My Queen

    I have a little problem.
    Emphasis on little.
    Being a fan of a certain Alien-related series, I decided to buy a toy for myself online. A 6-inch, vinyl action figure of an alien-queen. I was so excited when she arrived! I pulled her out and realized in an instant my luck.
    She was a misprint.
    Now, I know what you're thinking: "Why would you want a misprint?"
    Maybe it's just the collector in me, but I love misprints. They stand out. They're odd. They're weird. And, should I ever want to sell her, she'll be worth drastically more because of her oddity than a regular figure would.
    Initially, I thought the misprint had to do with the fact she wasn't colored quite right. That her teeth were the wrong shade of paint.
    What I didn't realize was that misprint extended to the fact she doesn't realize she's a toy.
    I first found out after I had taken her out of her box and put her on the mantle. I came home from work later in the day only to find her missing. I searched everywhere high and low in my house only to find her stalking about my laundry room.
    At first I was terrified. What evil voodoo bullshit have I unleashed?! I thought to myself. But then I realized she was 6 inches tall and made of vinyl. I could punt her bitch ass if need be and it seemed like she knew it too. She regarded me with the same level of care one might regard a particularly nasty bug, but perhaps for that same reason, she didn't antagonize me.
    I did some research, and I realized that it was probably because of a misprint.
    Little did I know, toys in their natural state know they are toys. They recognize that they aren't supposed to move about and they shouldn't be found sneaking around my ventilation system. But with misprints, like my little queen, sometimes things break. They don't quite understand and instead they think that they are what they represent.
    Meaning now I have to deal her being a little bitch.
    I really wasn't sure what to do initially. I was scared she'd do something terrible to me in my sleep or it would be some sort of horror-movie trope where I find myself locked in a dark room with it trying to get me. But once again, I remembered she was 6 inches and made of vinyl. Once again, my fear turned to mild annoyance.
    So now I just have to deal with her.
    Most of the times, I'll simply find her stalking about. She'll regard me with an angry hiss and I'll just slide her out of the way with my foot. Occasionally she'll go missing only to out herself by banging around my ventilation system. I think she's trying to be sneaky, but what can I say? She's got a big head and sucks at her job. Once in a while she'll try to make a nest.
    The nests are always the funniest.
    I came home once and wasn't greeted with my cursory 6 inch monster. Not only that, my fridge was left wide open for some reason and a number of my other action figures were missing. I immediately started looking around, worried that someone had broken in and robbed me.
    Instead, I found her tucked up behind my dryer.
    Using a great deal of scotch tape that she'd found, the queen had taped my other action figures to the walls around her. On top of that, she had used the dozen eggs I just gotten from the grocery store and set each egg up in front of the other toys. And then she just sat there waiting like she expected something more to happen.
    While it was hilarious, I also had to replace the eggs and she kept fighting with me when I tried to free the "cocooned" toys.
    And so that's what I have to deal with.
    More than once, I've considered just getting rid of her. Burning her or breaking her or something of that ilk. My girlfriend hates it; says 'she's an abomination', but I'm not sure I agree. I like my little queen and, for all intents and purposes, I think she likes me too. I can't imagine getting rid of her and I'd rather run the risk of waking up to a few pilfered groceries than not coming home to her at all.

===

(Hello Lovelies, as you're aware, I'm going to be posting reviews for all four Aliens books and, frankly, this just popped into my head because of a little toy I owned. It's simple and silly, but seemed like fun overall. I hope you enjoyed.)

"I never studied Writing..."

Hello Lovelies,

I was speaking to a friend the other day and it really got my brain buzzing.

In short, the conversation had to do with a rather delicate social issue; racism in America and how its misconstrued not only by the 'bigoted' party but by the parties who try so hard to fix the problem that they essentially make it worse. I won't go into the finer details, but the friend in question was incredibly passionate and started talking at length about wanting to write a book on the topic as a means to help educate others on the idea. As I understood it, he'd already worked within a lecture environment a couple of times and wanted to put his thoughts on paper.

The question that I directed at him? Why didn't he?

There was some brief back and forth, but the cliche that we reached is the same one that I've actually started to hear more and more as the years press on.

