'Nother Plug.
Mysteries of the Arcana
And for those who like webcomics, this is worth the extra browser tab. The art is nom, the plot as far as i've read (not far) is clever, and there's a spicy undercurrent of bi-sexual intrigue to keep the LGBT crowd very interested ;)
February 3, 2010
January 28, 2010
Yet Another Shameless Plug
PLUG AHOY!
Poetry & Voyeurism
A pair of brothers who I've known for years have a sister who i've met occasionally over the same period... yeah, that made more sense in my head.
The wonderful Miss Violent—formerly known as Glitter Bones—runs a blog about fashion, anti-fashion, hypocrisy, sex (at least, when the mood takes her) and sexuality, poor taste, trash, trash and more trash.
It's a shot of 80-proof Essense of Truth, with a Unicorn Jizz chaser.
Poetry & Voyeurism
A pair of brothers who I've known for years have a sister who i've met occasionally over the same period... yeah, that made more sense in my head.
The wonderful Miss Violent—formerly known as Glitter Bones—runs a blog about fashion, anti-fashion, hypocrisy, sex (at least, when the mood takes her) and sexuality, poor taste, trash, trash and more trash.
It's a shot of 80-proof Essense of Truth, with a Unicorn Jizz chaser.
EXTRACT: "The Mulgravian Connection", chapter 2.
So, a few months ago I tried to write a fairy tale, complete with cutesy made-up names for kingdoms that don't exist.
It quickly became a murder mystery. It's not done yet, far from it, and I'm taking a break from writing it because the convoluted plot is hurting my brain.
Here's an extract from the second chapter, introducing some of the key characters:
***
King Johan sat down at his desk, in shirtsleeves and a burgundy tie. He'd barely had time to start reading through a folder dotted with official-looking stamps, including one from the state's intelligence organ, before his furious twenty-four year old daughter burst in without knocking. She was graceful and comely, with a long face, high cheekbones, crystalline-blue eyes and thick, wheat-coloured hair. He slapped the classified file shut quickly, bracing for the coming explosion.
"Daddy! My card was declined this morning! What did you do?"
An explosion of angst. "I cancelled it, what else?"
"But why? Did I do something wrong?"
"Yes."
Lorelei hadn't been expecting that answer. She harrumphed her way into one of the two cream- and beige-striped silk Fauteuil Louis Quatorze library chairs. King Johan chuckled. "Darling, in the last month alone, you've spent nine and a half thousand Coronets on shoes and dresses. And don't even get me started on the month before."
The princess scuffed the carpet with a manicured toenail, sighing but deciding not to try to talk her way out of the situation. Despite appearances, her father was a prudent and uncompromising man, and was nobody's fool. He stroked his short, grey goatee—the same that had earned him the nickname 'Johan Goodfellow' from the press—and leaned back in his chair. "You've stopped arguing?"
"Yes, Daddy," Lorelei muttered sullenly.
"Good. So, I'll re-activate your bank card."
"Thank you," she smiled, surprised and pleased at his lack of obstinacy.
"However, you must impose upon yourself a limit of two thousand Coronets per month. As you know, I have the bank send me a copy of your statement each quarter, so I will know well enough whether you've been sticking to this limit. Does this sound fair?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so?"
"It is."
"There's a good girl. You're not a child anymore, and haven't been for some time. If there are major purchases that need to be made, just let me know in advance. And I mean emergencies only."
"I understand. Thank you, Daddy."
"Okay, sweetie. Was there anything else?"
"No, that was all."
"Okay. I love you."
She leaned across the desk to kiss his cheek. "Love you, too, Daddy."
An urbane young man in a crisp, navy blue suit was loitering in one of the sun rooms. He had fashionably short, brown hair and a neatly trimmed brown Imperial. "Oh, hello."
"Julius!" the Princess squealed. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, you?"
"I'm great," she laughed, hugging him tightly. "I haven't seen you in weeks, what have you been doing?"
Julius chuckled and shrugged. "Sorry, can't tell you that."
"The usual story."
"Mm-hmm. What have you been up to?"
