I've a Nuke - A Collection of Literary Mishaps

PostScript - Marco and Robert vs Teahouse (NSFW)

2012-02-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

Good day,

I've been behind as a number of projects I can't quite talk about yet are eating up my time. In the meanwhile, do enjoy my latest conversation with fellow Schlockenzian writer Marco Attard:

Robert: What was this gaysex manga you were reading though

Marco: it's this thing called The Teahouse

about a whorehouse with mostly gay whores

gay man whores, I guess

of course it is written by women for women

and the women have no idea what gay dudes really are

so it's all sorts of weird and hilarious http://www.teahousecomic.com/

Robert: This looks silly

Marco: it is total silly

it's like Medieval descriptions of strange animals from foreign lands

Robert: Also, everyone is an effeminate pretty boy except for one lumberjack.

Marco: "these are the 'HOMO-SEKSUAL MANS'"

dude even the lumberjack is effeminate

i know enough about gay culture to know what a bear dude is

and that effeminate is NOT a bear

Robert: They're often fat

Isn't that the case? Big and hairy?

Marco: yep, huge hairy dudes

also the lack of penises disappoints me

i wanted the comic to shock my straight white male sensibilities

instead it just makes me go "at least SOMBODY'S havin' fun!"

Robert: haha

This comic is suffering from a cock deficiency

Marco: makes me want to go to its comments board

all shoutin WHERE IS THE COCK

I AM VERY DISAPPOINTED YOUNG LADIES

YOU GET A C- FOR EFFORT

Robert: C-?!

MORE LIKE

MINUS COCK

Marco: hahahaha

YES

See you next time,

-RWI

Let's Talk About - Endings and Length

2012-02-13T18:58:00.000-08:00

Good evening,

I’ll be entering Spoiler Territory now and again, so you might need to turn back.

All good things have to end. This is a general truth, but it’s something that plagues story-tellers regularly. That long-running soap opera will eventually use up all of its plot threads. One day, Captain America will die and stay dead. Some book series will go unfinished by their creators and be left in the hands of fanboys and cruel publishers to complete – hell, some already have.

It’s all a question of when and how, though. How long are you willing to stretch out a project? Have you figured out where it’s all going to lead? How do you plan to wrap everything up?

For me, I prefer open endings – something that closes a lot of doors but has enough material to keep readers or viewers guessing. Watchmen did that very well: Dan and Laurie ride off into the sunset, a new world order is formed under the threat of interstellar war, and Rorschach’s notes have been found by a young intern at a local newspaper. Everything that happens after is total speculation. Watchmen’s length was also ideal; twelve fleshed-out chapters that added to the overall complexity of something that sure as helldoes not need prequels, DC.

...Sorry.

Not every story needs to be open, but if you can wrap up everything without having to resort to an hour of exposition then that’s a gold star. Mystery stories or horror stories or magical realism stories need to have that openness in particular. It adds to their mystique. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle would not have had the same impact if Toru Okada pulled a Sherlock Holmes and tied everything together after leaving the metaphysical hotel his wife stayed in. Similarly, Pan’s Labyrinth wouldn’t have been as heartbreaking if Mercedes cradled Ofelia as she passed away and exclaimed either “SHE MADE EVERYTHING UP” or “WHO THE SHIT WAS THAT GOATMAN?”

Let’s switch gears for a second and focus on length, because in order to talk about one side of this coin we have to address the other side.

There are very few stories out there in the world that can afford to be long-winded, rambling yarns. There has to be a point to length. I mentioned soap operas before; as much as I don’t care for them, I do have to commend the idea behind soap operas. You hear about shows that go on for decades with no end in sight. People get their hackles up when they hear that. ‘How long can they go on like this for?’ cries the audience, ‘How many stories of adultery, death, and unexpected twists where the man who drove off the cliff was actually the main character’s half-clone twice removed can these idiot writers pump out?’

And the answer is, as many as they can, because soap operas are about life.

Okay, fine, they’re a jazzed-up, sexed-up, melodramatic kind of life that sometimes makes deals with Satan or all turns out to be an elaborate dream sequence, but its life all the same. In real life, we don’t have arcs. I’ve had plenty of moments that could have been straight from a romance movie, but not once did a roll of credits fly by my face as I pulled in my lady-love for a kiss. Life never ends on a perfect moment. Life ends when life ends. So, in a way, while I don’t care for the ridiculously overcomplicated love affairs of Harry Lovetackle and his wife Marissa, I can at least applaud soap operas for showing the painstaking passage of time.

What I can’t abide by is padding; filler; stories overwrought with nonsensical arcs that add nothing to the overall narrative. I don’t mind episodic stories. I actually find them very endearing and fun. I don’t like it when a writer puts together a massive story, figures out all of the characters and the style of it, and then says “You know what this needs to be? Four-hundred chapters longer!”

This, dear reader, is what grinds on my nerves about most manga. I en joy Japanese comics and cartoons and the like, but creators need to know when enough is enough. I know it’s mostly editorial pressure to stretch out a story and milk it for all it’s worth, but it’s inconsiderate and insulting to all parties involved. Who actually enjoys a twelve-issuefight scene? Who appreciates lead characters who endlessly dance around confessing their love for each other?

This is not to say that Western comics are immune to stretched-out and overused plotlines. You still get instances of a reader being punished for not reading the backlog of issues leading up to that particular moment in time. At least with those, however, you get the odd comic where you don’t have to concern yourself with canon and previous arcs and crossover events or whatever else.

What am I getting at? I’m saying that writers have to know their story, inside and out. They have to know if there’s room to expand the universe, but they should apply reason as well. They have to know its style and its limits. They have to know what connects best with their audience and themselves. A writer has to know how far to go. Without that, you’ll have either the most dedicated legion of fans in the world or the most dedicated legion of critics. With that, you’ll have a more positive ratio if you play your cards right.

Be brave, writers. Know when to say it’s over. We’ll all thank you for it.

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Conquest

2012-02-06T19:53:00.000-08:00

Good evening,

I'm a day late and I threw this one together in a hurry.

***

Where was I when it happened? Well, that’s a story.

I was at home with my husband. Aaron was mowing the lawn and I was making quiche for a big dinner event we were going to that evening. It smelled nicely enough. Ham and spinach and cheese blended together to make a nice aroma. I had some hard rock station on. A man with a gravelly voice screamed over a guitar that was out of tune. I fought through it.

The radio cut out. I heard a broadcast. Aaron came in and wiped the sweat from his brow and we listened. A man was saying that something was breaking through the sky above Denver, Colorado. Reports were coming in that similar objects were appearing over other cities across the world. Initial descriptions claimed it resembled a meteor at first, but when it stopped in mid-air the true bizarreness of it became clear.

We thought it had to be a hoax. Aaron had the smart idea of running to the T.V. and turning it on. A news station showed a camera focusing on a massive shape floating between two buildings. It was round and huge, covered in ridges like a cauliflower. Long feelers from its sides were brushing against the windows, as if it groped through the streets blindly. The camera panned back as shapes fell out of its bottom and started running through the streets.

I recognized the downtown core it hovered over. I felt fear.

That’s when they arrived. We heard the windows break and the doors splinter and they had us surrounded. We would know them as the hkahnm, mere drones, but back then we didn’t know that. To us, they were just scores of bulbous, horrible non-things built not unlike ants and frogs and apes, their bodies held together in ways we could not believe to be possible.

They grabbed our arms. I remember the rubbery skin seizing my wrists and being pulled outside. They brought us to a hole in the earth, a pulsating mouth covered in bristles. Aaron and his captors went in first. He screamed my name. As the hkahnm dragged me inside, all I thought was that my quiche going to burn.

I remember Aaron and me being led into that big room where King Horror sat. We were stripped naked and pushed into a crowd of our neighbours. I saw the old man who ran the corner store, his skin hanging weakly from his spindly body. A local football star was wedged between two terrified teens, covering his balls with his hands. The hkanhm had us surrounded on three sides.

On our fourth was what we called Death Mountain. It was a pile of bones stacked a mile high; human skeletons charred to a crisp. Two large things supported on legs too thin for the rest of their fat bodies guarded it, long arms reaching into the crowd to throw people towards it. Another set of limbs would force them towards a set of hkanhm who dragged screaming people towards its top. We saw the odd burst of fire. Each time, we howled and wept.

Our time came soon. Aaron and I were seized and flung to the bone hill. The hkanhm on the hill grabbed our arms, brought us to our feet and kicked us all the way up. There was a preacher ahead of us, one of those televangelists who scared people for money. He was jabbering and blubbering incoherently.

We were dragged to Him in almost no time. They brought the preacher in front of King Horror’s seat. One of His hundred mouths opened and emitted something long and loud and high-pitched. The man fell to his knees and screamed back. I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I think it was a prayer, or a curse, or maybe one last primal yell of defiance.

It made no difference. Another one of King Horror’s mouths opened. A wave of flame hit the man and reduced him to ash.

King Horror’s hundred mouths chattered as we were pushed forward, forced to stand on the smouldering remains of the preacher. One mouth moved its way to the front and shrieked at us for half a minute.

Words fell into my mind. Live or Die, they said.

My heart raced. “I want to live,” I whimpered immediately, “Please let me live.”

One of His great mouths opened wide and let out a long cry. It sounded agonized. It wanted me to die. Two hkanhm came to my side and took my arms, but I struggled and looked to Aaron. My thrashes slowed them down. My eyes locked with his and begged him to do the smart thing. The mouth that spoke to me screamed at him next.

He was quiet. His body shook. He looked at his feet. He always did that when he panicked. I started crying. I thought of the preacher. He took too long, I thought, he took too long and they killed him. I saw Aaron’s face rise. The burning mouth grumbled impatiently. Aaron looked miserable.

But then he said he would live.

The angry mouth screamed again. Two more guards came and dragged him to me. He looked at me and he said, “David, I love you so much and if you’re going to live in Hell then so am I.”

I slipped out of my captors’ arms and kissed him. Gingerly, the hkanhm ushered us to the side. I didn’t take my lips off him, even as they pulled at us, and even when they put the collars on us.

That’s when they put us in the Districts. The webwalls were grown overnight. Aaron was one of the first to do hard labour on a globeship. He was lucky to come back. He was always one of the few who did. I was usually set to work separating nutrients in the food-vats.

We never found out what happened to our old home. It didn’t matter. We were put up in a new home, a hive we shared with the Nguyens and the Jamesons. They weren’t comfortable with Aaron and me being, well, us, but they got used to it. Worse things to worry about when half the world’s been conquered, I guess.

And you know what?

After a while, it wasn’t so bad.

***

Expect another rant by next week. I seem to have a lot to say now.

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Coward

2012-01-29T17:54:00.000-08:00

Good evening,

Cracking at fantasy again, but this time reviving an old universe I made up back in university.

***

“Fight like a man!” the swordsman wailed, slamming the flat of his blade against his buckler.

Stavon tried to ignore him. He kept himself balled up under the bar and held his breath. The old tavern had seen better days; ones without war. When he ran inside, he fought past the stench of charcoal and decay. The smells invaded his nose. A woman with an arrow in her throat lay in front of him, her skin pale and tight. He choked.

Why me? He asked himself, heart racing. He was just a page in the Derriger fifteenth legion. He had never killed a man in his life. Yet when the thousand Ulossi berserkers fell over the hill, scores died at his feet. He remembered the waves of multi-coloured warriors, their hairs and eyes various unnatural pigments, bathing in red under the morning light. ‘The Rainbow Men,’ his friends in the legion had called them; those friends all died.