"Well, I never really studied English in school/college.", or "I didn't take any writing classes.", and even "I'm not sure if I'd do any good."

I bet you know the point I'm about to make, but I feel it needs to be said.

Writing is a window into your soul; into your passions and your love and your hate. It gives a platform to stand on, a boom mic in one hand, and a flag in the other. Much as painting, drawing, singing, poetry, and any other creative expression in the world, writing is just another means of putting yourself out there, for better or for worse, for you and the world to see and understand where you're coming from. It can be done for a purpose, like I hope my friend will, or it can be done because your brain is often too full of nonsense and needs to be drained, like I often deal with.

However, what it does not require, is a Doctorate in English.

While I'm sure my older sister would disagree, as would any Doctors in the Subject, let me explain.

Writing, like anything in the world can be learned. There are classes that will help and there are people that can lead you, but that doesn't mean you are restricted to sitting at a desk listening to some professor drone on and on about the theory of subjective adjectives. Everyone learns in a different way and no two learning methods will be useful for any two given people.

I provide myself as example.

Now first, let me accept that I'm no Shakespeare. I don't doubt I'd benefit from classic training, but as it stands the extent of my "writing classes" are some high school English classes THAT I HATED WITH A PASSION. Everything else has been self taught. Hell, if you were really bored enough, you could follow that learning process just by going back and reading some of my old content and moving forward through time. You can observe my improvements (or failures) even over the course of a year with just an afternoon of reading and a large pot of tea.

The reason I bring this up though, is more and more recently, my friends refer to me as being a writer. Not that I mind, but I've realized they do this as a means of separation, not necessarily as a recognition. It's a means of saying "You know more than I do on this subject" and while I would love that to mean what it sounds like, it's meant as a degradation of their own character and capability rather than a reflection of my own.

In short, they feel that there is something special that they lack; some training or understanding that they never received that I somehow did.

This brings me nicely to my point: that's horseshit.

While I could probably write a book on WHY it's fucking stupid to degrade yourself into believing you missed some crucial college course to being successful in something you love; or I could simply sit here and stroke egos and spout cliches about 'just go do it', I'll just share how "I go do it" as an example.

One: I read. A lot.

But probably not what you think.

I do indeed have a shit-ton of books at my house. I have a lot on my kind and audible account too (as mentioned in my previous post). But writing isn't necessarily all about reading novels. I have read web comics religiously and I'm sure I will again in the future. I also read actual comics; Dark Horse, Marvel, DC...whatever. I read the news. I read blogs (as I'm sure plenty of you know). I read captions. I read letters. I read bills. I. Read. If there is written word, paying attention to what is being said and how it is said will give you an insight into writing.

To that point: Difficult reading DOES NOT EQUAL good writing. That's not to say there are classics that aren't loquacious and verbose as a dictionary smoothie; but always consider what those words MEAN. Why use "chronic periscapular hyperalgesia" when you could say "shoulder pain"? A well worn thesaurus isn't always a good thing.

Two: I write.

No shit, right?

But that doesn't mean I sit here punch out novels. Any of my normal followers can tout that I'm a horrible human being with an incapability of keeping a schedule.

No, instead, just as mentioned before, I simply let words flow. This wordy and astute piece of silliness is a perfect example. I will scribble down articles and content for no one in particular. I will write down a comment or question, just to see it. Hell, my biggest help is probably the weirdest: I host Dungeons and Dragons because it lets me concoct stories for my players to get through.

In short. I just write.

Lastly: I listen.

There are better writers. There are better authors and publishers and editors and people who HAVE studied and HAVE done things I will never accomplish. These people are not my enemy. I trust many of them to be professionally and painfully honest. I listen to their complaints and criticisms and I read their comments when they bleed the red-pen of death across the page and I consider it. Some might be mean and personal, but some might have astute information you've never considered.

So, in conclusion, just let yourself be. Let yourself read and write and or draw and paint or build a bike or whatever you want to do! Sometimes classes help, sometimes they don't. Sometimes you can teach yourself something, sometimes you can't. Be open to the experience around you and inside you and let yourself push forward. You'll be surprised by what you can do.