"Oh, not a lot. Hanging about."
"How's Frederic?"
Lorelei gave a small cough. "Well, you know..."
Julius laughed. "What, already? Must be less than two months, huh?"
"I got bored quickly. He was a one-trick pony."
"Boy, I thought he'd last longer than that. So, is there anyone new?"
She winked. "Maybe."
"Of course. There's always a Mr. Right, and if it turns out to be mistaken identity, then there's always a Mr. Next."
"That's right. So what if I'm a shameless flirt, if anything you should pity me."
"Oh, I do. Believe me, dear, I do. Having to put up with men chasing after you like that, what a terrible way to live."
"Makes it easy to find Mr. Next."
Julius shook his head despairingly. "Terrible child. Anyway, get your coat on, we'll go for a walk."
They pressed their noses against the window of the patisserie, gawking as a gigantic Black Forest gateau was lowered delicately into a display cabinet by two sweating bakers, the famous Cröner brothers. Julius tugged Lorelei by the sleeve, dragging her into the shop. They burst in through the door and stared at the huge cake. "Look at that, it looks fantastic," Julius gasped, tugging his scarf away from his neck as the warm air pressed against his face.
"Do you think we should buy it?"
"I don't know, should we?"
The Cröner brothers had stayed at the counter while they waited for—they presumed—a love-struck young couple to make up their minds. When the two heads appeared over the countertop, the Cröner boys jumped back in delighted shock. "Princess Lorelei, Prince Julius," the older, jollier brother exclaimed happily, "what an immense pleasure it is to have you in our humble shop. Welcome, welcome."
"Oh, thank you so much. You must be the famous Marti Cröner," Lorelei said, beaming a bright smile at the patissier before turning it on his thin, rangy brother, "and you the equally-famous Anders. The honour is really all ours, my dears."
"Um, this gorgeous Black Forest gateau, how much?" asked Julius.
"Oh, for the Royal House of Chenonceaux," Anders laughed, "gratis, of course. Besides, if you get photographed carrying one of our bags and the picture appears in a magazine somewhere, it's like advertising we don't even have to pay for. 'Cröner Brothers Patisserie, favourite of Princess Lorelei of Ord.' We would make our fortunes through your grace and beauty alone, m'lady."
Julius laughed, not unaware that he was now relegated to Official Chopped Liver. "You are a pragmatist, sir; I like it. However, we couldn't take that gorgeous gateau without paying."
He pulled out his wallet and handed across a fifty Coronet note. "Will this do?"
Anders and Marti laughed. "For that much, we'll give you two."
Julius smiled, then pretended to hunt through the display. "Well, that blueberry cheesecake does look good, doesn't it?"
"I hear it's to die for," agreed his sister.
"All right, can we have the cheesecake as well?"
Marti gave a small bow as Anders rushed to fetch a second box for the cheesecake. "Absolutely, your Highness, no problem at all," Marti beamed.
Once the two cakes were boxed and bagged, the Prince and Princess bade the happy patissiers goodbye and walked away down the high street. Lorelei, carrying the cheesecake, had a spring in her step and a smile on her face. Her brother chuckled to himself. She rounded on him. "What?"
"You."
"What do you mean, 'you'?"
"The way you flirted with those two. Shameless."
"Well, we already know that. Besides, it just scored us two gateaux for the price of one, so I don't see why you should complain."
"True, true."
They passed a news stand, and Julius paused to buy a newspaper. He tucked it under his arm without reading it. "For later," he explained.
***
If you like it so far, please comment. If you don't like it, comment anonymously and bag the shit out of it. Either way, feedback really is appreciated. If it eats massive amounts of donkey-cock, let me know asap.
It quickly became a murder mystery. It's not done yet, far from it, and I'm taking a break from writing it because the convoluted plot is hurting my brain.
Here's an extract from the second chapter, introducing some of the key characters:
***
King Johan sat down at his desk, in shirtsleeves and a burgundy tie. He'd barely had time to start reading through a folder dotted with official-looking stamps, including one from the state's intelligence organ, before his furious twenty-four year old daughter burst in without knocking. She was graceful and comely, with a long face, high cheekbones, crystalline-blue eyes and thick, wheat-coloured hair. He slapped the classified file shut quickly, bracing for the coming explosion.