Why me? He asked again. He wished he didn’t enlist. The guardsmen doing the enlisting said he would be safe. They said he wouldn’t see the fighting. They said he wouldn’t see the blood.

There was a door ahead of him. It was broken off of its hinges. It led outside, to somewhere safer or perhaps a sea of blades. He had to chance it. Either way, he was a dead man.

On a whim, he peered round the edge of the bar. He saw his pursuer, tall and broad, pacing around the corpses. Leather and iron was strapped to his chest and legs. Magenta eyes, a round iron shield and a hooked sword glinted in the sunlight that seeped through the windows. Red-and-gold-streaked hair fell in curls over his shoulders. The man huffed and kicked at a table.

Stavon pulled back and sucked air.

He listened. There was silence; then, the shuffling of boots that quickened and drew near. Greaves scraped together. Stavon panicked.

He looked up just as a bent blade was raised above his head.

He dove left. A melodic curse howled behind him. Metal whipped through the air. Stavon whirled his body over a chair and stumbled into another corpse, an obese man with half his face caved in. The smell made bile swell in his throat.

He looked and saw the Ulossi charging. He staggered to his feet, but tripped over one of his own legs and fell again. Just then, he saw a chair leg broken in two lying before him. He seized it.

The giant of a man was upon him when he threw the wood. It bounced off of the warrior’s face; he staggered back. Stavon slid between his opened legs and darted for the bar again. He felt a fire inside him.

Something told him to defend himself. The woman’s corpse lay by the door. He reached for the wooden bolt sticking out of her neck. He set his foot against the woman’s breast and tugged. The arrow was loose.

Stavon whirled and aimed the bit of wood and metal at the warrior. The man snorted and glared at him. He was close. A bruise formed on the side of his face.

If he ran, the man would catch up to him and open his throat. If he fought, the man would break both of his arms before opening his throat. Parley, he told himself.

A word he learned from an Ulossi prisoner came to him. “Avain!” he tried to croon. The Ulossi tongue was a tonal one, scholars told him, but had a certain melody to them. Every sentence was a hymn, every speech a ballad. High tones were generally pleasant; lower tones were more aggressive. He hoped he said “Stop!” and not “Fall!”

The large man gritted his teeth angrily. Stavon gulped.

He charged. Swinging the sword high, the giant leapt for him, vaulting himself over the bar. Instinctively, Stavon jumped back. He let the blade fall.

His body reacted independent of the rest of him. The hand gripping the arrow shot forward.

He drove the metal point into the man’s eye. The man wailed and shrieked, flailing blindly at all sides. Stavon was thumped aside by a wild swing. He hit the floor and looked up. The arrow had gone in deep. The Ulossi man gave one last furious sway and dropped. The blade fell from his fingers.

Stavon’s hands shook. He stumbled back to his feet and out the doors. At the street, he heaved. He bent over, hands on his knees. Breathing heavily, he started weeping. A man was dead. A son was dead. He shuddered. Why didn’t I run? His thoughts whimpered. The door was there. I should have run. I should have.

There was a noise.

He dried his eyes and lifted his head. Twelve men stood at the edge of the road. One sang to the rest in Ulossi and pointed Stavon’s way.

He did what came naturally.

***

See you next time!

-RWI

Let's Talk About - RPGs

2012-01-23T09:18:00.000-08:00

Good day,

I’ve been meaning to make a disjointed little article about RPGs for some time, and long-time readers can probably guess that I don’t mean rocket-propelled grenades.

Role-playing games interest me. I’ve always been a sucker for swords-and-sorcery, which I guess was the gateway drug for this sort of thing, and even if turn-based combat can be a bit aggravating I’ve grown used to the many interfaces so many games use. In recent years, nerdier associates have introduced me to table-top gaming, which is fun if a bit time-consuming (especially when loot was concerned). That said, I have a strange relationship with them in that I’m often jumping around with how I play depending on what I’m playing.

With video game RPGs, I tend to make myself the stalwart hero of the land. It’s a common thread binding together all of my games of Planescape Torment, Dragon Age: Origins, Fallout 3, and Morrowind. I’m often the warrior, or a jack-of-all-trades adventurer, and I’m often a romantic with some kind of minor quirk or another, which means I always cop out and take the boring options. Meanwhile, on the table-top gaming front, I tend to be more of a griefer, being integral to the party dynamic but often possessing a toxic demeanour. Those characters are broken; alcoholics and mental defectives and cowards with more anxiety problems than half the residents at a comic-con, and my characters’ effectiveness in negotiations and combat rounds range from unpredictable to useless.

The way I make sense of it is that making people miserable in a game only makes sense when you can see the horror spreading across their faces. Yes, I could set off the bomb in Megaton. Yes, I could sell my companions into slavery. Yes, I could pick the pockets of everyone from Vivec to Khuul. What, though, is the point if I’m causing dismay to a program that expects me to do bad things?

So I like to switch it up and try new things, and this has led me down some strange roads and territories I’d like to forget. Most notably, I had a run with forum RPGs back in the dark ages of my adolescence and young adulthood and, well, they aren’t fun. It’s just a shouting match; all sound, all fury, limited to no direction, and a bunch of pasty geeks who desperately want to be Sephiroth from Final Fantasy 7. At the end of the day, it’s like a game of Cowboys-and-Indians with more half-demon ninjas ranting about their painful pasts.

And before anyone suggests it, let me say that I don’t get LARPing. I haven’t tried but I’m afraid. I saw Darkon two years ago, and between that and the infamous Lightning Bolt clip I’m not entirely sold on the concept. There’s a big reason why I won’t do it, aside from the fact that running through a park covered in padding while pretending to be an Orc and getting stared at by passing families is not my idea of a good time. Let me explain.

I’m six-foot-two. I’ve got thinning brown hair. I’ve got a big nose and turquoise eyes and child-bearing hips. I’m thick in the thighs and scrawny in the arms, and I’ll stop now because it sounds like I’m putting out a personal in a newspaper. Now that you have an idea as to how I look, though, ask yourself:

What if I wanted to play a woman?

You could argue that I could go buy a dress but what if I wanted to play a small woman, like a lady Halfling? Better yet, what if I wanted to play someone of a different ethnicity, like a Black person? Hell, suppose I wanted to be a Black Halfling woman? I guess I’d have to get down on my knees, buy a wig, and put shoe polish on my face but every black person, dwarf, and transvestite in the province would be well within their rights to kick me to death.

My problem is that I am limited by harsh reality. This does not refer solely to appearance. Ever seen a LARP fight? They’re funny as hell, but unfortunately they’re also possible. Because everyone’s weighed down with armour and out of shape and because of how ungainly their weapons are, LARP fights are probably the closest we’ll see to how actual battles from the medieval times were fought.

Not my thing. I want to climb a tree and elbow-drop a hobgoblin. I want to pick up a guy and use him to beat another character to death. I want to throw a horse, or catch an arrow with my teeth, or flip an ogre into a lake. Where are my spells? Where’s the array of summoned monsters and meteors that I can drop on a bandit camp at any given time? Why the hell am I squiring for Bob from the car wash when I can have quirky companion characters with exciting arcs and start romances with swamp witches and gay elves without feeling awkward?

I don’t share the same sense of immersion that LARPers carry. I want to be able to lose myself in the experience, but I can’t say how I can do that if I’m slapping someone across the midriff with a Nerf bat screaming “THREE DAMAGE! THREE DAMAGE! THREE DAMAGE!”

See, that’s the big appeal behind games: immersion. All games carry it, and everyone gets into every kind of game somehow, from Call of Duty to Risk. Role-playing games are different, though, in that you can also make someone. Other games don’t have this. You have to be the white male space marine or the angst-riddled Japanese school boy or whatever, and sure, there are more on-rails RPGs like the Final Fantasy series, but for the most part RPGs go deeper.

Many RPGS are about character creation and character building. Not merely who you are but who you will become. The destination may be more or less the same, but the important thing is putting the ship together, plotting the course yourself, and deciding who comes along for the ride. With such a model in place, all kinds of possibilities open themselves up to budding designers. Already we’re seeing the model used for westerns, science-fiction, post-apocalypse, and 1930s gangland scenarios. Who knows what’s around the corner next?

I do: cooking. Imagine a turn-based RPG where you play a chef assembling the ultimate meal. Enemies include fire-breathing jalapeno peppers and giant lobsters, where players fight with meat cleavers and buster-spatulas. The main antagonist could be a silver-haired pretty boy who wants to rule the culinary world with an iron fist. We’ll call it Final Frittata: Romance of the Three Kitchens.

Looks like I win again.

See you next time,

-RWI

P.S. Because I hate myself, I started a Wattpad account. Wattpad is a website where aspiring authors can upload their writings and have it read by others. I’ve already put up edited versions of The Upset and L, but I’m having problems finding good authors to read amidst the sea of angry teenagers such a website naturally attracts. Perhaps some of my fellow writing buddies can join me so we can form a tight community of old geeks?

Poetry Jam - The Streets of Facet City

2012-01-15T19:18:00.000-08:00

Good day,

My last Poetry Jam was as successful as a plane made of lead. I decided to give it another go, and this time try a much different angle.

***

My world bleeds away as I turn down a side-street into Facet City. I recognize the dishevelled architecture and the fractured roads. Gaudy neon lights from the shop windows and the pale glow of streetlamps show me around the labyrinth. The broken children running through the streets remind me of brighter days. The broken men on the staircases remind me of darker ones.

We call it facet because that’s what it is – mere aspects thinly woven together to give the semblance of a home. We damn it and curse it. We spit on its broken windows and its broken people. We hate its lack of maintenance, the paint peeling from its walls, the rusted pipes feeding into the buildings, the death-rattles of its air conditioners, the smells of drugs and raw sex and fatty foods invading the nostrils of the everyman.

I like it here.

I like Facet City because the food is cheap. A few coins can buy me my dinner, a curt word here and there can save me from being swindled. The food is bad; spicy and oily, overcooked noodles with undercooked meat served in lukewarm broth with cold vegetables. Ah, the sweet smell of starch impregnating some horrible braised beef and salad combo. My subhuman server slides a silver-tinted salver under my nose and I feel at ease.

I like Facet City because the movie stores here are legion. Rare imports from the dark corners of the earth line the shelves – every genre, every type, every quality. Where I like to go, a twisted old man sits at the counter, his twisted nephew in the backroom burning DVDs on one laptop and playing 1980s soap operas on another. I buy a stack of horror movies and kung-fu dramas and leave before they think I’m a cop.

I like Facet City because it’s sincere. A bar-fight spills onto the street uninterrupted. The bums are out in their Sunday best. Cardboard signs next to street kids demand money for heroin. Pigeons hang from the wires. The dogs are feral, the cats are beggars, the rats are legion, and a cockroach runs for city counsellor. The honesty here is refreshing.

Beneath the pink lights of an old building, a policeman enters, led by an auburn beauty smelling of desperation. A woman looks my way. Broken hands part split hair to show a shattered nose and a dislocated smile. She asks me if I’m going anywhere.

Sorry, sister. None of us are going anywhere.

I have my fill of the shamelessness and call it a day. I cross the street and make my way home, and as I do I breathe in. I take in the smells of blood and come and coolants and burning fat. I listen to a glass breaking across a man’s jaw and the banter of its residents. I taste oil in the languid air.