Audible

Hello Lovelies,

As you may have all realized by now, I'm a terrible human being. I'm constantly busy, I'm easily distracted, and I'm generally extremely self serving in that I often find myself more fascinated with little tasks and hobbies that are NOT writing when I should be writing.

One of those biggest distractions has and always will be Books.

Makes sense for a writer, eh?

All joking aside, I have a tendency towards reading A LOT. What I read is always questionable, but anyone who knows me knows that I'm inclined towards fantasy, science fiction, and many other fantastical settings that allow a level of creativity outside of everyday human living. But really, what point am I trying to make here?

In short, reading takes time and reading a LOT takes a LOT of time.

As mentioned before, I tend to be very busy and easily distracted. Books that interest me could be left on my shelf for months because I have other things to do. Like an of us, I have work, family obligations, a need to cook and clean, I go to the gym, etc. Given the opportunity, I'd love to be able to fill that time with a good book, but...ok, you get what I'm building up to here.

I'm sure many of you have heard of Audible, but I have to ask...ever used it?

I actually decided to try it a few months back; got the trial membership fully intending to just get a free book and then disable the account before my month was up. Even did...for a couple of weeks. Then I found myself going back. Again. And Again. And Again.

As a whole, the thing was just way too convenient. When would I listen to them, I asked? How about anytime I felt like it through my smartphone; most notably when I was at the gym, driving, or doing chores around the house. But I don't want to "stream" that much data, I said, thinking of my terrible wireless plan! Don't. Just download the book you want to your phone or computer whenever you're near WiFi and pound through it at your own convenience later on. But wouldn't it be weird listening to someone else read asked the narrator in my brain? Nah. If anything, some of my favorite ones so far have been good old fashioned audio dramas like they used to do on the radio some decades back. At the end of the day, many of the readers are very talented story tellers that add to the flavor of the book rather than take from it.

I bring all this up solely so you can give it a look if you haven't already. I actually had heard about Audible for years and just largely ignored it (primarily for the top three reasons mentioned above). I'm sorry I didn't check it out sooner. It's even inspired me to start looking into voice acting and audio books ideas for Xenophobia. If you love reading or stories and haven't checked it out, lemme be yet another person to encourage you to do so: it's definitely worth it to give the trial a shot.

Book Review - Alien: The Official Movie Novelization

Getting started, first let me say that I'm definitely a bit conflicted with this book. As with any adaptation, the author must take certain liberties to conform the what works in a movie to what works in a book (as the reverse must be done when adopting a book to movie). You're always going to have things that someone liked better one way or another, so reviewing definitely comes with a grain of salt.

If you are unfamiliar with the original film, the story of Alien revolves around a crew of 'interstellar truckers' hauling a massive tug of petroleum through space back to Earth. The ship is unexpectedly redirected when it receives an emergency beacon from an unsurveyed world. Upon descending to the planet, they are unfortunate enough to discover a new form of life that stows away onboard in a rather unorthodox fashion, only to get loose later on and because wreaking terror on the crew. One by one they are each picked off, sometimes by the Alien and sometimes by each other. It ends in a claustrophobic, heart racing showdown that I won't spoil here but I'd encourage you to check out for yourself.

So let's start at the beginning.

Now, to give credit where credit is due, the greatest strength in this book has to be its descriptions and overall writing. The book, for all intents and purposes, would make an English teacher very happy. Grammatically it's perfect and it's loquacious to boot. Why should a button be green when it can be verdant? Or why simply push that button when you can depress it down with a satisfying click and a hum of machinery that comes to life after doing so.

Well...

While it will definitely win first prize at the spelling bee, it does bring us nicely to our first hit and miss: Pacing. As any horror author can tell you, pacing is important. It's hard to do but absolutely integral to the tone and atmosphere of the story. This is our first hit and miss.

The beginning of the story is slow. Very. Very. Slow. I actually started this book sometime back and eventually gave up 10% in because I just stopped caring. The author speak ad-nauseum regarding every little nuance and subtlety. Every clink of a machine, every light that blinks, everything that even vaguely occurs in the beginning of the book is so drawn out that it I very likely could have invented hypersleep before the characters woke up from their cryogenic stasis.

