Another weekend to another week with all sorts of stuff that happened, and not very much of it was interesting. Well, unless you enjoy hearing about people playing videogames, which I hear there's a market for that.
I've been working on edits and drafts of short stories for their rerelease. I'm going to keep my original books out on the market, but move them to free. Basically keep them like "garage days" versions of the stories that I'm releasing now. I've rewritten Heroine of a Thousand Faces and almost finished with Things that are Cold. They're retitled and are so restructured and remixed from the original version, it's almost like they're alternate universe versions of one another. Granted, the new versions of both stories are like, way better written. Or at least on the level of where I'm at now compared to where I was at when I finished the last draft. I also heard back from a couple magazines with the most positive rejection letters I've received so far. I'm invigorated to rock out some more work and touch up a couple others. I'm glad to finally have people tell me, "didn't quite make it, but please send more". That's been my #writerslife this week and the previous.
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| A deserted Chinese playground is the perfect metaphor for this game. |
It's mostly disappointing because it won't get the hell out of its own way. And I'm really not a big fan of the crossover sections where you have to essentially play the same level as a previous storyline, "but this time, two other people got their first." I don't know if that makes sense, but it sure is annoying to be cheated out of additional content because of game concept. In other Resident Evil related news, I just ordered VII from amazon. It should be here tomorrow. Yay president's day.
In the wake of finishing DOOM, and since I already played through (and loved) Wolfenstein: The New Order, I fired up the prequel, Old Blood. I played through the prologue of it, and it was like a less cool version of New Order. I'll give it some time. I found the Skyrim iron helmet. See. Look to the left. Just a little to the left. There it is! Aren't easter eggs neat?
Since I've been playing Bethesda published games, on top of playing Resident Evil, I've been looking to play The Evil Within for... over a year now. So that's on my horizon. I've been trying to chip away at my game catalog as best as I can, and I've thankfully been getting it done. Especially since I've finally been spending time with Final Fantasy XV, rolling with the homies on my bro trip.
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| "Isn't being rich awesome?!" |
Fitting in time for media is a very serious affair. Much like I've been back to binging on Buffy, and have started Angel as well. The missus and I are groaning through the last season of Hell on Wheels. We have 3 episodes left and man, it started out as such a great western. Since I'm watching Buffy again, I finished season 3, so I'll be writing a recap soon. Since I'm watching each episode back to back, I'm on S4e4 of Buffy and S1e4 of Angel. I'd like to do my season 3 recap before I get to the end. As of now, I'm standing on season 3 being my favorite season. That could possibly change at any moment.
Alright, what games I'm playing, what I've been watching, and what work I've been doing. I think we're all wrapped up here. And this is where I leave you with the final final chapter of To Slice The Sky.
This is the epilogue, and was again well received as an ending on reddit. I'm pleased with the ending I landed on, but still feel like I could make it a little tweaking when I do my next pass over. So, with that, I leave you with the tail end of this serial novel that will turn itself into a traditional novel with a little bit of final buffing and stitching.
NAKED DOG
C:\>30_Brand_New_Day
“-ck.”
Decker peers into his empty pint glass, mugging displeasure. “Like you know how
movies fade to black after the end credits? Like that, but with more feeling.” Chicken
wire blisters chase along his arms past his shirtsleeves. The only remnant of
his slagged nanoweave crisscrossed his skin. “Unpleasant, painful, feeling.”
“Another
fill?”
Decker
waves off Brawl, thinks better of it, then motions for another pint.
Wiping
inside tumblers, Brawl’s arm creaks and clicks beneath his cheap flesh regrow. “When
I asked yous guys how it all happened, I didn’t mean from the beginning.”
“You
didn’t stop us.” Trip sloshes what’s left of his whisky and melted rocks. “Or
bother to clarify.”
Brawl
gently takes the glass from Trip’s hand, “I guess you could say you had my
undivided attention.”