Until tomorrow, my love.

***

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Rapture

2012-01-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

Good evening,

I'm going to make an effort to update on Sundays now as I'm currently working 9-5 and do volunteering on Monday nights... as well, I've started taking French classes on Tuesdays and on Wednesdays I'm part of a writing circle with a bunch of my associates.

This will not stop the Roberttrain, however. FOR EXAMPLE

***

His roommate was laughing when he got in. That was always a bad sign. The last time Blaine was laughing, it was because he found a video of a man defecating in a supermarket. It bothered Isaac to share an apartment with him. Still, morbid curiosity made him ask: “What are you so happy about?”

Blaine smiled like the devil, “Just thinking that I’d like a Vegas wedding.”

“You’d like a what?”

“I’m going to take my girlfriend down to Vegas. We’re going to have an R. Kelly impersonator as the priest.”

“Blaine, what –”

“He’ll woo us with his soulful singing and then turn around and pee on a fourteen-year-old girl. It’ll be magical.”

Isaac winced. “That’s awful. You’re going to hell for that, Blaine.”

His roommate threw his head back and laughed dramatically, “We’re already there, brother! Haven’t you heard?”

One day he would stop asking questions. It wasn’t that day just yet, “Heard what?”

“There’s reports coming in, dude!” the mad one said, pointing to his laptop, “Three people got ascended!”

“What?”

“No, seriously, three folks got bathed in light and were lifted into the heavens and shit.”

“You’re lying.”

“Would I lie?”

“Yes.”

“Check the news, then. I’m telling you it’s there.”

Sceptically, Isaac put himself on the couch next to his friend and seized the remote. With a press of a button, the T.V. came on. A newscaster looking worse for wear rubbed his thumbs against a rosary chain and muttered. Turning up the volume, Isaac leaned in.

The words shocked him. He couldn’t believe them. He jumped from channel to channel, desperate for answers. BBC, CNN, CBC, Fox News, and NBC – they all reported the same thing. The same video footage of a pillar of light descending on a crowd of people and then dissipating seconds later ran and cut back to the desk. Anchors were in disbelief, struggling with their notes and Teleprompters; Bill O’Reilly was crying.

Isaac sat back, his mouth slacked open. “When was this?”

Blaine checked his laptop, “About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Who?!” Isaac cried, lunging for his friend and seizing his collar, “Who got taken?!”

“Um,” Blaine grunted, scrolling down, “A Lesbian art teacher from Russia, a Shaolin monk, and Ricky Gervais all got hit by light at exactly the same time.”

“WHAT?!”

“That’s what it says!”

Isaac flew from his friend and tossed his hands in the air, “This is ridiculous! I’ve been a Baptist my whole freaking life! My parents and grand-parents spent years preparing me for this day, and those clods get taken instead of me?!”

“Hey, you never know, maybe God’s standards changed,” reasoned Blaine, readjusting his shirt.

“God doesn’t change His standards!” raged Isaac, “That’s the whole idea! He’s supposed to have set rules that you’re not supposed to break and you’re supposed to keep to those rules!”

“Well, maybe he decided to stop being such a tight-ass.”

“Do not call God a tight-ass!”

Blaine thumped his laptop on the desk and got up, “What, so I’m supposed to ignore all those parts in the Bible that told people not to eat shrimp? Or how about all those parts that promoted slavery?”

Isaac lifted a finger, opened his mouth and stopped. He rose headed for the door, “I don’t have to hear this.”

“Yeah, I guess. Why don’t you head to church and find some answers there, fanboy?”

Angrily, he grabbed his coat, “I think I will. What are you gonna do?”

“Download all the porn I want,” he cackled, cracking his knuckles, “Take your time comin’ home and don’t mind the smell.”

***

Yes I started off my Sunday updates with a fairly sacrilegious story. Go big or go home, I suppose.

See you next time,

-RWI

It's 2012 now

2012-01-02T07:49:00.000-08:00

Good day,

Well, New Year's Eve was particularly mental. I ended up heading downtown to that big event at Toronto's City Hall, getting separated from my friends, and spending the countdown wedged between two walls of drunken teenagers and watching the MCs and various music groups traipse about hyping the crowd. I've always been kind of immune to the mass-hypnosis that seems to take place at such events, but being among strangers this time left a surreal taste in my mouth.

I usually spend New Year's Eve either with friends or with family, so often I end up caught up in their enthusiasm. Alone in Nathan Phillips Square, however, I felt something different. It was like going overseas and witnessing an alien cultural festival unfold while among the locals, whose foreign tongue I could not speak or hope to understand... except I was home, in Toronto, and everyone within earshot was speaking English.

Either way, it gave me pause. People put all kinds of pressure on 2012 as being a year of great enlightenment, or, depending on which misinformed lunatic you talk to, the year when the planet is supposed to burn. In fairness, either one could happen at this point. The environment has been torn to ribbons and Kim Jong-Un's in power, and yet we're looking at all kinds of social and scientific developments in the works.

Whatever happens, don't tell yourself that it's because of some metaphysical plan or prophecy. We got here on our own, and whether everything got kicked in motion by an unseen force is not our concern. If the shit hits the fan, I trust that there will be enough of a world left to save. So relax, enjoy yourself. I will.

Regular updates resume next week, as I've had an irregular past couple of weeks involving my brother coming to town, holiday festivals and parties from here to Kathmandu, and my own father driving over my foot by accident.

The foot, by the way, is fine. The car, however, is not.

Peace out,

-RWI

Holiday Special 2011

2011-12-25T07:27:00.000-08:00

Good day,

I know I’ll regret this later, but here’s a cover of We Need A Little Christmas from the musical Mame.

Gods, are you kidding?

This isn’t winter, this is autumn with dandruff

Everyone’s bidding

On meaningless crap and other pointless stuff now

Oh, is this your little Christmas?

Oh, is it fulfilling?

Screaming gangs of children?

Malls making a killing?

Oh, is this your little Christmas?

Are your dear hearts spillin’?

Because I’m sick, my eyes are blurry

I have to get home in a hurry

Enjoy carpooling

To some big holiday party in Newmarket

For I’ll be drooling

Over the new trailer for The Hobbit again

For I’ve grown a little older

Got a little fatter

Losing half of my hair

But it doesn’t matter

Because I’m getting a little bolder

Cutting idle chatter

And that is Christmas to me

Do you see the folly

Of exclusivity during the winter holidays?

Oh, Canada: golly!
Why not give Sikhs and Jews some extra praise, now?

So Happy Chanukah to you

Happy Gurpurab and

Festivus and Solstice

[Yes, I’m late, and it’s grand]

And happy belated Dongzhi

…And a really late Ramadan

2012 soon, but don’t fret

It’s not really the end of times yet

Don’t mind the tackiness

Of this time of year, we all know that it’s taxing

So spend this last week

With all your loved ones, curled up and relaxing now

And go have a happy winter

However you spend it

Christmas or Ganapati

Or whatever’s a good fit

But you should go watch Tintin

Right this very minute

Seriously, watch Tintin NOW

…I mean it: go watch Tintin NOW

Happy holidays,

-RWI

P.S. The Indigo Book Store close to my house has a nasty tendency to blast the Glee version of this song at full volume. If you ever needed to flush me out of a building a la Manuel Noriega, use that rendition and I’ll be in the police van after the first minute.

Let's Talk About - The Batman Paradox

2011-12-19T10:53:00.000-08:00

Good day,

In a previous post, I had talked about improving western superhero comics. It was there that I discussed certain aspects of cape-comics that I felt need to be downplayed considerably if not completely thrown away, not least of which being the overly serious attitude generally found in many works. A few of my friends read the article and asked a question that stirred around in my head for a while: What About Batman?

And they are right in asking. Batman is not only a big name in comics but a massive pop culture icon in general. He has been interpreted and re-interpreted in a number of ways across the globe, from award-winning programs to lesser-known Japanese re-imaginings. And I personally think that this is all because Batman himself is arguably the most malleable mainstream superhero in existence. Maybe not the best, but certainly the easiest to play with.

What do I mean? Let’s talk about The Batman Paradox and find out.

Some context before we proceed: I grew up with Batman merch. In my youth, I vigorously devoured some comics my parents bought, as well as some of my dad’s old single issues from the 1960s. Recently, I enjoyed The Long Halloween, and adored Grant Morrisson’s entire Batman library, Batman Secrets, and the original Bob Kane run from the 1940s. I watched the Adam West show and the Bruce Timm-animated series, as well as both Tim Burton films and the first Joel Schumacher flick in my adolescence, rightfully avoiding Batman and Robin. As a grubby university student, I had my fun with Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, and now as a grubby manchild I eagerly await The Dark Knight Rises and had a hell of a time with Batman: The Brave and the Bold. So, it’s safe to say that I get Batman as much as the rest of you nerds.

Everyone has the own visions of Batman’s portrayal, whether he be The Caped Crusader or The Dark Knight. A lot of people ragged on the Schumacher films (mostly the second) because they were cartoony and overly campy toy commercials, but there were those who also rallied against Batman Returns for being too grim, and I’ve heard ordinary people compare The Dark Knight to a horror film. Certainly, we’ve had a range of styles and tones throughout the years, but which one works? Well, the answer is both of them; sometimes, at the same time. This is the Paradox we face with Batman and the key to his malleability.

Here’s why: he’s a tortured, traumatized billionaire who has everything except a loving household. His parents were murdered before his eyes, and he had nobody to turn to except his aging butler. In his grief and glaringly apparent psychological torment, he enacts vague, violent revenge on the criminal underbelly of his home city…

…while dressed as a bat.

Seriously, that is such a major part of Batman and yet it is the silliest thing about him, especially since he has a bat-themed everything – a Batmobile, a Batcopter, a Batbike, a Batplane, Batarangs, and a Bat Cave. When you take away the Bat Family – which includes several Batgirls, Nightwing, a host of young boys in green undies, and Ace the Batdog – and his increasingly ludicrous rogue’s gallery, what do you have? You have a man with a lot of bat-paraphernalia and a full wardrobe of spandex suits beating people up out of a sense of justice that makes sense only to him. I remember having this conversation long ago with Loading Ready Run crewman Alex Steacy, and how he himself could not take Batman seriously because his cowl had ears.

Really, what more is there to say? When the basics of an idea are so vastly different from each other, it’s easy to fall into either side of the campy-versus-serious debate. You can make him dark. You can make him the techno-hero who casts aside his humanity and adopts the image of an animal as he beats down on assassin syndicates, serial killers, and mobsters. Yet, you can also make him silly; you can make him a total blowhard with a lot of disposable income who takes himself way too seriously, our sole defender against an array of colourful creeps and kooks.

With that in mind, he also works well in any kind of scenario, whether part of a shared universe or as a standalone character. On his own, he works because he’s an incredibly grounded hero. You don’t have to use fantastical or science-fictional elements because you could just toss in gadgets and real-world tech for him and the bad guys to play with. As part of a larger universe, he also works as a kind of misanthropic straight-man in a world gone mad. I always found it astounding how well Batman fit in with the Justice League, a group that also employs aliens, wizards, and The King of Atlantis. I wonder if the bat-suit helps in this, that dressing like a proto-furry is an image thing he keeps up so he doesn’t feel out-of-place when next to the rest of the rodeo clowns.

