Halloween is almost here, and what better way to spend it than dressing up, eating candy, drinking some rum, and watching horror movies? Okay, I guess there are better ways, but damn it, that's how I'm spending mine.
If you're like me, you love horror movies way more than is healthy. I'm not a fan of movies that use blood and gore as their main focus (such as Saw, Hostel, Friday the 13th, etc), so if that's your cup of tea you may not enjoy my list of recommendations too much. Personally, I like psychological horror, and that's what you'll see here.
Here are my movie recommendations for Halloween, in no particular order.
1. The Descent
This movie is about a group of female spelunkers who explore a cave that had been previously untouched. After being trapped when their exit collapses, the explorers search for another route out to only find out they're not alone in the cave systems.
The Descent is great because it relies so much on psychological horror. Most of the horror from the film is the claustrophobic feel of the movie: the girls are constantly squeezing through deathly tight passages and going over underground cliffs to escape from the creatures. This movie uses one of the best devices for the monsters as well: you never really see them clearly. The Descent was originally a British movie that was remade in the Americas, and sadly I've never seen the original version. However, I've been told the remake is very faithful to the original, and neither versions will disappoint.
2. The Thing
The Thing is one of the most underrated horror movies of all time. A box-office bomb, it went on to become a classic of horror and is one of the scariest (and at times, grossest) movies ever. The movie takes place on an American base in Antarctica, where scientists are working. They come across a shape-shifting alien that takes on the appearance of those that it kills. Throughout the movie, they are constantly trying to figure out who the Thing is, eventually turning on each other.
This movie is a great example of psychological horror. You see the Thing very rarely, and most of the interest comes from the scientists' growing distrust and backstabbing. For reference, this is the 1982 movie and not the campy 1952 movie.
3. Let the Right One In
This movie is a Finnish film that has been remade into an American movie called Let Me In. I haven't seen the remake, so this review is based upon the original. Oskar, a schoolboy who is constantly bullied, meets a strange girl Eli. Once Eli shows up, people start vanishing and Oskar suspects that the girl's caretaker is the one who is killing people off. However, Oskar soon discovers that Eli is not what she appears to be.
To sum this movie up, it is a much cooler, non-sparkly, superior, and bloody version of Twilight for people who hate Twilight.
4. Ringu/The Ring
Ringu is a Japanese horror film that centers on a mysterious videotape that will cause you to die after seven days. It is extremely creepy, as Japanese ghosts are some of the scariest that there are. Sadako, the undead girl that crawls from the well, makes you never want to trust children again. I'm sure you've all seen it (either version), but this is a great one for Halloween.
5. Rec
Another great horror movie turned into a remake called Quarantine by Hollywood (they love their horror remakes, hmm?). A Spanish reporter doing a report on firefighters follows them into an apartment building where an emergency call has been placed. Turns out it's zombies. It's always zombies. Rec is filled with horrifying scenes and psychological thrills. I'd recommend the original over the remake, though the remake isn't extremely terrible.
6. Cloverfield
Less of a horror and more of an awesome monster movie, Cloverfield never disappoints. After a group of friends celebrates a going-away party for their buddy leaving for work in Japan, a mysterious explosion rocks their New York apartment. Filmed by one of the characters with a hand-held camera, the group travels through the dangerous city in an effort to find safety but is battling against the monster, falling buildings, and spider-like creatures whose bites cause you to explode. A great movie that leaves the ending wide open.
7. 28 Days Later/28 Weeks Later
When a coma victim wakes up to a desolate and abandoned London, he knows some shit has gone down. Turns out that a illness called the Rage Virus has spread across the UK and those that had been left behind in the evacuated place are now fighting for their lives against some very angry zombies. The sequel, 28 Weeks Later, has more zombies and less psychological struggle against other humans, but it's still pretty good.
8. Ju-on/The Grudge
This is the only movie that I have finished and knew I had been scarred for life. It's the only horror movie that I hadn't been able to sleep at night from for a week after seeing it (for fear of that chick being under my covers). Again, the original is much better than the remake. The tennants of a house that has been cursed discover what had happened: a man in a jealous fit brutally murders his son and wife, envelloping the house in an angry curse that contaminate all that touches it. Japanese horror at its finest.