It
was as empty as usual in The Canby. Brawl plonks down a fresh pint in front of
Decker. He downs half of it in the first go, capping the drink with a
refreshed, ‘aaah’. Playing on the stereo is that super catchy old song from the
year the civil war broke out.
“And you’re still the worst part about
California,” haunts the silent air with twang-jangly guitar chords.
“I
think that pretty much wraps everything up,” Trip slides off his stool. “Got
people to see, places to go, an escape route to plan.”
Decker
catches his reflection in the amber mirror of his glass. His eyes are dark
inkwells in a sunken face. Their light gone, never to return. He lets out a
burp then looks up at Brawl, into his glowing pupils.
“You’re
gonna stay holed up here in the SFV, huh?”
“Where
else would I go, The Pit?” Brawl laughs like a rusty dumptruck. “No one else
was coming back to claim this dump. ‘sides, we still have the underground. Most
folk seem to be pleased keeping out of sight for a while.”
“Sounds
like a good idea,” Fixer walks from behind the winerack with Manner in tow. Fixer
outstretches his arms at the sight of the dudes. “Hey you two. Leaving so
soon?”
Manner
beams as she approaches the bar. The four of them exchange hugs, each holding
on as tight as they can manage.
“I’m
gonna miss you fragheads.” Fixer pats Decker on the back, “Mostly for buying me
food. But secondly… awe, nevermind. I’m gonna get all teary eyed and ruin my
reputation this early in the game.”
Decker’s
pocket vibrates.
You decide on a destination? -M
Trip
shrugs, “I think the three cities are no goes.”
“Yeah,
too many Vampires in Metro City.” Fixer’s eyes look far away, reading text
across his HUD. “Yes, Manner, vampires are totally real. There’s vids on the
net. Do your own research for once.”
“Vids
that no one can remember seeing,” said Brawl.
“Don’t
you start,” Fixer frowns hard at the bartender. “You’re supposed to be on my side,
tiny. I told you, it’s a conspiracy cover up by the Universal Church.” He turns
to Trip, “So, yeah, I went over the scans we did. That biochip is in there,
alright. A regular piece of the ole brainstem.” Fixer shows his palms to a
distressed Trip. “Don’t worry though, it’s the same as ours. Just like you made
it. I wrote up a little primer on how to work it.”
“I’m
just glad the lactation stopped. Never. Temping. Again.” Trip chops at the air in
front of him.
Decker,
Fixer, Brawl17 and Manner shoot awkward glances at Trip. His cheery faced
demeanor droops. Together, they burst into laughter for what feels like the
first time in forever.
Hugs
were exchanged and goodbyes given, each packaged with promises of future visits.
As
they’re one foot out the door, Trip pulls a prescription bottle from his pocket
and places it in Manner’s hand. She looks at him with curious apprehension,
eyeballing the capsules trapped in orange plastic. Trip sticks out his tongue
and gives it a wiggle. Her already ruddy face blushes a deeper shade of red.
She hugs Trip around his waist, lifting him off his feet. His gangly frame
flails in a bear hug, but she keeps her grip around his middle before
depositing him back on solid ground. She grabs his face and gives him a kiss on
the cheek that turns it equally red.
Exiting
the bar, the mid-morning sun mocks their sleep deprived eyes, burning warm and
yellow through the partly cloudy skies. Rains last night, rain in tomorrow’s
forecast, but today was clear. Deep blue skies all the way to the protective
mountains surrounding SFV818. The kind of sky where even if hungover, beat to
hell, and on the run, it would be hard having a bad day underneath.
*
Decker
and Trip sit, in the hills off Mulholland Drive, hidden inside their high
school smoke spot. Thousands had tagged their mark on the rocks walls over the
decades, but to Trip and Decker, this place always felt like their own private
hangout.
They
stare off into the Pacific as it laps over the fallen ruins of downtown Los
Angeles. Seagulls call from the windows of drowned office buildings. A cold
January breeze keeps the air traffic lights visible and the smog transparent.