Off the top of my head, I can’t think of a single mainstream superhero that has this advantage, where they can be dark and silly at exactly the same time, or where creators can use either style without it feeling out of place. Superman and Spiderman always worked best as the boy scouts, sailing in with a wink and a smile, good-naturedly disposing of bad guys in time for bed. The Fantastic Four and The Flash are just really pleasant people who experienced the best workplace accidents ever, and nobody seems to know what to do with someone like Wonder Woman.

Batman, however, can afford to be dramatic and bleak, just as Batman can afford to channel Golden and Silver Age ridiculousness. He’s the moral hero and the dark one, able to adapt to any environment and for better or for worse has become an integral part of pop culture.

See you next time,

-RWI

P.S. Some of you may be aware of Hans Zimmer’s call to have people around the world add their voices to a massive chant he’s composing for the final cut of The Dark Knight Rises. Well, I decided to add fuel to this fire and add my own. Enjoy.

Flash Fiction - Rendezvous

2011-12-12T11:07:00.000-08:00

Good day,

Let's get back to I've A Nuking.

***

Jessie was at the bar not giving a fuck. A train sped by the window and rattled all the bottles and the tables and the guns people left hanging at the front. I saw the bartender, an old Caldaray with wrinkled tentacles and a mop of white hair, shudder at the noise before returning to work. The air was thick with smoke and low on lighting.

I made my way across the floor. I was pleased to see that the bar patrons were the usual roster of rat bastards and sex fiends I would have found in this district years ago. A scar-patterned Black man in a white cloak sat across from two Latinas with matching crab tattoos on their faces. Standing by the jukebox in an orange sweater, a green-eyed Selek with a missing ear and grey fur watched a diminutive Asian girl with dyed-blue hair bringing him drinks. On the side, a trio of Nalg-nas, beet-red and built like semi trucks, sat around another table playing with knives and a severed hand. A Polyp played cards with some North Croatian soldiers, uniforms and all; there was some serious coinage on its side of the table. Its opponents looked pissed.

My focus was on Jessie, “Jess!” I called out.

She faced me. Black-haired and almond-eyed, her bronze and round face lit up when she saw me. She was in the chequered coat I got her for Christmas and a pair of black pants. She was still a bit heavy, her thighs thick and her body as broad as I remembered it. That was fine; I could never picture her thin.

“Took you long enough,” she said, holding up a glass of something awful, “I was in here for hours yesterday.”

“I got held up at the station,” I told her, trying not to mention the food poisoning. “Do you have the package?”

She reached under her chair and lifted up a black suitcase. “Fourteen fucking hours of Neo Fascists talking about Mars’ economy,” Jessie told me before putting it back down again. “Why did I do that again?”

“H.Q. needs that intel.”

“I’m sure learning that the East Martian dollar has passed parity will be integral to the war effort.”

With a smile, I moved my chair closer to her. “Every minute counts. We’ll have the boys back in the office keep an eye out for code when they transcribe it all.”

She scoffed. “They’re welcome to it. Can’t believe I miss checking the radar.”

My hand sought hers. “I missed you, y’know.”

“Oh, Kent,” she cooed, gripping my fingers, “I missed you, too.”

My shoulder pressed against hers. “You look great, by the way.”

She laughed, “Still fat, you mean?”

“You’re not fat.”

“I’m fat, love.”

“Don’t lie to yourself.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m fat.”

“You’re just big; broad-shouldered and wide-hipped, yeah, but not fat.”

“Sounds like fat to me.”

I sighed. A Priest of Rock once told me that men were handicapped by a need to make sense. I was starting to think he was on to something.

The doors were thrown open. Five Levennan boys entered with one of their jewel-encrusted women, diamonds embedded in her supple green skin. She was on the arm of the tallest man, a passably handsome man with a t-shaped body and long legs.

“Hey-hey!” the tall one laughed, pointing our way, “Es fat gerl from yastarday! And shae breng skennae man over to boom-boom!”

His friends joined the chuckle. I ground my teeth. Jessie looked at me and shook her head, “Don’t.”

I wanted to; by void, I did. I hated it when she called herself fat; I liked hearing it from other people even less. My body boiled with every word and joke they exchanged. In my head, I translated the odd word here and there. They were speaking in a mix of English and the West Kal Island dialect. Key words like ‘cow’ and ‘huge’ made themselves known to me. And they were making me angrier.

Something bounced off the back of my head.

To this day I don’t know if it was an orange or a baseball. In any case, it put me over. Flying from my seat, I vaulted over a table and rushed them. Years of CQC training floated to the surface. Two of his friends saw me and ran ahead, arms out to tackle me. I ducked and grabbed their wrists, rising as I slid between them. Shoulders rotating, I had them flipped. One of the remaining three grabbed the girl and leapt behind the massive Black man in white; his other, smaller friend fainted. That left me and the big one.

Idiot thought it was a good idea to throw a kick at me. Stepping to the side, I caught it in mid-flight. One free arm reached for his vest. My weight shifted. We tumbled onto the friends of his I tossed. Flipping myself on top of him, I gripped his shoulders and slammed the back of his head into the floor.

“You wanna fuck with me?” I asked, dropping an elbow into his face, “You wanna fuck with a government man? Eh?”

“I think he gets it,” I heard Jessie say, tapping my shoulder feverishly.

“Oh, no,” I spat, staring into my opponent’s bruised and frightened eyes, “He –”

I heard safeties being released.

I turned to see the Caldaray bartender holding two class-five hunting rifles in its tentacles, massive pump-action weapons with multiple barrels. They were aimed at me.

“Gwet,” it tried to say, “Gwet ohwet ovv my barl.”

I took the hint. Hands in the air, I rolled myself off the Levennan. My head jerked to the door and I shot my lady a look. Jessie ran ahead and I walked backwards, arms still raised. Behind me, I heard her take her guns from the hooks out front and turn a knob. I sped up.

When we were far enough from the danger, Jess started talking again.

“Well, great job,” she began, kicking me, “Not only did I waste a weekend listening to a bunch of gasbags, but you kept me waiting a whole day, then started a fight and got me kicked out of a bar when you showed up.”

“I was defending your honour and shit.”

“Defending my honour got us thrown out of a bar.”

I pocketed my hands and looked at her, “You didn’t really like it in there, did you?”

Hesitating, she took a moment to take that in. “Well, no.”

“You’re welcome, tubs,” I teased her, putting my arm around her shoulders.

Jessie gave me a hard look and a soft smile. “Shut up and kiss me.”

I pulled her close and tasted tobacco.

***

See you next time,

-RWI

Who I Am - December 2011 edition

2011-12-04T06:54:00.000-08:00

Good day,

If you’re reading this, then you’re either a friend of mine who I had referred to this page, or you’re someone who stumbled across the website by pure fluke. Either way, Welcome!

My name is Robert and I’m an aspiring storyteller. This Blogspot account is something I set up for some of my articles, editorials, short fiction and flash fiction. It’s already been up for a year. I’ve tried to have an online presence before in the form of a failed Livejournal account (created back when I thought being random was clever), a failed Deviantart account (created back in the days when I was convinced I could draw), and a previous failed Blogspot account (created back in the days when I thought I could be an internet critic), and finally settled on this – A Collection of Literary Mishaps.

There are three purposes of this page: the first is a challenge to get myself to write something new on a weekly basis, the third is to have an online portfolio of my work, and the second is my attempt to entertain you denizens of the internet.

…Wait.

Anyway, the website is called I’ve A Nuke for two reasons. One, it’s a play on how my surname is pronounced, something an old university associate pointed out to me years ago. Two, because words are weapons; if the pen is mightier than the sword, then a well-written, informative, or otherwise entertaining editorial or piece of literature is mightier than an atomic bomb.

I want to be a storyteller; I want to be an educator; I want to build bombs packed with creativity and information and throw them at people; I want to make an impact. Well, I’d like to, but I’m very worried about it all blowing up in my face.

I’ve had the website up for the past year, and during that year I’ve had some hits and misses with some of my writings. I’ve dabbled in different genres and different concepts, created serials and one-shots and others that I’m both proud of and ashamed of. I want to share my personal favourites from that with you now.

COMEDY:

The L Series: L (Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four) and Live (Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four)

Rampage

Moment

SCI-FI

Shrapnel

The Upset (Part One, Part Two, Part Three)

Festive

This weird superhero thing I did that I’m sort of proud of (The Hero, Interview; there are two more but they’re rubbish-y)

HORROR/PARANORMAL

Frost Bites

Shelter From The Storm

LET’S TALK ABOUT/REVIEWS

Travis Touchdown

Improving Superhero Comics

Black Swan

I hope you enjoy these. I’m always open to comments and criticisms, so don’t hesitate to tell me how much of an awful person I am in the comments section.

See you next time,

-RWI

NaNoWriMo - Jesus Christ , did that just happen?

2011-11-30T19:14:00.000-08:00

Good evening,

So I got very wrapped up in NaNoWriMo this year, as well as a plethora of events that transpired since I last posted here.

That reminds me, did I mention I was born on the same day as Neil Gaiman? Well, I am. Not the same year, though. That would be weird.

Anyway, the final word count I put in before my soul drained out of my eyes was 50,385 words. But was the story finished? No. I got carried away. I added a fuckton of content and decided to be a giant asshole by tying it to the book I wrote for last year's challenge. The result was something larger and more complicated, which I'm as proud of as I am afraid. Size is no issue (tee-hee) but I hope it doesn't turn out convoluted.

Anyway, my plan with that baby is to let it sit and ferment, and then to finish it off when my mind is fresh again.

I'm very glad I got on it, though. I think I'll do one last NaNoWriMo, make a nice trilogy, and then call it off. In the meantime, I'll take a week off from flash fiction to prepare for the winter. I also plan to make a single page and show off works I recommend most highly to first-time readers, so expect that in the near future.

Sorry for the neglect. Expect regular, and irregular, updates as they come.

See you next time!

-RWI

NaNoWriMo update and excerpts

2011-11-07T20:00:00.000-08:00

Hey!

So I'm about 10,230 words into the story so far - I'm behind! That said, I am enjoying it somewhat. Returning to these characters a year later is something of a treat, and introducing the new ones is as aggravating as it is thrilling. So you know what? Here are some excerpts!

The two main characters, one of whom is suffering from a hangover.

***

Her phone rang next to her head. Yelping, she clutched her head and gnashed her teeth bitterly. She reached for it blindly, and brought it over her head. Her friend’s name was on the screen.

She hit a button and put it to her ear, “Cass?”

“Crystal, I had so much fun last night!” Cassandra told her.

Wincing again, Crystal pulled the phone back an inch. She fumbled to activate the speakerphone mode, and then set it by her face “I’m glad you remember it.”

“What, you don’t?”

“I think I yelled at a black guy at some point?” she recalled, the deep recesses of her memory bringing the image of a dark brown face recoiling in horror into her mind, followed by a blurred platter of pizza, “Then I think we went to Pizza Pizza…?”

“Oh yeah!” Cass laughed, “Fucking hilarious! But no, you don’t remember tearing up the dance floor with us?”

“No?”

“Oh, it was great. You did a grind on Victor.”

She sat right up, “Oh my god Victor touched my bum!”

“No, Crystal,” Cass said, “You did a grind on Victor.”

When she connected the dots in her head, she slumped back onto her mattress and slapped her forehead, “Oh god.”

“Yeah, and you stuffed a shot-glass down the front of your pants before you did. So for about five minutes Victor seriously thought that you had a penis.”

Crystal’s headache became worse, “Nooooooooooooooo.”

“Come on, it was funny.”