9. Shutter
A Thai movie, once again remade and once again I recommend the original. A photographer and his chick discover shadows in their photographs after they are responsible for a hit-and-run. They are plagued by the ghost, both in photos and reality. Extremely creepy movie.
10. Gin Gwai / The Eye
A horror from Hong Kong that has, you guessed it, been remade into an inferior American version. They need to stop that. A blind woman who receives a cornea transplant begins to experience strange things around her... ghosts of the anguished and those who were doomed to die. In an effort to discover who her donor was, she discovers the dead girl's troubled past. This is one of my favorite horror movies of all time, and I will never be able to go into an elevator without watching the corners again. Please, watch the original over the remake. You won't regret it.
But seriously, thanks to this movie I really do hate elevators now. This is why:
FUCK THAT.
11. Honorable Mention of a Video Game: Fatal Frame
This game was actually banned in the U.S. for causing heart attacks, panic attacks, and extreme paranoia. You are a girl who goes into a Japanese manshion in search for your brother, armed with nothing but a camera to fight against the vengeful spirits there. There are no safe spots, only pause. You never know when a ghost is just going to jump out at you. When I went into the courtyard and a little kid in a kimono crawling on all fours came out at me from under the porch, I had to put this game down. Good luck playing for more than 30 minutes at a time.
This game has great atmosphere, non-ghosty scares (fuck that mirror and those dolls), and will make you pee yourself. Here's a video of one of the scarier rooms. Try to ignore the guy crying like a baby.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
I think I'm crazy.
Most people in the world aren't normal. Think about it: the human brain is an extremely complex organ, not only regulating your necessary functions to survive (such as breathing, organ use, being able to realize that petting that bear isn't a good idea), but juggling many other tasks as well. Our brain allows us to form logical theories, to dream and imagine, to feel emotion, to form abstract thoughts, and many more. It isn't surprising that most people have something a little off-kilter upstairs.
There are also those whose brains are a little broken. Not completely broken such as cannibal sadist serial killers, but just off enough to be considered somewhat crazy. In fact, 26.2% of the observable population in the States has been diagnosed with a mental illness. I'm among that somewhat crazy. The old saying goes "a mad person doesn't realize he's mad," but most realize there's something wrong with them.
When I was a kid, 8 to be specific, I had childhood OCD and depression. Sometimes I would have random evil thoughts float across my mind, insidious whispers that would damn me. Since this was long before I became an agnostic, I had the fear of God in me and this made it worse. A common thought I would have was "I hate God and I love Satan." This was pretty terrifying for 8-year-old me, so constantly throughout the day, nearly every hour, sometimes every minute, I would repeat to myself, "I love Jesus and I love God. I hate the devil, and I love Jesus and I love God." Over and over and over and over.
I also would have constantly repeating thoughts through my mind. For instance, I loved to read; always have and always will. When I read a book, the book would be stuck in my head, reading itself to me over and over. Songs were the same. It wasn't the usual getting a song stuck in your head... no, it would play over and over for hours, days even.
Finally my mom took me to a child psychologist and I was diagnosed. Therapy did nothing and the pills did nothing. Finally, after a few years, I grew out of my OCD thoughts. But I wasn't safe yet, because a crazy person is usually crazy forever.
When I was 11 we moved back to West Virginia and I was thrown into a new world where no one really liked me. The depression kicked in, but this time with no OCD. Throughout my teenage years I was constantly depressed and cried myself to sleep almost every night, from 11 to 17. I don't know why I was so sad. Everything just felt so gray. I was constantly thinking of death and suicide, almost like it was an obsession. I cut myself where people couldn't see, bruised myself, and scratched myself till I drew blood.
Now that I'm an adult, I grew out of that psychosis as well, only to fall into another one. I still have depression here and there, but it's not the intense sort, more like the extremely apathetic sort. When I go on these bouts nothing in the world seems that great, and everything is empty. Luckily, these are rare anymore. I thank Sean for pulling me out of it.
