Rarely am I struck by genius.

The man below strikes me hard.

Today my dad's brother Porky was buried.

I should have called him. I should have gone to the funeral. I probably still could call, but I don't know if I will. I didn't even know Porky. Last time I saw him and my father was at their mother's funeral. Not sure why I even went to that. She hadn't made much effort to be my grandmom in a long time.

I don't remember even saying hi to Porky then.

I'm not sure I could even say why I haven't called my dad. Maybe I'm scared, but it's more likely that I just don't want to deal with this.

Which just makes me feel more like him.

It's what he would do.

I just made a dangerous discovery.

The candy machine is only charging fifty cents for a peanut butter Twix bar. They're supposed to be seventy-five cents. I don't know if I should alert the authorities or count my quarters like a good fatty.

A scene in my novel I had no intention of writing. Don't know where the fuck it came from. I kind of like it though. It's the beginning of Chapter 9.


Wendy Loch brushed her long purple bangs from her eyes, took a deep breath and pressed the door release button. The pink metal octagon-shaped door slid open and she stepped into the reception area of Wishart Incorporated's eight-hundreth floor tower suite. The large reception area opened to a large five foot high silver desk spread into a half circle ten feet wide, manned by a femme bot, her lemon shaped and colored head shining in the bright neon lights, soft music hummed, infusing the office air.

She walked up to the femme bot and placed her palms and wrists on the high counter. The bot looked up as she approached, her ms pacman sized head, regarding Wendy with fat pouty lips.


"Wendy Loch?," the bot asked, its voice a hyperbolic noir male fantasy. The purr that launched a thousand femme fatales. "Here to see Michael, I believe?"

Wendy nodded. "Yup. I've already spoken to Captain Kroger."

"Yes. I'm aware," the bot replied," its rectangular mouth flashing with light along with the vocal emissions. Its giant reflective, lemon shaped and colored head stiff and unmoving. Its eyes appeared to be painted on like bad tattoos. Wendy could just barely make out her reflection in the shiny silver paint.

Wendy regarded the bot from her view above. The robot tapered beneath its thin waist into a single shaft of metal connected to floor. The machine’s skin a platinum metallic sheen, except for the approximation of fingernails, which were painted a glowing pink.

"Please have a seat Ms. Loch," the robot pointed to the chairs. "Michael tells me he will be with you shortly." Confused, Wendy turned and regarded the seats. Did that robot just use the first name appellation? Wendy wondered if the machines formality protocols were corrupted.

Nine chairs paralleled the reception desk in a semicircle. Four were empty, the other five occupied by a three humans (two male, one female) and two alien species Wendy wasn't familiar with. The first was a four and a half foot tall humanoid, covered in a shaggy brown hair, poking out at the cuffs and collar of it's dark gray jumpsuit. Its head was slightly larger in proportion to a human's, peaking at the top in two round semicircles and tapering down into a more tubular face, containing two stereo eyes, completely black, with no visible irises, or vitreous humor, two small nostril holes, with no nose cartilage ballooning the skin, a thin pair of lips over a toothless mouth and two large ears, shaped like a human's, except they were pointed at the top and bottom rather than rounded like a human's. It was carefully sitting in the human sized chair. Its body language unusual to Wendy. It leaned forward, allowing its weight to hang, its shoulders hunched. It was armed with two pistols, which appeared to be standard iguns. Wendy could hear its heavy breathing from across the room, as though the little body required as much oxygen as a small bird would. Probably faster than it looks, she thought.

The other creature appeared to have evolved from an insect lifeform, it straddled two of the empty chairs, spreading its weight of its dark brown body equidistant between them. The creature would have been about seven feet long if lying flat. Four legs grew on each side of its abdomen, ending in sharp, tapered points. The creatures roughly human sized torso stood perpendicular to the abdomen, giving the creature the incongruous look of a chimera, in this case, a centaur. Two long arms were connected to the torso, jointed at two intervals into three sections. The arms ended in two large rounded palms with eight even spaced around the edges of each. The creature's head was attached by a short stalk to its torso, highlighted by two large pupilless red eyes and a pincered mouth opening. It wore no clothing other than a mesh messenger bag across its torso and carried an ancient looking rifle behind its back.

The three humans were all dressed formally. The men each wore a dark suit and tie and concealed their personal weaponry. The first man, shorter, and at least sixty percent occidental, squirmed nervously in his chair, a finger under his collar, staring at the floor. Wendy, couldn't help but immediately like him. An obvious grease monkey forced to wear a suit. The other man was tall and blonde, with a light olive tint to his skin, with piercing blue eyes, he was sitting straight up in his chair, posture firm, body tense, focused on the moment, his suit buttoned tight. He appeared to be calculating behind his eyes. A clockwork warrior.