“I’ve got my rep to think about, yooo.”

“Oh, come on, you’re Crystal Qiu. You have no rep.”

“I want one now. I want yours.”

“You don’t want anything I have.”

“What about your cat?”

“You want Button? Fuck you, she’s mine.”

***

Here are the villains.

***

“Seriously?” she said, crossing the room and eying her lover’s work, “We could always just hire a junkie to knife her in an alleyway.”

“It’s not enough,” he growled, sloshing the blood across the ground, “I want her hunted. I want her suffering. I want her alone and afraid. I want her clawing the walls, thinking she’s gone mad. This will do nicely.”

“Didn’t think you would be such a sadist, my love.”

“I put a lot of work into Dexter. He was almost ready. He could have been beautiful. She ruined that. So, I’ll ruin her. I trust you don’t mind.”

She shrugged, “Everyone needs a hobby.”

***

And then the main character has a dream!

***

She dreamt of bodies.

Not right away, of course. First, she dreamt of a bleached, dry flatland. A pale sun beat against her face. Animal skulls and human arm bones lay around her, rising from the ground like weeds. A tuft of grass waved in the distance.

Under the heat, her clothes melted away like ice. It became a liquid, seeping into the earth, getting drunk between the cracks. She covered herself and looked to the sky for answers. Storm-clouds were gathering in a once-cloudless sky. Lightning struck the air.

When she looked down, she was in a black sundress dress with red linings. She brushed her fingers through her hair and felt a ribbon.

Then the bodies fell.

Dried-up bodies, gray and long-dead fell from the sky like rain. Like her, they were in red and black dresses, ribbons tied loosely to their heads. They piled on top of each other. Some broke when they landed, sending bits of finger or knees or teeth flying through the air. Ribbons drifted down around them.

Then fell other bodies. These were fresh bodies, pale fleshy things with all their hair and all their teeth, but still in black and red dresses like the rest of them. They crashed into the other bodies like rocks against sticks, sending more bones and skin strips scattering across the desert. A rib flew in the air and landed at her feet.

Hands to her chest, Crystal approached with caution.

Her heart sped up when she recognized them.

***

That's all I'm showing right now. Expect something different next week.

See you next time!

-RWI

ANNOUNCEMENTS and Flash Fiction - Shelter From The Storm

2011-10-31T19:56:00.000-07:00

Good day!

I have some news for you; but first, this week's Halloween/Día De Los Muertos Flash Fiction!

***

Hard rain slowed to a halt outside the old house. Andrew waited in the bedroom upstairs and feared looking out the window. Instead, he had the blinds shut and focused on the hardwood floor and the dark red carpet and the bed to his left. A hot drink was in his hands. He had asked for tea. He didn’t know why. After everything that he had seen that day, he doubted that a warm drink would be the first thing he could possibly want. Sweet scents and the heat took his mind off of things, but only for a short while.

The day was a blur. It began with waking up in a bed that wasn’t his. He entered the kitchen and was greeted by a man he knew as his car mechanic the day before. The man swore he was a librarian.

Andrew fled the apartment. Outside, he saw his mother arm-in-arm with a stranger, denying she knew her only son. At his office, nobody recognized him, and neither did he know any of them. He spent the afternoon hiding from the rain in an old coffee shop, his senses escaping him.

Then he saw the thing rising in the streets.

He saw it spreading everywhere, a black mist that snaked through every road and into every window he saw. People breathed it in, and let it enter through their faces and up their fingernails and inside their clothes. Everything began to grow dark and thick with the twisting black mass; that is, except for an old house he saw up a large hill. He ran for it.

His host and the owner of the old home crossed the threshold of the room in a one-piece black silk dress that stopped at her ankles. Three obsidian bangles sat on her left wrist. Pale skinned, brown-eyed and raven-haired, she was tall with a broad face and full lips. Back in town, the children claimed she was a witch, calling her Lady Hyena or Madame Jackal behind her back.

She said she preferred Shauna.

“How’s the tea?” she asked, walking up to him.

“Not helping,” Andrew admitted, “But it’s making me focus.”

Her fingers drummed against themselves, “You know you’re safe, right?”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he whimpered, avoiding the question, “I think I’m going crazy.”

Shauna’s eyes traced up and down his body with the same intrigued look she gave when he first showed up, “Do you, now?”

“Everything’s different,” he muttered, “I told you, everything’s different. I don’t know what’s happening. I,” he swallowed, “I need help, lady.”

She laughed, “And you think seeking shelter from the storm with this old cougar will help you?”

“You can’t be that old,” he said, sceptically.

Cooing, she leaned over and pinched his lip, “You’re sweet. Besides, I’ve heard the children say I’m quite the bitch.”

Andrew shook his head as she let go, “Kids can be cruel.”

“Honesty comes from the mouths of babes,” she misquoted. “But we’re not here for idle chatter, are we?” She crossed the room and opened the blinds. “We’re here to talk about that.”

Hesitatingly, he joined her side.

At the window, they saw the massive, writhing shadow emerging from the centre of town. Lights flicked off and on as amorphous limbs stretched into each house and store and church it could find. Red bubbles rose and fell across its ever-twisting form like bloody mist. Branches of its impossible body rose and clawed at the sky.

“We’re the only ones that can see it, you know,” she said, her hands finding his shoulders, “And it’s been here longer than you could possibly imagine.”

He found himself staring at it, staring into its pulsating red-and-black body, “What does it want?”

“Change,” she said, leaning in, “Constant change. Every night it rises and pulls people’s memories apart, places them in different homes, gives them different jobs – even rewrites the records at city hall. Then, it sinks back to wherever it came from and watches you live another life.”

“Why?” he asked, feeling her breath.

“Fun?” she whispered, “Perhaps it feeds on incomplete lives, wasted potential energy? All I know is that you go to sleep a believer and wake up an atheist. One minute you’re the mayor’s son, the next your dad’s the town drunk.”

“That’s horrible.”

She lowered her eyes, “My mother knew about it years ago. This place was never touched by it, not once. That’s why I was raised here. That’s why I invited you over two days ago, Mister Repairman.”

He blanched. “I’m not a repairman.”

“You were,” she insisted, “I took photos. You said I was being awful peculiar. Don’t you recall, Greg? Or, who are you now?”

His blood ran cold. “Why do you want me?”

“I’m lonely,” the woman confessed, circling round to his front, “Just some middle-aged lady with poor fashion sense and an overactive libido. I used to drift from man to man to woman across this whole town, and now my bones ache and I need to settle down.” She put her arms around his neck, “You just so happen to be the man for the job.”

He tried to take a step back, but she had him fastened in place, “You’re nuts.” His voice began to break.

“I’m bored,” she complained, pulling him close, “I used to think it was exciting, seeing a new world open up before my eyes every morning. Maybe it’s time for stability. Maybe it’s time to save some lives,” she stroked his neckline and hummed thoughtfully, “We can start now.”

“This is a joke,” he wept, tears rolling down his face. Blindly, his hands sought the sides of her dress, “This is all a joke. My name’s Andrew. I work in a bank. I studied accounting. I did a minor in Latin. I,” he gulped, and pressed his forehead against hers. Big sobs bubbled up in his throat, and words escaped him, “I – I –”

“Hush, now,” she cooed, pressing her finger against his lips. “We’re safe. Just you and me, we’re safe.”

He gave in.

Outside, the shadowy devil shook its limbs at the sky and rumbled out a deep, agonized groan.

Inside, Shauna drew him in for the longest kiss in his known life.

***

So, now that that's done, I have two things to say!

First and foremost, one of my short stories is going to be published in the December 2011 issue of Schlock Magazine! I got the news this morning and spent about half an hour floating one foot off the ground. I feel like I'm finally making some headway with my writing! Thanks for reading! Let's hope this doesn't make me all pompous.

On that note, I'm also announcing that I will be writing in NaNoWriMo this year. I already did it last year, creating a massive novel titled The Anti-Cupboard of Cassandra Dalton. I intend to return to the characters and world I created there with a sequel titled The Unfortunate Life of Crystal Qiu. As such, updates will be a little more irregular on I've A Nuke while I try to hammer together this new creation and search for stable employment once again. Expect little blurbs and bleeps here and there, but on the whole I'll be focused on this. It will be big and IT WILL BE WEIRD.

See you next time! Happy Halloween, y ¡Feliz Día de los Muertos!

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Live4

2011-10-25T18:36:00.000-07:00

Good evening,

I promised Live4 and here it is.

***

“Dude,” Jeff said, as they forced their way through the thickest part of the crowd of fellow concert-goers, “Dude, listen! If she’s dead, I’m giving you so much money.”

“No,” Mark snapped, “If she’s dead, I’m kicking your ass and taking your money because this was your idea you fucking nimrod.”

News had circulated through to their side of Ground Sound. Violence had broken out at the three-way rap battle between horrorcore rapper Slither and his opponents, Dadaist rapper M.C. Shaz and the foul-mouthed Hazardous Matt. Reports they heard over security radios were mixed. Some told of shots fired, others of a riot.

There was one report that seemed consistent: a woman dead or dying.

Mark’s girlfriend had gone to see the battle on Jeff’s recommendation; they prayed it wasn’t her.

In moments, they were at the centre. Jeff and Mark immediately recognized two of the three rappers being led away by several security officers. Hazardous Matt was in a full-body radiation suit, while M.C. Shaz exited the scene in his trademark candy-coloured top hat, white sleeveless shirt, and heart-patterned boxer shorts, his jeans pulled down around his ankles.

Vans and motorcycles and old BMWs were parked in random locations across the lot. A predominantly male crowd stood around, its numbers murmuring at one another. Yellow police tape lined the area and people were pulled aside for questioning. The distinct smell of fire and kerosene hung in the air.

Jeff shook his head, “Fuck, where do we even begin?”

Hands running through his hair, Mark hissed with panic, unable to take his eyes off of the scene, “Ask questions. Please, please, ask someone something.”

“Right,” Jeff hummed, looking around. He stopped and raised his hand. “You, there! Hey!” he shouted, flagging down a long-haired man who smelled of spices, “What happened at the battle?”

“Okay, so like,” the spaced-out youth began, “Slither totally started eating a guy’s face, right? And then M.C. Shaz turned a gun on the crowd and totally killed everyone?”

Mark blinked out of his trance, “What?”

“And then Dracula showed up and we all had cake,” their informant concluded.

There was silence for a second.

“I’m taking him home,” Jeff declared.

Turning pale, Mark ground his teeth, “NO!”

His friend shrugged, “Come on, he’d be a great conversation piece.”

“Do you like French fries?” asked the youth.

Jeff put a hand to his chest, “I love French fries. Not this guy, though,” he said, indicating towards Mark, “He’s a poser.”

The youth narrowed his eyes, “Fag.”

Mark began to sulk away, “Fuck you.”

“Don’t be such a poser, fag,” Jeff’s new friend mumbled, “Poser-fag. Fag-poser. Fagoser.”

Another young man with chains attached to his pants slumped over to the three of them, “What up, Brett?” he asked the first youth.

“That guy’s being a fagoser,” the one named Brett said, pointing to Mark.

“Oh, right on,” he said.

“NO!” Mark screamed, whirling back and shooting a fierce snarl at them both, “You will not invent a fucking word while my girlfriend lies bleeding to death by a minivan!”

“We don’t even know if she’s dead!” Jeff shouted back, “Just calm down and let’s –!”