Trip
buries himself deeper inside his ugly scaled long coat, shivering against the
marine winds. He tightens and loosens the straps of his backpack, unable to
find the perfect setting between comfort and weight distribution.
His
possessions have shrunk a whole lot since fleeing Ocean City. All he has now
are sundries and a few changes of clothes. He thinks about all the things he
dreamed of owning when Roplaxive came to him with a job offer. He makes sound
to push it from his mind.
“What’s
up?” Decker stops dancing along the carved and spray painted cliff edge.
Trip
waves him off, “Just, nah, it’s stupid.”
“When
has that ever stopped either of us?” Decker poked about in the dirt with a
knobby stick.
“Was
just thinking. About stuff I used to want. And how all of that just doesn’t
matter. Might not ever matter. Ya know?” Trip feels hot in his chest and ears.
“Whatever, just a stupid thought. Not a big deal.”
Decker
stews for a moment, “Like waking up from The American Dream.”
Trip
didn’t buy that description, but couldn’t supply a better one.
He
dwells for a moment too long about what changed inside him when he took that
trait. Or if that was just an obvious physical moment of change, and really, he’d
been a different person the whole time.
His
mouth is dry. He blames it on the constant winds, or the nerves shooting
through his body that’re becoming impossible to ignore. The feeling of a new
adventure he never would have signed up for, waiting on the horizon.
Decker
paces the length of their wedge of nostalgia, wielding his stick like a boy
with a beer gut. He absently whacks at brush weeds, staring off into the
oncoming sunset. He transforms the stick from sword to spyglass, looking down
its length towards the horizon. Gusts of wind cause him to squint at the bright
rainbow oil painting, flanked by desalination stations. His eyes seem sadder
now, just the plain skag brown he was born with. Maybe they’re watery from grit
being blown into them, but it looks like he’s about to cry at any moment.
“I
think it’s time to go.” Decker chucks the stick into the ocean and dusts his
hands on his pants. “Don’t you agree?”
“So,
what’d we decide? Vancouver?”
“Better
than The Confederacy.”
“Decker,
you can’t malign an entire region based on a few truckers.” Trip tries to catch
what Decker is looking at as the sun creeps towards the sea.
“Why
not? Everyone else does it.”
Trip
rolls his eyes, “And if everyone was jumping off a bridge, then—”
“—Everyone
is jumping off bridges?!” Decker pretends to run in the direction of
hypothetical bridge jumpers.
Trip
ignores his friend being himself. “So, Vancouver sounds like the safest bet. Plenty
of migrant work to blend in with.” Trip keeps his eyes on the horizon and
fingers on his pack.
“Yeah,
I guess so. It’s still in the Western State Coalition, but your uncle up there’s
pretty cool.” Decker looks his best friend and fugitive in law in the face. With
a, ‘let me get what I want’ smirk, he says “Maybe he can help us open a juice bar.”
Trip
groans. “We’re not doing an idea that came to you in a hallucination.”
“Didn’t
you say you were going to stop taking the fun out of things?” Decker crosses
his arms, staring down Trip who responds with a roll of his eyes.
“It’s
not polite to ask family for money after you haven’t seen them for fourteen
years.”
Decker
groans, “Ugh, I’m gonna hate Canada.”
“You
voted for Montreal, originally.”
They
leave behind the spot of their youth, and step onto the wet mountain path
leading back to what’s left of civilization. The fires in the mountains are all
put out, but the blackened patches remain, only slightly washed out by
unexpected rains. The world holds its breath as the first hints of twilight
blanket the clear skies, hiding any chance of starlight behind a layer of storm
clouds.
Trip
looks away from the coming storm to the final patch of light fading away behind
them. “You know what?”
“No,
what?” Decker calls from up the path.
Trip
basks in the last bit of sunshine before catching up with his friend. “We could
totally run an awesome juice bar.”
“Oh,
the best bar, for sure,” Decker raps Trip on the arm with a wry grin. “But what
are we gonna call it?”
THE
END
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