To the stories defense however, the author gains a better control of the story's pace once the alien is onboard and wreaking havoc. He begins to understand that not every whir of a machinery's hard-drive needs to be documented and, instead, uses the slower pace to build tension. What's better than slowly realizing something's out of place? That something is behind you? That something is waiting just around the corner? There are one or two scenes that are amusingly enough blown by that shouldn't have been, but overall the second half of the book is much better than the first.

In short, the author is very decently able to capture the tension and horror in these scenes that really made the original movie such a standout piece.

This brings us nicely to the next point: the adaptation.

While not necessarily good or bad, the actual adaptation and how a potential fan might react is subjective. Anyone that's seen the movies more than a few times can probably tell you in gruesome detail their favorite scene of the movie. They could probably tell you exactly what the creatures look like in their dark, sleek, and hideous black chitinous appearance.

What if I told you that had been changed?

While I've heard conflicting stories, a number of details, large and small, have been altered in the telling of the story. I've heard that it might be based on a very early version of the earlier script, but it definitely raised a few eyebrows. Did you know that the aliens all had enormous bulging eyeballs? I sure didn't. How about the fact that no one in this horrible, messed up situation ever feels the need to use a curse word? What about several completely skipped over scenes that add a great deal of context and understanding to the narrative as a whole.

Overall, the book is just ok. Of the four move adaptations, I definitely feel that it was the weakest however. Getting through the beginning of the book is just so gut-wrenchingly slow but it definitely makes up for it in the panic of the climax. I would give it a 6.5 out of 10.

Adventurers in ReWriting

Hello Lovelies,

As I mentioned a few weeks back, I've started rereading and rewriting Xenophobia so we can have a nice, concise story.

Not gonna lie: kind of glad I decided to.

In starting the process, I've noticed a hilarious number of inconsistencies right off the bat that I  wanted to share. Obviously part of the issues stem from the fact that the original Xenophobia concept was never meant to be a novel. In fact, the original idea was just a quick short story that examined humans/Earth as just being scary as all get out. I.e. Humans are the big scary aliens, not the aliens themselves. However, just going back and reading, I felt the need to share a few glaring inconsistencies that just tickled me all too much.

====

- Cherryl
Let's be honest, I completely forgot about our innocent, little Celestial Commissioner. While starting off as an integral character in the original chapters, she's just kind of...gone away. And for no real reason! Totally just absentmindedness while I explored other characters. I've considered if the story REALLY needs her...and I think it does. I think she could fill in some gaps in the story quite well.

- Ferris and Darrian's Personalities
Another oddity that happened over the course of writing. Maybe it can make sense if I actually INTENTIONALLY make it character development, but somehow Ferris switched his personality with Darrian and Darrian...well...he just got old-man tired. Ferris was originally bubbly, bouncy, and a joker and Darrian was a horrible cynic. Somewhere along the line, Ferris became the cynic and Darrian just slowed to a crawl.

I had already intended to rework Darrian to be less of a pair of eyes and more of a character, but I didn't realize how badly I screwed that up til I started reading. Ferris will definitely remain the joker, just less giddy overall and more like how we ended. However Darrian needs to become more rounded and less a rolling dumpster fire full of glue.

- Harris
Not gonna lie...Still love Harris. He's probably the one who's stayed relatively the same overtime. The exception was he was a lot more excitable and a lot less of a smart ass at the beginning. Minor tweaking to adjust for character changes and all...but I just have to say I still adore him as a character.

 - The Council and the Galactic Consortium
Easily the biggest miss. The Council and the Consortium were never overly fleshed out, got completely jumbled in their appearance, and consists of constant back and forth that was clearly never thought out enough until way to late. This is going to be SERIOUSLY reworked.

====

And that's all for now, lovelies. I just wanted to share some incite as to a few things that I've immediately noticed and fill your head with the possibilities of the changes to come.

One additional note, I'm trying something new: Scheduled Posts. I've realized that I'm a terrible human being with a terrible capability to post WHEN I want due to work, fun, exhaustion, and/or lack of motivation. Moving forward, I'm going to try to blow out posts in advanced, schedule them, and then give myself time to work on Xenophobia in between. Hopefully this works better.