Instead, my crazy has been replaced by a much less accepted type of psychosis. I honestly don't know the terms, just what I experience: auditory and visual hallucinations, bouts of extreme anger, a stubborn dislike of things most people enjoy, disagreeability, having entire conversations with myself, repeating random phrases or words that flow through my mind, a constant need to daydream and be in a fantasy world, an inability to remember dreams from reality, and paranoia. I prefer it to the OCD and depression; it makes things a little more interesting and a little less drab.
I actually don't mind it too much. I hate my anger problem, and the hallucinations really throw me off and make me worry for my overall sanity, but at least it has boosted my creativity a ton and has helped my art and writing. Though mental illness is constantly ridiculed and looked down upon by society, some of the greatest artists and writers ever known suffered from some form of it: Vincent van Gogh, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Edgar Allen Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Pablo Picasso, Jackson Pollock, Kurt Vonnegut, Leo Tolstoy, Edvard Munch, Claude Monet, Mark Rothko. And that's just the ones I know well.
Creativity and mental illness have been officially linked through studies, so being crazy isn't so bad. If you want to kill and eat women that look like your mother, that's bad. If you want to create a masterpiece of literature or art, that isn't. In fact, here's a recent piece I've done in a series I'm working on called Oneironaut, which is an artistic exploration and rendering of dreams.
Oneironaut: Drifting
After all, what is truly normal?
Tell me, my six readers: how crazy are you? Have you experienced anything that would make you question your sanity?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Things I've wanted to be.
Throughout our childhoods, we are asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Most of us respond with firefighter, police(wo)man, animal doctor, or something of the sort. I remember in the 3rd grade I had to write a story about what I wanted to be once I was ripped from the carefree years of childhood and thrown into the cold, dark world of adulthood. And they wanted me to be serious about it.
An 8-year-old, serious about their future occupation? I'm 22 years old, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Nonetheless, I've given it thought throughout the years (less than a thought and more like a constant burning nag at the back of my mind everyday), and, throughout those years, I've wanted to be a lot of things. Here they are in chronological order.
1. Fire
That's right, I wanted to be a goddamn fire when I grew up. I was a hardcore 4-year-old. At my preschool, called La Petite, we were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up. I was too busy playing with my Ninja Turtles to pay attention. Several kids said "fireman," but all I heard was "fire."
The teacher came to me and said, "And Brittany, what do you want to be?" Being a 4-year-old who didn't give a shit, I said "fire."
"But Brittany, you don't want to be a fire. Fires are bad."
I shrugged. "Okay."
And my considerations of an adult career were born.
2. Rock star
Who hasn't wanted to be a rock star as a kid? When I was 13, I got my first guitar. I learned to play "Brain Stew" by Green Day and thought I was a rock goddess. I had dreams of stardom, my band playing an awesome concert with me at the forefront crowd-surfing and smashing guitars. Hell, I even had a "band." Less of a band and more of a girl who could sing and a girl who played bass that joined up with me to write crappy songs.
Even though I haven't touched my guitar in years, I still have daydreams of it. Who doesn't? The life of a rock star is awesome, minus the hookers and drugs.
3. Veteranarian
This was rather short-lived. I liked animals, so why not be an animal doctor? When I found out that I needed more years of school that I wanted to attend, this idea was quickly dropped. Also, my mind-meltingly intense phobia of slugs and snails guaranteed me that I was going to be put in an fear-induced coma if someone came in with a pet snail.
(For reference, I've had this phobia since I was 8. It's weird and irrational, but show me a picture of one of these bastards and I will run and cry and scream like a baby.)
4. Geneticist
In my 10th grade science class, we did a section on genetics. I enjoyed it far more than anything else we were taught, and I decided the career of a geneticist was the one for me. Just think, I could cure every genetic disease and disability known to man! I would create superpeople, even monsters! The world would be at my mercy! I would play God!
Imagine my disappointment when I found out geneticists really don't make superpeople.
5. International political advisor
In my senior year of high school, I joined the speech team. I decided to do an original oratory on the genocide in Rwanda and relate it with the ongoing genocide in Darfur. I got really into it. The horrors of the world lay ahead of me, and who was to fix it? Apparently me.