Mark grabbed Jeff’s collar and yanked the squirming man close to his face, “Fuck you! Fuck you! I ought to leave you out here to starve! I’ll –”

“Mahku?”

Mark released his friend and turned left. He bit his lip and moaned. Slender and flushed, Haruka stood next to the largest black policeman either he or Jeff had ever seen.

Mark rushed the girl and held her in his arms. He choked. Giving little squeaks of confusion, Haruka patted her lover on the shoulders and cooed in Japanese while Jeff rolled his eyes. Mark pulled back, pressed his forehead against hers and wept with joy as they kissed.

Jeff walked past them both and pocketed his hands, screwing his gaze upwards to the giant officer, “Alright, so while Tristan and Izanami here have their little moment, you mind explaining what actually went down?”

“Slither threw a Molotov cocktail into the crowd during his rebuttal to Hazardous Matt,” the man said, in a grim bass voice, “But we’ve got him detained; again. His parole officer’s going to have a fit.”

“Was anyone hurt?” he wondered, casting a glance back at the lovers.

The policeman shook his head, “People are shaken but not stirred, if you get my drift. Some kid’s shoe caught fire from the blaze, but she’ll be fine.”

Jeff’s nose scrunched, “Christ, the radio chatter we heard made it sound like a warzone. What was all that about shots fired and a woman dying?”

The officer shrugged, “Broken telephone? It’s hard to get a reliable witness out of this crowd.”

Jeff glanced over his shoulder to the long-haired youth from before, who now writhed on the ground scratching himself as his associate laughed, “Tell me about it.”

The officer tipped his hat and left. Turning on a heel, Jeff put his hands behind his head and strode for the lovers. “You guys okay now?”

“Fuck off, Jeff,” whimpered Mark, lifting his head. Haruka looked his way at the same time.

“What?” he called out, offended. “Fuck your teeth, I’m your friend. I just –” He paused and froze, his eyes growing wide.

“Jeffu,” Haruka said, sniffing at him, “What’s up?”

There was reverence in his voice, “I hear the opening bass riff to ‘We’re Going To Get Several Bitches In This Motherfucker.’”

Mark dried his eyes and stared at him, “How?”

“I just know, okay?!” Jeff snapped, shaking his head, “Enough! I must go! The Further Colonels need me!”

Without another word, he was gone. They stood and watched their friend rush into the distance. A drum beat pounded against the air and shook the earth.

***

Yay, Haruka's not dead! Now to retire these characters until I can think of something else to use them in. Perhaps I'll make an epilogue to Live later.

Stay tuned, ladies and germs, because next week we've got our first Halloween special and an announcement!

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Live3

2011-10-23T19:24:00.000-07:00

Good evening,

Early bird here! I'm continuing on from Live and Live2 and hitting you with a cliffhanger!

***

“Have you seen Mark and Jeff?”

This was the question Adam posed to every one of his friends that he could find. Lost in a maze of concert-goers, vendors, and security guards, Adam weaved his way through the mass of people in search of them. A thunderous bass from one of the many stages shook the trees as he hunted for the pair.

He remembered seeing the panic on their faces as they bolted through the crowd ten minutes ago. He had to know why. Responsibility dictated that he was to find them, and to support them however he could. He knew where all the Lost and Found stations were. There was a first-aid kit in his car. He had memorized the exact locations of each outhouse, emergency services tent, and information desk. He would do his part. He was ready.

It was Paul he flagged down next. Drenched in sweat, the man wiped his face on his shirt and shrugged, “Dunno where they are now,” his friend admitted, pointing to his left, “But I did see Fat Johnny passed out in one of those outhouses over there.”

“Oh,” winced Adam, “Oh, wow.”

“Yeah, and he stank of vodka. I think Nanako’s Chinatown gang loaded him up and set him loose.”

“He was dressed, right?”

“And how. I’ve never seen a man wear that many ponchos.”

“We’re getting sidetracked. What about Jeff and Mark?”

Paul shook his head and thumbed to somewhere in the distance, “I saw them heading that way.”

In an instant, Adam pulled a map from his pocket and scanned it. His finger ran along the page and his eyes darted back and forth from the paper to the horizon, “Okay, so they’re going North-East...” he mumbled, “so they’re heading to the hot dog stands, or the Stanktastic show, or the –”

“Dude, what does it matter?” Paul griped, “You’re not Superman.”

“No, I’m their friend,” he said, boldly, “And I have to be there for them.”

Paul rubbed his cheek, “Doesn’t mean you gotta chaperone two twenty-five-year-olds.” He stopped and leaned left, “Oh, hey!”

Adam turned to see who he was hailing. Bleach-blonde Claire entered, tall and lithe and pouting. A taller, tanned man he assumed to be her latest victim strode up with her. He felt his sinuses burning away from all of the perfume she wore.

Paul stepped forward and waved to her, “How’re you liking the show?”

“Broken Nose was tight,” she said in a nasally, whinging tone, “Some prick tried to grind me during ‘So Low?’ But then Gustavo showed him what’s what.”

“‘Sup?” said her consort.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Adam yammered, forcing himself between them, “I’m looking for Mark and Jeff. Have you seen them around?”

Claire sneered and checked her Blackberry, “Those guys? I saw them just now. They’re looking for Mark’s ho-bag.”

He never understood why she didn’t like Haruka, “Did she get lost?”

She put the phone to her side, “Nah, she went over to that rap battle in the parking lot? Jeff told her to check it out.”

Adam’s blood froze. He knew who was performing and how volatile they were known to get. He remembered seeing one of the police cruisers and a handful of security rushing off moments before he saw Jeff and Mark run for the distance, “What’s going on there?” he asked, expecting the worst.

“I dunno,” Claire said, checking her Blackberry again, “Some fight broke out and they think Haruka’s dead or something? Whatever. Is there any pizza here?”

***

Expect Part Four of Four on Tuesday. I'm a busy boy!

See you soon,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Live2

2011-10-18T19:18:00.000-07:00

Good evening,

This is a day late due to a busy weekend with friends. I'm continuing on from Live, and preparing Parts Three and Four for next week. Then I have to figure out what I'm doing for Halloween.

Anyway, this:

***

Jeff was pressed against the window by Fat Johnny’s titular girth. Mahmoud was on his right, but was slimmer and less affected by the man’s size. Now and then, Adam would glance back to Paul, who hadn’t stopped grinning since the sardonic man’s first grunt of anguish. Every time he saw the broad smile cover his friend’s face, he would shake his head and focus on driving again.

“How’s it going back there?” Paul asked, turning to Jeff.

“Can’t breathe,” he wheezed in response, “If I don’t make it, tell my father I hate his shoes. He’ll know what I mean.”

“We’re almost there, so chill,” Adam snapped back at him.

Paul chortled, “Yeah, don’t be such a drama queen, buddy.”

One of Jeff’s arms poked out from behind a roll of Johnny’s fat and pointed at his antagonist, “I will haunt you. I swear to god, I will haunt you, Paul Fester.”

Adam rolled his eyes, “Stop it. You didn’t complain before.”

“I must have blacked out,” coughed Jeff.

“No, no,” objected Mahmoud, “You were very much a quiet, Jeff.”

Fat Johnny shot him a look, “I thoughts yous was sleepin’.”

Half-laughing, the scrawny Cambodian sneered, “Death is like sleep.”

“Well, time to wake up,” the driver said, grinding the car to a halt. “We’re here.”

Doors opened on their own. The rest of Adam’s passengers left the old Camaro as Jeff stumbled out wheezing. Linh and Ben’s van pulled up and Jeff’s lithe little Leila slipped out of her seatbelt to run to his side. Shinsuke, Nanako, and a legion of unknown Chinese men and women joined her. Mark and Haruka left their hatchback, helping Darren and all of his bags out of the back seat.

Down the hill where they all stopped, a sea of people writhed amongst the wide expanses of grass. White stages dotted the horizon, vanishing into the distance. Another parking lot sat at the bottom, where a mass of enthusiasts covered in a cloud of marijuana smoke prepared for an oncoming rap battle. The wail of guitars, the whine of violins, and the thud of drums reached them on that plateau.

They gathered at the edge and stared out at the scene. Adam pulled the map and information brochure out of his coat and started reading them over. Haruka and Mark held each other close as they snapped photos of the landscape. Darren did a quick inventory check while the titanic Fat Johnny mumbled out suggestions to an agreeing Shinsuke.

Two stragglers, Linh and Ben, joined them, a baby girl sitting in Linh’s arms and cooing. She wore sunglasses and an old Sneaker Pimps t-shirt.

Adam turned to them and did a double take, “Why?” The rest stopped and shared his shock at the infant’s presence.

The couple looked at each other and shrugged. “We can’t get no babysitter,” Linh said, “so she’s coming with.”

“That baby is so getting stolen,” Jeff said, morosely. Leila jabbed his ribs.

Linh smiled and bounced her daughter, “No, we gonna get family pass now!”

Jeff laughed, shortly before returning to his previous expression, “No, seriously, you’ll never see her again.”

“Jeff!” Leila cried, jabbing him again.

Striding around the gang, Adam checked the pamphlet. “Okay, so who’s going to be where? We should make the food courts our meeting place, alright? We can regroup there now and then throughout the –”

“God, man, you sound like my mom,” Mark whined, stroking Haruka’s hair, “Just let us do what we do.”

“I want to know where everything is and I want to know where all of you will be so we can find you all in case of an emergency. I know Nanako’s dying to throw Hennessey cans at Hard Nox and the Nguyens are off to Sexadecimal.”

“You are taking the baby?” Mahmoud said, wide-eyed, “To see the Sexydeci-mall?”

“What?” complained Ben, “She’s eleven months old! She won’t remember this!”

“You trouser trolls can do whatever you want,” the cynic sneered, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, “Leila and I are gonna hit the stage the Further Colonels are rocking and mingle with the cool kids.”

“The what?” Darren asked, in-between bags.

“You’ve never heard of The Further Colonels?!” Jeff cried, striding forward with his hands up, “They’ve got some of the best songs! ‘I’m In The Strip Club?’ ‘Come Get That Mm-mm?’ ‘We Are Going To Get Several Bitches In This Motherfucker?’”

Darren eyeballed the fanboy, “Never heard of them. They cool?”

“Like ice.”

“They got swag?”

“They bleed swag.”

Mark rolled his eyes, “Christ, you sound like a promoter.”

“We know what we like,” chimed in Leila, stroking her boyfriend’s chest.

“Oh god,” Adam groaned suddenly, looking around them all wild-eyed, “where did Shinsuke and Fat Johnny go?”

Everyone stopped and scanned the area for the obese giant and his associate. Darren leaned over the landing and waved at them. They gathered at the edge and looked downward.

Down the hill, they saw a familiar, bulbous shape and a tiny Japanese-looking man rushing for the bottom.

Adam slapped his forehead and instantly felt lost.

***

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Live

2011-10-03T19:13:00.000-07:00

Good day,

Another Flash served up ripe and ready for all y'all:

***

Adam didn’t have enough chairs. He had Mark and Haruka taking up the couch, Shinsuke on the floor with his chin resting on his knees, and Paul sitting on the only fold-out IKEA chair he had. Adam took to leaning up against the wall while Paul went over the brochure for the event.

“So who’s playing, anyway?” he asked the reader.

“Uh,” Paul muttered, going over the slip, “We’ve got Sexadecimal, Broken Nose, and D.J. Sitrep on Stage Five. Shibuya Murder Scene’s opening for The Further Colonels by the food stands. There’s a three-way rap battle happening between Slither, M.C. Shaz, and Hazardous Matt in the parking lot –”

This raised Mark’s eyebrow, “Did you say in the parking lot?”