"Daddy! My card was declined this morning! What did you do?"
An explosion of angst. "I cancelled it, what else?"
"But why? Did I do something wrong?"
"Yes."
Lorelei hadn't been expecting that answer. She harrumphed her way into one of the two cream- and beige-striped silk Fauteuil Louis Quatorze library chairs. King Johan chuckled. "Darling, in the last month alone, you've spent nine and a half thousand Coronets on shoes and dresses. And don't even get me started on the month before."
The princess scuffed the carpet with a manicured toenail, sighing but deciding not to try to talk her way out of the situation. Despite appearances, her father was a prudent and uncompromising man, and was nobody's fool. He stroked his short, grey goatee—the same that had earned him the nickname 'Johan Goodfellow' from the press—and leaned back in his chair. "You've stopped arguing?"
"Yes, Daddy," Lorelei muttered sullenly.
"Good. So, I'll re-activate your bank card."
"Thank you," she smiled, surprised and pleased at his lack of obstinacy.
"However, you must impose upon yourself a limit of two thousand Coronets per month. As you know, I have the bank send me a copy of your statement each quarter, so I will know well enough whether you've been sticking to this limit. Does this sound fair?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so?"
"It is."
"There's a good girl. You're not a child anymore, and haven't been for some time. If there are major purchases that need to be made, just let me know in advance. And I mean emergencies only."
"I understand. Thank you, Daddy."
"Okay, sweetie. Was there anything else?"
"No, that was all."
"Okay. I love you."
She leaned across the desk to kiss his cheek. "Love you, too, Daddy."
An urbane young man in a crisp, navy blue suit was loitering in one of the sun rooms. He had fashionably short, brown hair and a neatly trimmed brown Imperial. "Oh, hello."
"Julius!" the Princess squealed. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, you?"
"I'm great," she laughed, hugging him tightly. "I haven't seen you in weeks, what have you been doing?"
Julius chuckled and shrugged. "Sorry, can't tell you that."
"The usual story."
"Mm-hmm. What have you been up to?"
"Oh, not a lot. Hanging about."
"How's Frederic?"
Lorelei gave a small cough. "Well, you know..."
Julius laughed. "What, already? Must be less than two months, huh?"
"I got bored quickly. He was a one-trick pony."
"Boy, I thought he'd last longer than that. So, is there anyone new?"
She winked. "Maybe."
"Of course. There's always a Mr. Right, and if it turns out to be mistaken identity, then there's always a Mr. Next."
"That's right. So what if I'm a shameless flirt, if anything you should pity me."
"Oh, I do. Believe me, dear, I do. Having to put up with men chasing after you like that, what a terrible way to live."
"Makes it easy to find Mr. Next."
Julius shook his head despairingly. "Terrible child. Anyway, get your coat on, we'll go for a walk."
They pressed their noses against the window of the patisserie, gawking as a gigantic Black Forest gateau was lowered delicately into a display cabinet by two sweating bakers, the famous Cröner brothers. Julius tugged Lorelei by the sleeve, dragging her into the shop. They burst in through the door and stared at the huge cake. "Look at that, it looks fantastic," Julius gasped, tugging his scarf away from his neck as the warm air pressed against his face.
"Do you think we should buy it?"
"I don't know, should we?"
The Cröner brothers had stayed at the counter while they waited for—they presumed—a love-struck young couple to make up their minds. When the two heads appeared over the countertop, the Cröner boys jumped back in delighted shock. "Princess Lorelei, Prince Julius," the older, jollier brother exclaimed happily, "what an immense pleasure it is to have you in our humble shop. Welcome, welcome."
"Oh, thank you so much. You must be the famous Marti Cröner," Lorelei said, beaming a bright smile at the patissier before turning it on his thin, rangy brother, "and you the equally-famous Anders. The honour is really all ours, my dears."