When I went into my first year of college I was a political science major. I would travel the world in a quest to save humanity from itself, learning every language known to man, venturing to the jungles of Africa to the harsh deserts of Mongolia to the dramatic peaks of Argentina. I even took French so I would be able to travel throughout the majority of the African continent (the only word I remember to this day is fenetre.) I continued to take my Spanish courses (I actually successfully minored in this, and pretty good en el idioma de los españoles), and even began studying other languages on my own such as Swahili, Arabic, Irish Gaelic (more for shits and giggles than anything), Japanese, and Chinese.
It was during my first week in college that I met Sean in my political science class. At the end of the year, deeply in love (and still am!) I decided I didn't want to be constantly traveling around the world since I would never see him. Politicians were all demons in disguise anyway.
6. Chemist
I came back home from West Virginia University and decided to attend the smaller school of my hometown, since the hugeness of WVU left me with a soul-crushing chronic depression. I don't make friends easily, and actually don't even really have any friends I hang out with now. I heard the chemistry classes at my new college were great, and I was good at chemistry in high school. How cool would it be to be playing with dangerous, explosive chemicals all day?
Unfortunately, the math requirements were beyond what I could handle. I'm not great at math. Well, not so much bad at it as I absolutely despise it. The only math classes I've ever liked were Geometry and Trig, but algebra sucks. Calculus sucked harder.
A chemist is still something I'd love to be, but I sadly don't have the capacity for the math of it. Dreams crushed.
7. Graphic designer
This is my current major. It's all right I guess. I love design, and it was a good excuse to get to take art classes without being a studio art major. I've been doing websites since I was 12 (first website was a Pokemon fan site, a masterpiece of the Internet), so this was of great interest for me.
It just sucks that my college is terrible at website design classes. They taught us how to use Dreamweaver and how to attach a CSS file, but that's about it. Nothing on actually CSS, PHP, or anything useful that you need to know for website design. So, more or less, I'm doomed.
8. Tattoo artist
My junior year of college, I became a tattoo apprentice at a nearby shop. It was pretty cool despite the fact that I wasn't getting paid. I even got to do a few tattoo fills and piercings. I have some great stories from the place, and this is still something I'd love to do. I've got six tattoos (one half-sleeve) and 11 current piercings, so these things have always been of interest to me.
After I realized that I really didn't want to be associated with that shop, I left. I ended up selling my tattoo machine and inks, and haven't done anything with it since.
9. Machinist
A current interest. Machinists make precision tools, and trade jobs are something that is rewarding and pays well. The only thing that may bar me from this is the fact that I have a uterus. Maybe someday women in trade jobs won't be such a strange thing.
10. Carpenter
My favorite class I've ever taken was Theatre Tech. I built lots of stuff from wood, including a set of a freaking castle. It was awesome, and I was strangely good at it. I still even have my final project from the class sitting in my living room, a table I made from scratch. I'm good at hand tools and power tools, I'm good at measurement, and I'm good at precision. Also, carpenters make decent wages. Another current interest.
11. Writer
A writer is the end-all be-all job for me. I've always wanted to do this, and I still do. My first book was written at the age of 4, self-illustrated and telling a gripping if confusing personal story. I wrote throughout my childhood, teenage years (shameful fanfiction aside), and continue to write. My ultimate dream is to be a writer. It just sucks that I'm not great at it.
In high school, I took a Creative Writing class and did great at it. On the ACT, I got a 35/36 on my English score and a 12/12 on writing. Why is it then, that writing fiction is such a hard thing to do?
Maybe someday I'll be good enough. I ain't giving up on this one yet. Maybe someday...
And just so you won't give up on your dreams, here's my favorite inspirational video for when I'm feeling like a failure.
So, class, what do you want to be when you grow up?
An 8-year-old, serious about their future occupation? I'm 22 years old, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Nonetheless, I've given it thought throughout the years (less than a thought and more like a constant burning nag at the back of my mind everyday), and, throughout those years, I've wanted to be a lot of things. Here they are in chronological order.
1. Fire
That's right, I wanted to be a goddamn fire when I grew up. I was a hardcore 4-year-old. At my preschool, called La Petite, we were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up. I was too busy playing with my Ninja Turtles to pay attention. Several kids said "fireman," but all I heard was "fire."