“Yeah, says here they want to ‘keep it street’ and shit,” Paul said, passing the pamphlet to him and his girlfriend. While the couple poured over the pages, he turned his attention to the man on the wall. “Who else is coming?”

Adam shrugged, “Ben’s going to take Saturday off, but no guarantees with him. Carla, Linh and Mahmoud are still good to go, but they wanna bring Fat Johnny.”

“Does Fat Johnny have a cell phone now?” groaned Paul, reclining, “Because we can’t bring him if we can’t find him. Remember last time, at the beach? When he got arrested?”

Adam waved him off, “You let me handle Fat Johnny. And before you ask, I can’t invite Sylvia because she’s been weird lately.”

Mark shook his head while Haruka took a turn with the pamphlet, “She’s still hurting over what happened in Siberia. I –”

“Everything Lovely,” Haruka squeaked, running her palm against Mark’s chin, “I want to see, this gurupu.”

Paul stared, “Is gurupu some Japanese thing?”

“She means ‘group,’ guy,” Mark sneered, kissing his girlfriend’s hand.

The man rolled his eyes, “Accents.” Seconds later, a coke can bounced off of his knee and Haruka puffed up her cheeks.

“Alright, alright,” Adam groaned, looking at the other Japanese on the floor, “You bringing anyone, bro?”

“My girlfriend, she coming. She wants to see Hard Nox,” Shinsuke said, laughing, “So surprise, yeah? She like this kind violent girl.”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeh?” Haruka hummed, surprise in her eyes, “Nanako is scary.”

Shinsuke laughed his high-pitched laugh again, “No way. She young gal, that why. And always go karaoke with this kind of crazy Chinese guys, yeah?”

“We need more people. Tell her to bring the Chinese guys, too,” said Adam, turning back to Paul, “Did you call Jeff?”

Paul gave a tsk. “I sent him a text yesterday, and he called me back a minute later.”

“What’d he say?”

“‘Stop texting me, you colon scavenger,’ and then he hung up.”

Scratching his nose, Adam scowled, “That doesn’t sound like Jeff.”

“No,” Mark said, dialling a number on his phone, “No, it does. Here, let me try.”

As Mark went on his mission, Shinsuke called out to the others, “Listen, I gonna bring Darren, then he gonna bring Andy and Claire.”

“Eeeeeh,” whined Haruka, “Noooo, Claire so mean.”

“What’s wrong with Claire?” Paul shot at her, “She’s better than fucking Jeff. At least she didn’t ditch you and Mark at a restaurant without paying the bill.”

Slumping forward, she twisted her mouth, “Eeeeh, datte. She thinks I am hooker.”

“Everybody who isn’t Haruka shut up. I got Jeff and Leila,” Mark chimed in, pressing a button on his phone and aiming it at the crowd. “You’re on speakerphone, bud.”

“Who else is there?” a voice asked in a dismissive tone.

Mark scratched his nose, “Uh, me, Haruka, Shinsuke, Adam, and Paul –”

“Ah, yes, the slave to the machine. Hurry up, we’re watching Doctor Who.”

“Hi!” his girlfriend called out from the other side of whatever room they sat in.

Mark leaned in, “We were wondering if –”

“Ha!” Jeff cackled, “Matt Smith said a funny. Sorry, what?”

Paul rubbed his eyes and growled, “Just tell us if you’re coming to Ground Sound this weekend, you fucker.”

Indignantly, Jeff scoffed, “Well I’m not now, meanie. Do you know how many cherubs died because of your cussing?”

“Dude, come on,” pleaded Adam, “The Further Colonels are gonna be there.”

Something dropped on the other end. “You lie,” hissed Jeff.

Mark nodded, “Shibuya Murder Scene’s opening for them, too. It’s gonna be pretty cool.”

A sputtering noise grunted at him from the other side, “Do not speak of Shibuya Murder Scene and The Further Colonels like they’re garage bands from Utah!” the man snapped, “This is going to be like Mary Magdalene opening for the Norse gods! I’m in!”

“Who is playing?” they heard Leila ask.

“Shibuya Murder Scene,” Jeff responded.

“Who?”

“They’re opening for The Further Colonels.”

There came the sound of a hundred-and-ten pound Persian girl scrambling over the couch, seizing the phone and yelling “WE’LL BE THERE!” before hanging up.

***

I know what you're thinking: Oh Fuck It's Them. And yep, you're right. I thought I was done with Jeff and the rest of them but the scene just wrote itself. So what happens next? I dunno. Come back in two weeks to find out, because I'm taking next Monday off for Thanksgiving.

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - The Upset, Part Three

2011-09-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

Good evening,

I spent an extra day as THIS IS HUGE. This the third and final part of The Upset. Hope you enjoy.

***

Arnie used to live with Clarke and his parents after a fire took his apartment. On the insistence of Clarke’s mother, it was only until he could find a home of his own, but soon they had grown used to living together. The basement became his, a den populated with old magazines and antique cassettes. Clarke remembered going down there to hear music long-forgotten and to rife through his uncle’s effects, hearing stories of days gone by.

It was Christmas Day when the war was declared. Sparked by an attack on Stockholm from the Colonial Liberation Front during the preceding week, the World Union announced its intent to retaliate. It was a time of dark decisions. Weapon development bans were lifted across the globe in order to battle the growing strength of the C.L.F.

Fifty long years after the last modified man was built, human weapon production became legal once more.

He remembered being a boy of eight, sitting in the kitchen as his mother begged her brother not to join. Pleas turned to threats and threats to pleas again. Nothing could dissuade him, though; Arnie’s decision was final. He wanted to avenge those lost and fight back the C.L.F. Young Clarke thought he was brave; no-one else shared his enthusiasm.

Arnie walked out of their home a man; four years later, he returned as something else.

His skin became greenish from the fluids circulating through his body. Iron bracings covered his arms and legs. His skeleton and muscles were modified and reinforced in order to withstand his implants. He lost weight; his face had grown gaunt. His eyes stayed the same, but they were grim and told only horror stories.

Clarke’s mother couldn’t bear it. She tried to love her brother as she had before, but every smile she sent his way was dipped in anger and fear.

Meanwhile, the world changed. Promises were made to make modmen like Arnie into productive members of society. Many put their blades to work in harvesting grain or at lumber mills. The strongest were given tasks of heavy lifting, or hired by construction site managers. Field medics, their arms augmented with so many pneumatic drills and buzz-saws, found work in factories.

But there were those who brought the war home with them, those who had seen so much strife that they could not live like people anymore. For them, the Federation was formed, what some called a fighter’s league and others a tournament for the damned. This was a place for weapons to become weapons again, for humanity to be set aside in favour of brutality.

When Clarke found a Federation enlistment form in Arnie’s room, his mother threw a fit. The words ‘monster’ and ‘lunatic’ were slung at the once-man until he could take no more. Fire fled his eyes, his shoulders slouched, and his mouth twisted. Clarke’s mother was crying at that point. She fell onto the ground in a heap, his father hugging her around the neck.

Arnie packed his bags as she was led from the room.

Even for his age, Clarke understood nothing. He stood there and watched Arnie, his hero, put his magazines and cassettes and clothes into so many boxes and cases. He heard his father belting at him to go upstairs. Defeated, Clarke made his way out. As he left, the boy looked back and asked to know why his uncle was leaving.

“Because I’m like crotch-rot, kid,” the old man answered, casting one last glance at the boy, “Nobody wants me.”

It was then that Clarke realized he was standing in that arena ten years after that moment. It was then that he remembered that he was one of two in a sea of thirty thousand men and women who did not chant against his uncle. His senses returned to him as he saw the beating Arnie was put through.

After tossing his prey around, the hulking champion put his uncle, who the public knew as Crotchrot, in a chokehold. The monster called Rageman yowled as the crowd cried for more. In his massive hands, the giant held the challenger down and squeezed his neck. Crotchrot winced and tried to pry the bony sausage-like fingers from off of his throat.

Clarke ground his teeth together. He cast one last look at Minnie, the madwoman at his side, and faced the mat. Taking in a deep breath, he screamed his uncle’s name.

Arnie’s eyes snapped open.

A stream of fire burst from his forearm. Wheeling it up, he aimed the blaze at the titan’s mouth. It shrieked and let go, stumbling back and seizing its steaming face. The crowd screamed in shock. The referee scrambled and ran to the giant’s side as it tossed and screeched in pain. Arnie rose, looking around the arena until he stopped. The gaunt warrior focused on the exact spot where Clarke stood.

Clarke could feel the electricity in the air. Murmurs and the odd set of boos bustled. Minnie turned to him wide-eyed. He paid her no mind. His attention was directed to the stage, and Arnie Cambpell’s attention was directed right back at him.

In seconds, he remembered. Anger and confusion covered his face as Arnie looked at the man his nephew had become. “Came to watch an old man die?!” he called out to him.

With Minnie gripping his arm and asking something he could not hear, Clarke straightened up and bellowed back: “I came to watch one win!”

Behind the old man, the champion screamed. With one hand he threw aside the referee and howled. Whirling round, he faced the exposed back of his opponent. Hissing and spitting with fury, he charged. The crowd’s cheers rose again. Minnie screamed. Clarke tensed.

Arnie lowered his head and shut his eyes.

His leg blossomed in flame.

Time seemed to slow as his old friend spun. Rockets in his leg burned the air as he wheeled the kick at the champion. Minnie’s nails dug into Clarke’s arm. The crowd held its breath.

And Clarke smiled.

***

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - The Upset, Part Two

2011-09-19T19:07:00.001-07:00

Good evening,

The second part of this growing epic is up and running.

***

They were placed near the front. Pyrotechnics from the arena blazed high, fireworks careening towards the rafters and bursting into arrays of coloured light. Heavy rock music groaned against the speakers as the two combatants took their places on the mat. When he and Minnie found their seats, the crowd was already chanting the champion's name.

Clarke looked at the men in the ring and shivered.

The man he bet against was seven feet tall, black metal grafted onto his pale flesh. Sharpened teeth bared themselves from underneath an obsidian half-helm covering the man’s eyes and nose. Bulbous muscles from years of steroid and muscle growth hormone use pushed against a full-body harness that was riveted in place. Black cords fell from his scalp and were fastened into his chest. The giant seethed and drooled and paced around his side of the arena.

Squatting in the corner opposite him, sat Crotchrot. Scraggly grey hair fell in tangles across his unshaven face and the sides of his head. His body, nearly gangrenous in colour, was waxed and wiry in contrast to the champion’s hulking mass. Brown leather with tassels was what he wore on his legs and for a vest. Iron bracers sat on his forearms and calves, hiding the barely-used rocket thrusters that were buried into his limbs.

Minnie couldn’t contain herself when she saw him. “Oh my gods oh my gods oh my gods I’ve never been this close before!” she squealed, clapping like a true fan would.

Tense, Clarke folded his arms. He wanted to say that he had been closer before, far closer, but that was a surprise to save for later.

A man too fat for his tuxedo stood between them and announced: “Now begins our final match of the evening, ladies and gentlemen! Get your tickets ready, because this face off is going to knock your face off!” The crowd squealed with anticipation.

He gestured to his right, “In this corner, The Challenger! The Ghost of Oldville! The original Rocket Man himself! Weighing in, parts and all, at only two-hundred and sixty-one pounds: CRRRRRROTCHROT!”