"Um, this gorgeous Black Forest gateau, how much?" asked Julius.
"Oh, for the Royal House of Chenonceaux," Anders laughed, "gratis, of course. Besides, if you get photographed carrying one of our bags and the picture appears in a magazine somewhere, it's like advertising we don't even have to pay for. 'Cröner Brothers Patisserie, favourite of Princess Lorelei of Ord.' We would make our fortunes through your grace and beauty alone, m'lady."
Julius laughed, not unaware that he was now relegated to Official Chopped Liver. "You are a pragmatist, sir; I like it. However, we couldn't take that gorgeous gateau without paying."
He pulled out his wallet and handed across a fifty Coronet note. "Will this do?"
Anders and Marti laughed. "For that much, we'll give you two."
Julius smiled, then pretended to hunt through the display. "Well, that blueberry cheesecake does look good, doesn't it?"
"I hear it's to die for," agreed his sister.
"All right, can we have the cheesecake as well?"
Marti gave a small bow as Anders rushed to fetch a second box for the cheesecake. "Absolutely, your Highness, no problem at all," Marti beamed.
Once the two cakes were boxed and bagged, the Prince and Princess bade the happy patissiers goodbye and walked away down the high street. Lorelei, carrying the cheesecake, had a spring in her step and a smile on her face. Her brother chuckled to himself. She rounded on him. "What?"
"You."
"What do you mean, 'you'?"
"The way you flirted with those two. Shameless."
"Well, we already know that. Besides, it just scored us two gateaux for the price of one, so I don't see why you should complain."
"True, true."
They passed a news stand, and Julius paused to buy a newspaper. He tucked it under his arm without reading it. "For later," he explained.
***
If you like it so far, please comment. If you don't like it, comment anonymously and bag the shit out of it. Either way, feedback really is appreciated. If it eats massive amounts of donkey-cock, let me know asap.
January 24, 2010
Shameless Plug 2: Plug Harder
More plugs, sorry:
"I hope Blade shows up in the next Twilight movie and fucks everyone up"
" 'Let's eat Grandma!' or, 'Let's eat, Grandma!' Punctuation saves lives."
Both are extremely important wastes of your valuable time.
"I hope Blade shows up in the next Twilight movie and fucks everyone up"
" 'Let's eat Grandma!' or, 'Let's eat, Grandma!' Punctuation saves lives."
Both are extremely important wastes of your valuable time.
EXTRACT: "qarînah", chapter 1.
Let's not waste any more time on the foreplay and instead just get right down to the real reason we're both here.
The following is the first chapter from a short (and unfinished) story, titled "qarînah", which is a term from Islamic superstition and refers to a spirit not unlike a succubus. The story itself is incomplete, poorly edited and lacks direction, but I'm fond of this chapter nonetheless.
***
1 blockade
The yacht cruised toward the edge of the exclusion zone. Belowdecks two men were seated at the small kitchenette table: together they tossed their heads back, swilling the last of their Turkish coffee and launching it down their throats. One wore a blazing orange spray jacket that clashed horribly with his sandy chino shorts and mahogany-coloured boat shoes. The other wore a neoprene wetsuit, with dive goggles hanging around his neck. They shook hands and stood. Neither man needed reminding of how dangerous the next half hour would be. "Thanks again for doing this, Skipper," said the diver.
The mustachioed Turk smiled, the deep wrinkles in his olive skin seeming to swallow one another as his face crinkled. "No problemo, my old friend. Anything for you. The dangers are far outweighed by my debt to you."
The diver laughed. "But the money doesn't hurt, either."
"Not a bit," the Turk laughed.
He looked out through one of the portholes and sighed. "It's time."
The diver nodded and began to climb into his gear.
At the helm, a much younger Turk spun the wheel to starboard as his father stepped out on deck. He too wore chinos and boat shoes, but his jacket was a more conservative navy blue. The magnificent yacht gleamed in the evening sun, her timbers coming up almost silvery-grey. As the boat tacked into the wind, turning its portside flanks toward the nearest blockade ship, the diver dashed out onto the deck and heaved himself overboard on the starboard side with the low cabin hiding him from the patrol. The change of direction had aroused the suspicion of the patrol boat, and she had altered course toward the yacht. The Turk leaned over the rail and saw the diver clinging to the side.