The teacher came to me and said, "And Brittany, what do you want to be?" Being a 4-year-old who didn't give a shit, I said "fire."
"But Brittany, you don't want to be a fire. Fires are bad."
I shrugged. "Okay."
And my considerations of an adult career were born.
2. Rock star
Who hasn't wanted to be a rock star as a kid? When I was 13, I got my first guitar. I learned to play "Brain Stew" by Green Day and thought I was a rock goddess. I had dreams of stardom, my band playing an awesome concert with me at the forefront crowd-surfing and smashing guitars. Hell, I even had a "band." Less of a band and more of a girl who could sing and a girl who played bass that joined up with me to write crappy songs.
Even though I haven't touched my guitar in years, I still have daydreams of it. Who doesn't? The life of a rock star is awesome, minus the hookers and drugs.
3. Veteranarian
This was rather short-lived. I liked animals, so why not be an animal doctor? When I found out that I needed more years of school that I wanted to attend, this idea was quickly dropped. Also, my mind-meltingly intense phobia of slugs and snails guaranteed me that I was going to be put in an fear-induced coma if someone came in with a pet snail.
(For reference, I've had this phobia since I was 8. It's weird and irrational, but show me a picture of one of these bastards and I will run and cry and scream like a baby.)
4. Geneticist
In my 10th grade science class, we did a section on genetics. I enjoyed it far more than anything else we were taught, and I decided the career of a geneticist was the one for me. Just think, I could cure every genetic disease and disability known to man! I would create superpeople, even monsters! The world would be at my mercy! I would play God!
Imagine my disappointment when I found out geneticists really don't make superpeople.
5. International political advisor
In my senior year of high school, I joined the speech team. I decided to do an original oratory on the genocide in Rwanda and relate it with the ongoing genocide in Darfur. I got really into it. The horrors of the world lay ahead of me, and who was to fix it? Apparently me.
When I went into my first year of college I was a political science major. I would travel the world in a quest to save humanity from itself, learning every language known to man, venturing to the jungles of Africa to the harsh deserts of Mongolia to the dramatic peaks of Argentina. I even took French so I would be able to travel throughout the majority of the African continent (the only word I remember to this day is fenetre.) I continued to take my Spanish courses (I actually successfully minored in this, and pretty good en el idioma de los españoles), and even began studying other languages on my own such as Swahili, Arabic, Irish Gaelic (more for shits and giggles than anything), Japanese, and Chinese.
It was during my first week in college that I met Sean in my political science class. At the end of the year, deeply in love (and still am!) I decided I didn't want to be constantly traveling around the world since I would never see him. Politicians were all demons in disguise anyway.
6. Chemist
I came back home from West Virginia University and decided to attend the smaller school of my hometown, since the hugeness of WVU left me with a soul-crushing chronic depression. I don't make friends easily, and actually don't even really have any friends I hang out with now. I heard the chemistry classes at my new college were great, and I was good at chemistry in high school. How cool would it be to be playing with dangerous, explosive chemicals all day?
Unfortunately, the math requirements were beyond what I could handle. I'm not great at math. Well, not so much bad at it as I absolutely despise it. The only math classes I've ever liked were Geometry and Trig, but algebra sucks. Calculus sucked harder.
A chemist is still something I'd love to be, but I sadly don't have the capacity for the math of it. Dreams crushed.
7. Graphic designer
This is my current major. It's all right I guess. I love design, and it was a good excuse to get to take art classes without being a studio art major. I've been doing websites since I was 12 (first website was a Pokemon fan site, a masterpiece of the Internet), so this was of great interest for me.
It just sucks that my college is terrible at website design classes. They taught us how to use Dreamweaver and how to attach a CSS file, but that's about it. Nothing on actually CSS, PHP, or anything useful that you need to know for website design. So, more or less, I'm doomed.
8. Tattoo artist
My junior year of college, I became a tattoo apprentice at a nearby shop. It was pretty cool despite the fact that I wasn't getting paid. I even got to do a few tattoo fills and piercings. I have some great stories from the place, and this is still something I'd love to do. I've got six tattoos (one half-sleeve) and 11 current piercings, so these things have always been of interest to me.
