falling sensation was present, but fading in intensity. As Casey peered down at the water, it actually seemed to be moving farther away as he fell. Defiant, he said,” This isn’t a mistake. I want to die.”

The man turned, now supine as he fell, not breaking eye contact. “Are you sure? Have you ever died before? It hurts! It always hurts. Bludgeoning, stabbing, electrocution, immolation, falling, choking, succumbing to disease, it’s all awful! Heck, passing away peacefully in your sleep is painful. The raw sensation of the reaper’s cold claws tearing you from your mortal suit is terrible.”

“It doesn’t matter. Everything’s shitty and nothing’s important! Especially not me.”

The man chuckled. “You’re not important? You’re telling me you’re not important? My friend I’ve been alive for over two-thousand years and not once have I met anyone who wasn’t important.”

Casey affixed his eyes to the water. As far as it was, and as far as it was getting as he fell, he still knew he’d reach it.

“And this is the part that always happens. The action is easy, but the consequences aren’t. I have yet to meet one person who didn’t wish that they hadn’t taken that jump. Or let go of the wheel. Or took that last big needle in the arm. Or—”

“Hey,” Casey cut in, “aren’t I supposed to be seeing my life flash before my eyes or something?”

The man flipped again, on his stomach, and gave the boy a puzzled look. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why would you?”

“Isn’t that what happens?”

“Well,” the man began, “usually it happens to people who haven’t initiated their own deaths; octogenarians in their beds, a guy who picked a fight with the wrong man in an alleyway, et cetera. But suicides,” he began pacing back and forth in the air, still falling, hand rubbing his chin, “no. Not suicides. You gave that all up remember? That’s why you jumped.”

As solemn feeling filled the boy. “I guess that makes sense.”

The man reclined again. “What’s worse is that you probably can’t even remember your life.”

Casey was about to bark at how ridiculous that was. Then, he realized he couldn’t.

“Then again, I guess it’s not important where you came from.”

He didn’t remember his father’s face. Or his mothers.

“Your friends in school. The college you got into.”

He couldn’t remember the high school he just graduated from or…the post-high school place he was going to.

“Ronnie’s Joint, where he serves those awesome sandwiches with the French toast and the fried eggs?”

He couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast at…that guy’s bodega. What was it called again?

“Or Aggie? Aggie doesn’t matter right?”

And who was that person? The tiny…girl. That loved his gloves and wanted a pair just like them for her birthday. Which was…

The tears poured freely. The water drew closer now. “I’m sorry.”

“You take it all back?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You want to try again?”

“Yes!” he turned to the man. “Please! I’ll do anything you ask!”

A monstrous smile spread across the man’s face. “Anything?”

“Yes!” Casey collided with the chilly water.

And woke up in his room.

He sat up in his bed and took a deep breath, choking on something in his throat.

He hacked up a rolled piece of paper and unfurled it.

‘Pay it Forward, Casey! From Your Friend, a Good Samaritan.’

Prompt: [WP] “You’re telling me you’re not important? My friend I have alive for 2000 years and never once did I meet someone who was truly not important”

[kintsugi-sheep]

The Lost Son of Athena

With hopes to raise my standing I took up unlikely odds

and I lied my way up Olympus, claiming I was a god.

But since I lacked the ancient blood, I pondered and surmised

my best bet was claim myself the son of Athena the Wise.

.

I feared the wrath of Zeus should I get caught in my deceit,

but he toed his way out the back hoping I would stay discreet.

And ruthless Hera grilled me next though quickly she was done

when she confirmed I wasn’t her husband’s newest bastard son.

.

Demeter pulled me aside and I swore I’d meet my end.

Thankfully she was distracted with winter around the bend.

Hermes, trickster that he is, didn’t take time to talk,

but he pulled me in, leaned close, and whispered me his best of luck.

.

Apollo sauntered down and wondered what was with the noise,

grew disinterested, and left us for his greased-up Grecian boys.

His sister, Virgin Artemis, was perched upon a cloud,

busy loosing headshots on any male in her sacred grounds.

.

From the lovely Aphrodite I earned myself a wink.

And from Hephaestus I got a scowl that made my stomach sink.

To further tease the sorry cuck she then blew me a kiss

and a warning glare from Ares told me to not take the risk.

.

Dionysus was more fun than he had the right to be.

We laughed and he poured me a drink or two or twenty-three.

Poseidon was at sea and couldn’t make it to the room,

while Hades ominously said that he’d be meeting me soon.

.

The wind was now a gale, the mountain shook beneath our feet,

the sky was thick with clouds and a colossal owl screeched.

Up the path Athena stomped so that she could greet her “son”

and I chose to die a happy drunk than be a fool and run.

Prompt: [WP] You are a demigod son of Athena who has just became a God with no one's help you did it yourself. Now the gods want to know how did you become a god?

[kintsugi-sheep]

Challenge of Truth

That wretched worm that stirs that sands tinted in sunset dye,

Makes promises when presented with a word of truth.

But search the hearts of man until the stars are claimed by time,

Mortal voices are so varnished you’d doubt the sky was blue.

The worm, the truest worm that was, detests the thought of lies.

His arms are quick to liberate deceivers of their heads.

Look beyond his wicked sclera and maybe you’ll scry

the pools of ichor siphoned from creatures long-known dead.

His knife-like cornea is slit to watch as you cast die

and gamble your miniscule years for knowledge lost, arcane.

And if you have the gumption to venture out and try

your hand at the worm’s challenge you’ll learn that there’s much to gain.

But beware, my friend, that all is seen before the prying eye.

 Prompt: [IP] Image prompt from Prying Eye by Ryukurei on DeviantArt