I’m not sure where it will take me, actually. In my mind, she was some type of Vampire Hunter. But that would be boring. I’ll have to add a twist or two.
Author Chuck Wendig on his blog today posted a flash fiction challenge to create a character in 250 words or less. This one is mine.
Gnash Liven had a molten and unrelenting hatred in her heart, a wooden spike strapped to her thigh, and a scar, about a quarter-centimeter thick, tracing from the tear duct of her left eye to just below her earlobe. And, occasionally, Jim Nightblade’s balls in her hand.
Gnash also had case of lager in the fridge (those college boys can shove that hoppy bullshit straight up their collective asses), and her legs propped on her desk. Her rage burned on.
It’s a good day to die, she thought, polishing the blade of her silver longsword. It was a Tuesday after all, and Tuesdays are bullshit, lacking the stones to go full-on Monday and too damned far away from Friday. Nobody hates Tuesday and that’s a problem because it’s just as awful as the rest.
What she didn’t have is one of those sparkly undead bastards at the end of her blade or impaled on her spike. And that was a problem. That was everyone’s problem. That was humanity’s problem.
As far as I know, anyway. But what is reality, anyway?
Time keeps on slipping into the future. I’m starting to feel the itch to write again, though.
I’m not going to start another novel again, though, until I have at least a chapter outline on paper. So never?
I’ve been enjoying watching the Women’s World Cup thus far, especially the United States’ matches. Hopefully they have their best football yet to come. The World Cup surely isn’t a given. Anyhow, they don’t play again until Monday so I had to go back and watch that moment from the 2011 World Cup. Goosebumps.
Metric is a great, underrated band.
This show sounds like an enormous pile of excrement.
And I guarantee the majority of those watching this show, judging these people, and patting themselves on the back are one illness/job layoff/honest mistake from finding themselves in the exact situation as those they are judging. Or maybe they did have things happen in their lives but were able to survive it because they had someone in their lives to fall back on like a family member. And yet these people will act like they’ve achieved all of this success on their own.
But the rich in this country, those that want to pay less taxes and eliminate programs such as welfare (because they got theirs so screw everybody else), they’ve already won. They already have the rest of us convinced that the poor are only poor because they are lazy. Because they are bad people. Which has no basis in reality, of course. But that ship has sailed, I’m afraid.
But I bet this show will be a massive success. And now I’m mad because before I read this article I would have had no idea this show even exists. Happy Friday.
“America perceives poverty as a moral failure, which is why the participants on The Briefcase have to perform generosity to such an extreme degree. These people have to “prove” themselves as virtuous—to themselves, to one another, but in particular to a viewing audience at home—to show how unlike other poor people they are. We’re not really poor, we just had a string of really bad luck, unlike those other people who are poor on purpose. I’m not suggesting the families on the show aren’t actually nice. In fact, many of them seem incredibly loving and wonderful, people any of us would be lucky to know. But even assholes are entitled not to live a life of abject suffering. Why does the burden of helping “struggling” people fall on other struggling people? Is Les Moonves pulling his car over to throw up because he’s so paralyzed by trying to do the right thing? If he is, make a show about that. If he’s not, make a show about why not.”
Jenny Lewis is awesome. This song is awesome. So is the video. Gotta love the visual references to “Troop Beverly Hills”.
I picked up these comics today at my local shop. There are some good ones in there. But that’s not the best part of this post. The real story of my visit is the nice (older-ish?) couple, fulfilling their son/daughter/grandson/granddaughter’s pull list, while talking over the phone and consulting a hand-written list. This was FANTASTIC.
Seriously, I love everything about this. I love that they care enough to come in to the shop and pick up the comics. I love that they had a list prepared and a cell phone at the ready. And I LOVE that the cell phone connection wasn’t strong so the older gentleman had to yell things like: “SOUTHERN BASTARDS? Yeah, they have SOUTHERN BASTARDS. Issue #6? No? Oh, issue #7.”
If only the person had requested Sex Criminals.
I’ll tell you what, though. They had a big stack of comics to buy. Whomever they were buying for, they certainly love them.
Of course I have a few theories in my mind about what was really happening.
Perhaps the person on the other end of the phone has some terminal illness, and these kind young people are fulfilling her list so she can escape, for just a little while at least, the pain of this world.
The person on the other end of the line is the kingpin of some underground crime syndicate and these are his lackeys, forced to fulfill his every whim. Even acquire some random-ass comics from a local shop. Maybe he is making these two run all kinds of errands for him. Maybe he won’t even read the comics.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that is the real story.
I’m sick and tired of people complaining about and denigrating the poor, and those on food stamps or welfare. Many of the people making such complaints are on my Facebook feed, and many whom I grew up with and know they most likely grew up in a household that received some type of assistance. Some still live there. The median income for a household in the borough was $29,219 as of the 2000 census. 12.3% of the population live below the poverty line. And it seems like 90% have absolutely lost any type of empathy.
I make pretty good money now that I have 15 years of work experience in my field, but I can certainly see all of the little breaks I’ve received over the years of no skill of my own. Growing up, we had enough to eat. We had a roof over our heads. My parents were loving and spent time with me and read to me what I was young. I was to afford to go to college. I chose a good major. And on and on.
Anyhow, the comic referenced below does an excellent job of illustrating this privilege. You should check it out.
“The idea of “privilege” can be a difficult concept to grasp for a lot of people, especially when advantages seem small and invisible to people on the receiving end. In the comic “On a Plate,” cartoonist Toby Morris breaks down how the subtle differences afforded to some people—in this case, on the basis of class and money—can make huge differences in their opportunities over time. Make sure you read all the way to the end—it’s worth it”