After I realized that I really didn't want to be associated with that shop, I left. I ended up selling my tattoo machine and inks, and haven't done anything with it since.
9. Machinist
A current interest. Machinists make precision tools, and trade jobs are something that is rewarding and pays well. The only thing that may bar me from this is the fact that I have a uterus. Maybe someday women in trade jobs won't be such a strange thing.
10. Carpenter
My favorite class I've ever taken was Theatre Tech. I built lots of stuff from wood, including a set of a freaking castle. It was awesome, and I was strangely good at it. I still even have my final project from the class sitting in my living room, a table I made from scratch. I'm good at hand tools and power tools, I'm good at measurement, and I'm good at precision. Also, carpenters make decent wages. Another current interest.
11. Writer
A writer is the end-all be-all job for me. I've always wanted to do this, and I still do. My first book was written at the age of 4, self-illustrated and telling a gripping if confusing personal story. I wrote throughout my childhood, teenage years (shameful fanfiction aside), and continue to write. My ultimate dream is to be a writer. It just sucks that I'm not great at it.
In high school, I took a Creative Writing class and did great at it. On the ACT, I got a 35/36 on my English score and a 12/12 on writing. Why is it then, that writing fiction is such a hard thing to do?
Maybe someday I'll be good enough. I ain't giving up on this one yet. Maybe someday...
And just so you won't give up on your dreams, here's my favorite inspirational video for when I'm feeling like a failure.
So, class, what do you want to be when you grow up?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Brittany and Sean: Master pasteriers
A few weeks ago Sean and I bought a Halloween house kit. I made one last year and while it was no where near as pretty as it was on the box, it was decent. It's more or less a chocolate cookie house that comes with icing mix, grape bats, gumdrops, green balls, and a confectionary ghost. Look at the box art: these guys must've worked on it for 10 hours to make it so perfect and cute!
Today we decided to build the house. We carefully mixed the icing and began topping off the roof. However, the icing was too thin and it ran, much to our dismay. I tried to make a door, Sean placing the green balls around it, but it melted and ran down the side. We were sad.
It turned out that destroying the house was way more fun than perfectly building it, which is nervewracking and you start to notice your hands are awfully shaky when you're trying to perfectly align little green candies on the sharp roof. Here are the fruits of our labor.
More dead bats have become entrapped in the house's gooey web of deceit, slowly being digested by the evil leviathan. A row of gumdrop tombstones line the yard, a warning to any adventurers or teenagers with a great dane to stay away.
The back is splattered with ectoplasm. Obviously, many great ghost wars have been fought here. Sadly, it is an endless battle, an eternal hell in which they may never leave. They wish to see their wives once again, leaving the horrors of war behind... too bad they don't realize they're already dead. A pair of gumdrop boobs is also here.
The ghosts cry out in dread as the creature lowers its head, and, with a great wail, sinks its jaws into the deathly prison of their home.
The ghosts gather around their bleeding, melting, oozing mess of a home. Though they hate it for its role as their warden, their eyes fill with ghostly tears. Their haunting wails ring out over the marshmallow hills: the place for which they have fought, suffered, and died for eternally hangs in crumbling ruins, cracks of cookies falling from the rafters through to the yardside below. They are still trapped. They will continue to battle endlessly, forever... but for what?
Today we decided to build the house. We carefully mixed the icing and began topping off the roof. However, the icing was too thin and it ran, much to our dismay. I tried to make a door, Sean placing the green balls around it, but it melted and ran down the side. We were sad.
Finally, Sean said "fuck it" and started pouring icing randomly all over it. The house was bleeding orange and purple. Joining him, I took a handful of bats and threw them on the house, the grape candies fusing into the evil haunted mashion.
It turned out that destroying the house was way more fun than perfectly building it, which is nervewracking and you start to notice your hands are awfully shaky when you're trying to perfectly align little green candies on the sharp roof. Here are the fruits of our labor.
This is the front of the house. Notice the melted door that still remains from when we began. Dead bats that have flown into the house are now fused with it, becoming one. A ghost in the left window pukes sweet orange bile as the house itself bleeds from the souls of its lost victims.