A mix of cheers and boos met him. The challenger waved a hand limply at them. From his space in the crowd, Clarke nodded solemnly to himself. He forgot how light the old man was.

The man in the tux shot a finger at the behemoth to his left, “Aaaaaand, his opponent! The Death Valley Dragonslayer! Hero of the Skulltown Rebellion! Weighing in at seven hundred and fifty-five pounds: RRRRRAGEMAN!”

Rageman reared his head back, stretched his arms out, and roared triumphantly. The auditorium met him, roaring back.

All except for Minnie, of course, “BOOOO!” she cried, aiming a flipped-bird at the giant, “Crotchrot for life!”

A bell rang. The announcer ran out of the way and let a referee come in. Slowly, Crotchrot rose to his feet and stretched out his arms and back. His face tensed like it hurt so much to do. Rageman lumbered towards him, still seething and slobbering all over the mat.

Crotchrot launched his offensive. Wheeling his arm back, he rushed the goliath and spun a clenched fist over his head. Near the giant, he let the first punch go, slamming it into the champion’s left breast. The blows he dealt to Rageman were quick and fierce. Hard jabs and straight kicks to the monster’s body barely fazed Crotchrot’s opponent. A stray uppercut to the champion’s jaw sent a loud clang ringing through the arena.

The next punch came like a bullet.

Steam burst out from Rageman’s elbow as he reeled back and caught Crotchrot in the jaw. The old man flew and bounced off the mat. His back hit the edge of the ring. Rolling onto his side, he forced himself up just as the giant was on him. Seized by the same massive hand Rageman had struck him with, the challenger was lifted into the air and thrown against the ground behind the giant. He bounced again. Rageman followed and seized him once more for another throw.

Clarke rang his hands together. Use your mods, he thought, biting the inside of his cheek, Come on, old man, use your mods. There’s no honour here, so get up.

Turning his head right, he scanned the audience howling with delight as Crotchrot was thrown around like a ball. He saw children in Rageman shirts clumsily applauding their hero. A buxom woman with dyed green hair jumped up, holding a ‘Rageman 3:16’ sign. Swarms of men and women clapped and pumped their fists with each blow. The crowd was against him.

All except for Minnie, of course, but when he looked to her he saw the same bloodlust her eyes that he saw in theirs. No doubt she remembered his fighting history more than anything else, his many clashes with Cain The Able, Loverboy Jones, The Living Dead, and Brother Doom. It was clear she remembered the hits, the throws, the sound of broken bones, a world of steam and blood and pain.

But Clarke remembered another man; a veteran from the Great War who smelled of tobacco and brought him comics for Christmas. Clarke remembered a man who smoked too much and laughed his pain away. Clarke remembered a man no-one wanted.

Clarke remembered his Uncle Arnie.

***

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - The Upset, Part One

2011-09-12T19:04:00.000-07:00

Good day,

This one is actually turning out to be a bit longer than I thought, so I've decided to release it in small chunks.

Here is Chunk One:

***

“Ten-fifty on Crotchrot,” he said proudly, sliding his bills in front of the woman behind the desk.

She glanced at the money on the counter and raised an eyebrow at him. “Nobody bets on Crotchrot,” she said. A field of ashtrays channelled themselves through her voice.

Pocketing his hands, he shrugged, “Well, I am.”

A sigh; she took the money and shook her head, “Your funeral, kid.”

“Four-eleven on Crotchrot!” a chipper voice behind him called out.

He glanced over his shoulder. Whoever she was, she stopped just shy of his ribs and was all in black. Silver studs sat burrowed into the shoulders of her jacket. A low-collared tank top barely concealed her chest. A loose skirt stopped half-way down her thighs, an inch before a set of tights slid into a pair of boots. Hair an unnatural shade of red was shaped into a pixie cut. Grey eyes, a button nose, and tight lips stood out on her round face.

Throwing her hands in the air, the woman at the counter rolled her eyes, “Sure, come on. When the champ puts Crotchrot through the mat, don’t come crying to me.”

“Oh, we won’t,” the giddy little stranger said, dipping into her coat pocket and producing the bills she needed.

He couldn’t help but smile, “Crotchrot fan?”

“I loved him back when he was in the Murder League with Bill the Bulldozer,” she admitted, taking her ticket, “He’s still got charisma, even when he loses. I love that!”

“He’s been losing a lot, lately,” he said, mordantly. Her enthusiasm was as intoxicating as it was infuriating.

The girl shrugged and dipped her head to one side, “Doesn’t mean he hasn’t had memorable fights.”

“Nobody forgets his match with The Bombinator,” he mentioned, hoping that would set something off.

It did. She gasped and seized the sleeve of his jacket, “I love that fight! That big turnaround at the end where Crotchrot puts him in that headlock and wins?!”

“The whole crowd went silent,” he muttered. In his mind, he recalled the wave of gasps of shock and the whispers of discontent that burrowed through the crowd. No cheers, no boos, no thrown drinks; mere astonishment was the only soundtrack.

Taking in his words, she nodded slowly, “Yeah, but… It’s crazy, but I re-watch that fight sometimes, right?” She put her up and rubbed her cheeks, a dreamy look creeping across her round and youthful face, “When I’m sad, I watch that fight again. I think it’s inspiring. It helps me get through my problems, y’know? It tells me, ‘You shouldn’t give up, Minnie; Crotchrot never gives up, no matter what! So why should you?’”

This made him smile broadly. Mounting evidence suggested that the girl was mad, and just what he was looking for, “Well, isn’t that the damndest thing? By the way, Minnie, my name’s Clarke, and might I ask: did you come here alone?”

***

Chunk Two comes next week.

See you next time,

-RWI

Flash Fiction - Shrapel

2011-09-05T11:53:00.000-07:00

Good day,

Let's get back to flashing. Shut up, I know what words mean.

***

Pain pounded against her head. Slowly, the throbs and aches worked their way down to her shoulders and the left side of her body. Blackness clouding her vision melted away to reveal red earth. Rolling over, she forced herself up. Weak muscles fought against her, but she fought harder. Finally, she was on her feet; the smell of burning oil hung in the air.

To her left, one of the wings of her Starscreamer lay embedded in the earth. Assorted bits of metal lay across the ground. Half a turbine had landed in front of her. Beyond it laid an overturned mass of wreckage. She recognized the nozzle of her ship, and a right wing which had bent inward and snapped off just as she rose. Burnt steel along its sides showed where the missiles had pummelled it.

Wasting no time, she hobbled over to the ruined vessel. Head down, she paid no heed to the scenery. This was no time to sightsee. In time, she reached the cockpit. Both hands reached inside and seized a latch for a small door on the console. A monitor broke free and dropped onto her wrist. She ignored the pain. A box attached to a long cord fell out of the glove compartment and flopped into her hands.

“Hello?” she said, tapping the device and bringing it to her lips, “This is Kali Newell of Starscreamer Number 0080. H.Q., do you copy?”

A gurgle of electric screams, followed by English: “This is H.Q. Kali, please repeat your SS Number.”

She groaned and spoke slowly, “Zero-zero-eight-zero, H.Q.”

The pause from the other end told her what was coming. “Your Starscreamer is named The Loli-Popper?”

“I lost a bet!” she howled into her radio, hands shaking. Her head throbbed, and she groaned again, “Never-mind. Where’s my evac?”

“We’ll drop one down when we can,” he uttered, “Interference from the New Colonial Fleet’s jammers is keeping us from locking onto your co-ordinates. You were part of the fleet orbiting Planet AU-673, correct?”

“Bingo.”

“Can you describe any major landmarks?”

She huffed and looked around, telling her contact: “I see a big spike of rock sticking out of the ground to my left. Hills in the distance, one’s kind of shaped like a giant tit. I think I see a tree.”

“Sorry, a tree?” the man said, shocked.

She squinted. Wood spiralled into a long, grasping talon covered sparsely with flat leaves that she estimated were as long as her forearm. “Yeah, it’s definitely a tree.”

“We didn’t think anything was alive down there! This is a big discovery!”

“Will it get me off the alien planet faster?”

“Sorry, sorry,” the man said, now breathless with enthusiasm, “Keep going, please.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, there are big craters ahead of me, like from meteors or something. I’m counting three but there may be more. Everything else is just sand and –”

Something hopped into view.

She stopped everything and watched as the dark blue thing bounced across the landscape. It hopped around the fallen turbine in front of her and came closer. Pear-shaped, its body sat suspended on a pair of thick legs and long, wide feet. A pair of bulbous black eyes sat on two fleshy stalks that waved in the air.

“Kali? Kali, are you there?”

“There’s something alive here.”

A loud bang; she winced. On the other end, the man scrambled to pick something up. “Did you say something’s alive there?! Like an animal?!”

The creature looked her way. She shrugged, “I mean I’m face to face with some fat, bouncing thing.”

“Can,” her contact said, gasping, “Can you describe it?”

“It looks retarded?” she responded.

“Blb,” squawked the creature as it skipped by.

The man from H.Q. laughed raucously, “Animals, too! This is a miracle!”

Kali grit her teeth and seethed into her radio. “Yeah, you know what’s a miracle? Me being alive. Where’s my evac?”

“We’ve been looking for habitable planets for years! This news could turn the whole war on its head! You could stand to be a little more excited, you know,” chided her superior.

“Yeah, I kind of had a feeling that it was habitable,” she said with a huff.

The man seemed curious now, “How so?”

“Well, because my helmet got knocked off when I was shot,” she said, running fingers through her hair, “And the fact I didn’t suffocate was a big sign.” She paused, thoughtfully looking up at the wide, grey sky above her, “Or did I not mention that?”

***

Here we go again.

See you next time,

-RWI

Fuck everything I AM BACK

2011-08-29T18:45:00.000-07:00

Good evening,

I trust you've been well.

WELL, TOO BAD SALLY, BECAUSE THINGS JUST GOT WORSE.

Remember when I said I'd take the month off to do some soul searching and get involved in my community. Guess what didn't happen: THAT SHIT. While you were sipping your tea and talking about gas prices, I was in an undisclosed facility in Nevada getting augmented with nanomachines designed to look and act like Charles Bronson. That's right, suckas, MY BODY IS FILLED WITH TINY CRIMINALS and I'm going to be unleashing them IN YOUR HOUSE.

I've got ideas. I hope they're good ones, but either way, they're hitting the web soon. Check back soon to see for yourself, if you like. It's good to be back.

See you next time,

-RWI

In which I go on hiatus until August

2011-07-25T07:45:00.000-07:00

Good day,

I think it's time I went on summer break, so to speak. I've been writing content for this Blogspot account, once a week and every week, since December of last year. As such, I'm going to take some weeks off to focus on some other projects here and there. I have larger short stories I aim to have published in literary magazines of some type or another, and perhaps I'll rope in some programmers to help me start up my own website.

More importantly, I want to get more involved in my community. I can sit here all day and all night about how badly I want to throw the mayor into a gas truck, but change can only happen through effort. I love my city, and I don't like what it's becoming. I hear people say now and then "well if you don't like it then just leave," which is something you say to someone at a boring party or a rowing club while Toronto is my home. I want to do something big, and I want to do it soon, but let's see what happens.

So, who knows? Either way, I've got a lot of things to sort out. Don't expect a regular schedule until some time next month. Until then, stay safe and stay healthy.

I'll be right back,

-RWI