"One last thing, Jack... this is a Wally B—please, please, please, try not to scratch her."
The diver laughed and promised he wouldn't, then popped his regulator into his mouth and dived below.
"Master of the vessel on my starboard beam, I am an Australian warship. I request permission to board your vessel, to enforce international martial law. Over."
The Turk kept his eyes on the sleek, grey killer as he reached for the radio. "Australian warship, this is master of the Alexandretta. You have my permission to board, over."
"Acknowledged, sir, thankyou. I request your course zero-niner-zero, and that you heave to and prepare to receive my boarding party. Over."
"Understood, out."
The Turk clipped the radio back to its slot, and ran forward to the main mast. "Mustafa," he called over his shoulder in Turkish, "hard to port, make your course due east and switch to the propeller."
"Aye," his son replied in English.
The following is the first chapter from a short (and unfinished) story, titled "qarînah", which is a term from Islamic superstition and refers to a spirit not unlike a succubus. The story itself is incomplete, poorly edited and lacks direction, but I'm fond of this chapter nonetheless.
***
1 blockade
The yacht cruised toward the edge of the exclusion zone. Belowdecks two men were seated at the small kitchenette table: together they tossed their heads back, swilling the last of their Turkish coffee and launching it down their throats. One wore a blazing orange spray jacket that clashed horribly with his sandy chino shorts and mahogany-coloured boat shoes. The other wore a neoprene wetsuit, with dive goggles hanging around his neck. They shook hands and stood. Neither man needed reminding of how dangerous the next half hour would be. "Thanks again for doing this, Skipper," said the diver.
The mustachioed Turk smiled, the deep wrinkles in his olive skin seeming to swallow one another as his face crinkled. "No problemo, my old friend. Anything for you. The dangers are far outweighed by my debt to you."
The diver laughed. "But the money doesn't hurt, either."
"Not a bit," the Turk laughed.
He looked out through one of the portholes and sighed. "It's time."
The diver nodded and began to climb into his gear.
At the helm, a much younger Turk spun the wheel to starboard as his father stepped out on deck. He too wore chinos and boat shoes, but his jacket was a more conservative navy blue. The magnificent yacht gleamed in the evening sun, her timbers coming up almost silvery-grey. As the boat tacked into the wind, turning its portside flanks toward the nearest blockade ship, the diver dashed out onto the deck and heaved himself overboard on the starboard side with the low cabin hiding him from the patrol. The change of direction had aroused the suspicion of the patrol boat, and she had altered course toward the yacht. The Turk leaned over the rail and saw the diver clinging to the side.
"One last thing, Jack... this is a Wally B—please, please, please, try not to scratch her."
The diver laughed and promised he wouldn't, then popped his regulator into his mouth and dived below.
"Master of the vessel on my starboard beam, I am an Australian warship. I request permission to board your vessel, to enforce international martial law. Over."
The Turk kept his eyes on the sleek, grey killer as he reached for the radio. "Australian warship, this is master of the Alexandretta. You have my permission to board, over."
"Acknowledged, sir, thankyou. I request your course zero-niner-zero, and that you heave to and prepare to receive my boarding party. Over."
"Understood, out."
The Turk clipped the radio back to its slot, and ran forward to the main mast. "Mustafa," he called over his shoulder in Turkish, "hard to port, make your course due east and switch to the propeller."
"Aye," his son replied in English.
Kick-off: Take 2
Yeah, yeah, okay, that sucked...
Welcome, ladies and gents, to S.B.A.R.P.
If it takes you more than 5 minutes to work out what those letters stand for... get the hell back to mySpace, you infantile degenerate.
This is the Captain. That is all.
Welcome, ladies and gents, to S.B.A.R.P.
If it takes you more than 5 minutes to work out what those letters stand for... get the hell back to mySpace, you infantile degenerate.
This is the Captain. That is all.
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