See you later!

-RB

All the Lonely People - Part 2

[Just getting started? Check out Part 1 first by clicking here!]

    The door turned to splinters under the force of the Hunter's boot. The termite riddled, rotten wood blew forward to reveal the oddity inside, exploding with more force than he had meant. The remains of the door ripped from its hinges and slid across the floor.
    Despite the decrepit exterior, the inside of the church had been decorated.
    White streamers lined the walls of the abandoned building. Great baskets of flowers ran the length of long forgotten pews and a single red carpet had been rolled out along the aisle. Rice was scattered about the ground, leading up to the altar. At the far end, a double set of candles burned dimly in the dusty darkness.
    Their lights highlighted it.
    It was disguised as the same young woman he'd seen so many times looking through her windows. She was dressed in a long, flowing white wedding dress and had her back to him. In any other instance, he might have approached her; maybe attempted to help her or even check why this seemingly innocent young lady was standing in the middle of this hall of horrors.
    He knew better.
    Pulling the hammer back on the revolver in his hand, a satisfying click echoed the derelict church.
    The slight twitch of her head told him it had heard.
    She turned around to face him, a soft smile playing along her lips. She had been beautiful before it had gotten to her. Blue eyes, rosy cheeks, blonde hair, and a slender figure. Now, staring at that same visage, he knew it was just a facade.
    "Hello, Father." it said with a growling voice that surprised him.
    There was no pretense here. Despite wearing its victim's face, it knew that he wasn't going to be fooled.
    "Hello, Demon." he responded in turn.
    "Demon? Now is that anyway to talk to a lady?" it asked with a smile far too big and viscous for girl's dainty mouth. "Especially on her wedding day."
    The Hunter glanced around briefly at the macabre display. His thoughts drifting to the poor young man who would begin desperately searching for his lost love; if he hadn't already.
    "You haven't killed him yet." he said.
    "No." it confirmed. "But it won't be long. I want to let it set in first."
    "Set in?"
    "The loneliness." it said with a smile that now cracked the edges of her mouth, splitting it into a hideous clown-esque appearance. "I can't help but enjoy all of those lonely people."
    "You're a monster."
    "AND YOU'RE A FOOL!" it snapped with sudden force.
    He brought the revolver up to bare; focused dead on the creature before him.
    "After all," it continued, bleeding back into its softer tone, "This wedding is for us."
    The creature extended his hand and he felt himself tighten. Felt his strength drain away as he was lifted from the ground as if by an invisible force. It wrapped around his body, held him still, and dragged him forward towards the altar not a foot from the creature.
    "Tsk tsk. And what groom forgets to wear a suit?" it said with hideous intent.
    This close to the creature, he could smell its rank breath. The scent was heavy with rot and decay and he could plainly see every needle point little tooth in her mouth.
    With tender, gentle hands, it reached up to start unbuttoning his collar.
    "I should tell you," it began. "I'm often quite accommodating."
    The next few buttons.
    "I often kill them quick."
    A few more.
    "Clean."
    The coat came off.
    "It's no fun to let them die screaming. It ruins the flavor of the meat."
    It reached for his shirt.
    "I don't think I'll afford you the same luxury." it said with a hiss.
    Peeling away the first button of his shirt revealed the silver cross he wore around his neck. The result was an instantaneous roar as the creature dove backward. It was a defiant, sickened noise that matched the hideous sight as the creature bent backwards in a fashion that would have broken a human's spine and leaped against the nearest wall.
    But his hands were free.
    The gun came to bare a second time and he had emptied the revolver into its chest even before he could feel his fingers again.
    With a heavy thud, the creature hit the ground.
    It did not get back up.
 
    As he went about burying the creature in the graveyard behind the church. The Hunter considered removing its damaged visage, but decided against it. While the face it had stolen was cracked and broken, he had no interest in seeing what it really looked like now. Plus, he didn't think the dead cared much one way or another if her face was buried with it.
    He gave it its last rights all the same.
    With a sigh, he wiped the dirt from his hands as he walked from the grave. With the exception of the fresh mound, Father McKenzie had left nothing to signify that the graveyard had a new, unaccounted corpse.
    He would call in the death in the morning to the local police department. An anonymous tip, like always. There was no point in letting the poor boy, or the police, continue their search. Eleanor Rigby was dead and she had been for weeks; she just finally had a grave to go with it.
   