The woman was sitting as far away from the others as the chair arrangement allowed. She wore an ankle length dark velvet green skirt with a tight, long sleeved silver blouse. Her long straight, fire red hair was pulled back into a tight bun behind her, accentuating the delicate features of her lightly freckled light skinned face and her golden eyes. She crossed her legs in front of herself, attractive, thin nylon covered gams visible through the large slit of her skirt, her feet clad in shiny black six inch stiletto heels. A snub nosed laser pistol hung from a white holster on her belt, matching the small white purse she held in her lap with her long black gloved hands. The woman regarded Wendy as she walked towards the chairs, her eyes twinking, her mouth closed in a tight grin.

Wendy opted for the seat between the Asiatic man and the insect, squeezing between them, across from the striking red head. The man smelled of cinnamon and clove and the insect had a light, fruity scent. Quite nice actually, Wendy realized.

Wendy couldn't help but get an eyeful of the woman across from her. The woman was twitching her foot slightly. The kind of movement that was subtle enough to draw attention to her body without being overt.

"Crap," Wendy thought to herself, considering her own outfit compared to the woman's. This was just a boring tech job on another civilian ship she was applying for. she hadn't bothered to dress up. She was wearing her trusty dark black leather bomber over a long sleeve black t-shirt, her Bettie Page styled, long purple hair pulled out of the collar to hang down her back. Her ten inch, knee high platform boots an extension of herself, over her tight black jeans, felt rather casual at the moment, her projectile weapon tucked into her right boot. She hadn't had to use it in over a year. She had dressed for a rave, but she was going to a prom. Normally she wouldn't give a shit, but she needed off this rock, and really didn't want to be stuck here until another cool civilian job came along. She couldn't take another one-way trade job with one of the sleaze ball traders, practically raping the outer frontier when it came to providing medical supplies and self sustaining food supplies.

Wendy slouched forward in her chair, leaning forward as she straddled it, mimicking the Asiatic man to her left and trying not to think about the bug on her right. The Asiatic fellow was mumbling something to himself that Wendy couldn't make out. She felt the need instinctively to reassure him, but didn't know how. Keeping her eyes down, she tried not to stare at the woman's kicking foot across from her. Those were nice shoes....

"Yeah, they are," the woman across from her said, her voice soft, "eight hundred credits."

Wendy rolled her eyes, she's not talking to me, she thought.

"Sure I am sweetie," the soft voice called from across from her. "Don't be silly."

Wendy brought her eyes up to find the woman staring intently at her. Her golden eyes boring into her, her cocky grin spread across her plump lips.

"Ugh," was all Wendy could think to say.

"Ignore her," the Asiatic man to her left chimed in, turning his head to the right as he spoke. "She's just trying to fuck with you."

"Phoech with you, you mean?," the woman chimed in, and then laughed. The man rocked slightly in his chair. His nervousness high. "I wouldn't do that," the woman continued, "you've got boyfriends for that honey."

Wendy was pissed now. Was this woman an empath? God, why were they always cunts? Ooh, look at me, I can read minds. I'm better than you.

"I am," the woman across from her said, any trace of laughter disappearing from her voice.

Wendy glued her eyes to the woman's, bearing the brunt of the golden stare and pushing back with her violet eyes. "Fuck you," she screamed in her head, imagining giant fists pummeling the woman across from her, her face puffing out with contusions, blood flowing from her lips and her eyes.

The woman raised one eyebrow appreciatively. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Wait for it," Wendy said aloud, before imaging the woman across from her choking as an unseen woman, rammed a horse sized dildo into her mouth as two aliens, mirror images of the hairy brown creature across the room, held the woman's arms back, blood running down her armpits as her arms were pulled from her sockets.

The woman smiled and said nothing for a moment, seeming to enjoy the images Wendy was throwing at her. Wendy was dimly aware of the man to her left looking at her in awe, smiling. Silently cheering her on. Altering the scene in her mind, Wendy imagined the woman before her melting, seeing the woman as she was now, sitting directly before her in the chair, her skin smoldering, her blood bursting into flame, her eyes popping in their sockets.

"That's pretty good," the woman in her mind said, a smile forming on her burning lips.

"But I can do better." And suddenly, Wendy's envisioned torture ended and her thoughts were pulled back to the reality of the waiting room, the woman watching her with a broad grin now, slowly running a hand across her stocking leg, lust in her eyes. She liked it rough.

The femme bot called from her desk. "Go on in now Ms. Wither. Third door on the left."

The woman rose and smoothed her skirt down before walking away. Before she did, she leaned forward to bring her lips close to Wendy's ear. Wendy didn't flinch, but she didn't like the woman in her space all the same.

"See you soon, Wendy Loch." The woman walked through the security screen, which deactivated as she stepped through, powering back up when she was on the other side.

"God, what a bitch," Wendy said.

"Actually, I kind of like her," the tall blond man she hadn't been paying attention to said from a few seats over, his face to her. "Who doesn't love a good psycho bitch now and then?"

"I'm Darian by the way, you're going to love it here. Michael has a thing for psycho bitches."

Shit I once wanted to write....

So, what the fuck am I going to talk about?

Let’s see….

Portrait of the artist as a prick. -- A place for bi-weekly diatribes about existence, hopefully tying into the artsy way of life as much as possible.

1. Fear and the artist.
The fear of rejection. The fear of loss. The fear of meaningless existence. Self-doubt. Lack of Self-control (sophrosyne). Poverty.
Creation must be more than an act of will. It must destroy a part of the creator. If a creation is the artist’s blood, than blood must be spilled to make art. The artist must not be afraid to bleed, for he will. He must lose himself to his work if he wishes to relate something other than his own experiences.

2. Fucking the muse.
Finding inspiration in the joys and pains (hedonism) of our meager existence. Learning when to submit to the muse and when to dominate the fucking bitch. Discovering ways to channel energy into forms to create with. Turning your blood and tears into playdoo.

3. Motivation.
Why the artist must anally rape his ego everyday. Beating oneself down to build oneself up.
Also, finding ways to bolster confidence. Ways to feel proud about accomplishments. Rewards as well as punishments,
Balancing the two extremes.

The Smokey Cat Chronicles – Where I wear my mask. Thinly disguised journal entries from my own experience mixed with fiction; designed to relate to the world at large as much of my own personal philosophy as possible.

1. Going to a cure concert wearing mascara.
An evening spent relating to the art of another (the cure) and emulating the author by wearing his mask (i.e., pussy-ass make-up).
Submitting to my date applying said make-up, and loving the fact that I was her creation for the evening.

2. The pain and pleasure of a threesome (hedonism)
With two chicks obviously. I don’t plan on trying the other kind.
An exploration of certain aspects of the event, and its repercussions on my relationships with both women.

3. Cheating.
Getting handjobs from ex-girlfriends and one or two other inappropriate acts worth relating.


The Lovecats – Still a little sketchy on this one. Basically, a group of anthropomorphic cat friends who are reincarnations of famous poets who display the heightened foibles of each. I.E. Poe is a pedophile. Coleridge a drug-filled dreamer. Emily is a agoraphobic. Wilde is a flaming gay. A few other incidentals and such. One story I want to do involves Elliot as a no-talent poser.

1. Poe’s new wife.
Poe introduces his new fiancé, a six-week-old kitten to Coleridge and has a discussion about poetry and pussy. (Yeah, this shit will be dirty.)

2. Emily’s new house.
Emily’s new house is actually a small room in her old house. A debate between her and Wilde about the joys of a solitary existence. A battle of two extremes, since Emily wants to be left alone and Wilde is an attention freak.

3. Realizing this could become misogynistic real fast, the third joke or so will be something more from the feminine perspective. (Still working on it obviously.)

Mystery Science Porn – Will come back to if I can figure out where to find public domain porn.

The Hedonist – My science fiction epic about the end of humanity. That’s all I’ll bore you with. My artist will get a lot of shit from me about it though (if I can find one).

A Poerty/Photography Cycle – A series of 24 Poems and photos (Updated bi-weekly, it should take about a year to do the whole thing.) The piece tells the story of two lives, a man and a woman. The piece begins before their birth, traces the way their lives intersect each other’s and ends after they die.

The piece will attempt to illustrate the ways in which life doesn’t begin when you’re born and doesn’t end when you die. A spiritual existence without getting religious or moral or judgmental.

The last line of each poem will be the first line of the next. The poetry will reflect the growth of the two souls. In the beginning, when they have yet to be born, the pieces will be ungrounded and free of form and physics. Later, the pieces will become more rigid and less styled. And then, the last few poems will be free again, with the last line of the last poem the same as the first line of the first poem.

Poems 1-4 –- Before life
Poems 5-20 –- The lives of our characters from the cradle to the grave. The pieces will alternate, with one about the boy and then the next about the girl until 13. This cycle will continue for the most part, except for the pieces where the two lives intersect.
Poems 21-24 – Death and the process of recreation.

Photography: I’d like it if the photos could chiasm the poetry. I.E. When the poem is very fluid and free, the photo is more stable and realistic. When the poem is more grounded, the photo is more unstable.

The first poem attempts to relate the way in which all lives reflect each other and has a strong light motif. So, I would see a photo that would somehow relate the use of light reflected off some solid physical object, whether a person, a group or a thing.