All the Lonely People - Part 1

    With a grunt, the Hunter drew out the heavy leather satchel from the trunk of his car.
    Like him, the satchel was old, worn, and dirty but stronger for it. Built for another purpose, but molded to its new life with surprising capability. It was filled with hard things, pointy things, and enough destructive power to rain death with the force of a hurricane. Still, hope existed within its folds.
    Setting aside the stained bible that rested atop his instruments of death, the Hunter drew out a long and slender knife. It found its sheathe with a ring of the blade.
    Soon, another.
    And another.
    Knives, blades, flechettes, guns, ammo, explosives, trinkets of all shapes and size, and even a good old silver cross. Each one found its pocket, its holster, or its home. Each one was snug and secure, able to withstand a beating should the need arise, but ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.
    Many of his kind found the weight of the weapons cumbersome and restrictive. He didn't agree. If anything, if made him feel more centered then any other time. He felt bald and exposed otherwise. Cold.
    The satchel was back into his trunk. A moment later, a newspaper clipping fell to the street below. He quickly gathered it up and tucked it into his pocket before closing up.
    He didn't need to read what was in the clipping. The Hunter could probably recite the first lines from memory.

BRUTAL MURDERS CONTINUE!

After months of searching, police still have no leads for the terrible

serial killer that has terrorized Maple Brook county since early October.

While police assure residents that they are hot on the trail, one off duty

officer revealed that they have yet to find anything substantial. The victims,

three separate young women,all engaged, were each found with their faces 

removed  with surgical precision. While leaving the muscle and bone beneath...

    Staring up from his parking space on the abandoned road, the old church before him appeared empty. He knew better.

    Its windows were cracked and broken in many places. Several shutters hung loosely. Some local jokers had spray painted a number of foul words across one side. Chunks of wood had split here or there, giving him the impression that the building could collapse at any moment. Not far behind, the old graveyard sat as dead still as the corpses it housed.

    The Hunter's boots made loud thunks as he walked up the rotting steps. He didn't care. It knew he was coming anyway.

    He'd watched the thing for the last several weeks. It wasn't until the day before that he realized it had been watching him back.

    Disguised as a young girl in her early twenties, the Hunter had started watching her under the presumption that she was the thing's next target. While he didn't introduce himself, he also didn't make a point to hide either. Every now and again he'd see her sitting at the large bay windows of her apartment, watching the world go by. Or, as he discovered, watching him.

    It wasn't until the girl hadn't come home that he decided to look a bit closer.

    Breaking in was easy enough. Her apartment didn't even have a deadbolt.

    At first glance, it hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. He found everything he would have expected to. The kitchen was stocked but not overly. There was some dirty laundry but there was a basket of clean ones needed to be folded. Glasses on the night stand, TV in the bedroom...nothing strange. 

    It wasn't until he was on his way out that he noticed the small bookcase in the landing.

    There was no seam between the bookcase and the wall.

    The Hunter gingerly touched it and tried to move the bookcase forward slightly. No give. He tried harder, not overly worried if he knocked the whole thing over. Still, it didn't move. Now, glancing inside, he could see the notch in the back that indicated the false backing.

    Tearing away the books, the backing was removed easily. Behind it lay three jars.

    Even with years of monsters and mayhem under his belt, it was hard not to grimace at what was inside.

    Each jar was mostly empty. A clear fluid filled them but the Hunter was confident that it probably wasn't water. Floating inside the jar was a skinned human face. They would bunch up and stretch out as if flowing with some unseen current, but every now again they'd take shape.

    And that shape would be a silent, soundless scream of pain and horror.

    He'd kept the jars. 

    With them hidden in his trunk near the satchel, he pushed the thought of the tortured souls in order to steel himself for the monster to come.

    Drawing an old revolver, he lifted his foot and caved in the front door. What he found inside was far from expectation...

[Read more in Part 2! Coming Soon.]