More dead bats have become entrapped in the house's gooey web of deceit, slowly being digested by the evil leviathan. A row of gumdrop tombstones line the yard, a warning to any adventurers or teenagers with a great dane to stay away.The back is splattered with ectoplasm. Obviously, many great ghost wars have been fought here. Sadly, it is an endless battle, an eternal hell in which they may never leave. They wish to see their wives once again, leaving the horrors of war behind... too bad they don't realize they're already dead. A pair of gumdrop boobs is also here.
A rumble is heard from the misty distance, far from the eyes of the undead denizens that call this place their waking nightmare. In the distance, a towering goliath approaches, cookie trees crumbling in its wake, stirring flocks of Peep crows to scatter into the churning black sky. A great growl rips from its maw, lined with sharp teeth.
The ghosts cry out in dread as the creature lowers its head, and, with a great wail, sinks its jaws into the deathly prison of their home.
The gheists try to flee, but they're trapped in their eternal torment. Teeth gnash at them, and they stab at the monster in vain with their licorice spears and Pocky swords, but to no avail. The monster eats his fill and, as quickly as he came, vanishes into the black forests of the night.
The ghosts gather around their bleeding, melting, oozing mess of a home. Though they hate it for its role as their warden, their eyes fill with ghostly tears. Their haunting wails ring out over the marshmallow hills: the place for which they have fought, suffered, and died for eternally hangs in crumbling ruins, cracks of cookies falling from the rafters through to the yardside below. They are still trapped. They will continue to battle endlessly, forever... but for what?So yeah, it was fun. And messy. And ugly. But delicious.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Excerpt!
The following is an excerpt from my first chapter of the story I'm working on. It's about 1/4th of the chapter, starting at the beginning. Let me know what you think (if you like reading)! Be honest, if you really really hate it say so. :P
“Concentrate.”
The flame wavered frailly within the bronze lamp. Kishna swiped her long black hair behind her shoulders and glared at it, hands shaking. It danced in the breeze, mocking her.
“Don’t give up. Clear your mind.”
Gently, the fire rose, illuminating her mentor’s face with a dim orange glow. A smile cracked across the old woman’s lips, the wrinkles across her dark cheeks deepening.
“That’s it,” her mentor said. “Careful now.”
The flame paused briefly and, with a wink, vanished into a thin silver stream of smoke. Kishna dropped her hands with a sigh.
“I can’t do this, Turuna. Last week I set the hut on fire, and now I can’t even get the flame to listen to me.”
“Oh, dear, you’re still learning,” Turuna said, standing shakily to her feet with the lamp in hand. She dusted off her long white robe, her feathered belt coated with soot, and placed the lamp on a bamboo bookshelf. As she leaned upon her carved walking stick, she smiled gently at her apprentice, who was sitting on the floor of the hut cross-legged and melancholy. Turuna cracked her stooped back and glanced out the door through the beaded curtain. “That’s enough for today.”
Kishna sighed again as she stood. She looked down at her green knee-length dress, whitened with ash. Adjusting the beaded sash across her chest, Kishna frowned at the lamp.
“I’m not ready for my final test, Turuna.”
The old woman turned slowly, her body shaking with age. “Oh? Why is that, my dear?”
“I’m useless,” Kishna said. “Fire ignores me, Water does as it pleases, Air runs away from me. Earth is stubborn. The only one I have any grasp on is Spirit. I’m not ready.”
“You are still young,” Turuna said. “You never stop learning. If you’re not ready now, when will you ever be?”
“Maybe just one more year...”
“Come with me, my dear.” The elder pulled aside the bead curtain, motioning outside. As Kishna stepped out of the cliffside hut, she blinked into the desert sunlight, relieved at the scent of fresh coastal air. Turuna hobbled after her, the walking stick clicking against the rocky crag floor.
“Now look,” she said, spreading her hand before her. “Tell me, what can you see?” Kishna squinted down the cliff face, seeing nothing but her small village nestled between the sparkling ocean and the endless sand dunes.
“Yir’asha,” the apprentice said. “Our home.”
Turuna nodded. “Yes, but look closer. See that wheat field over there? Who was the one who coaxed the seedlings out of the ground, allowing them to grow?”
“Well, I did, I guess. But I’ve also ruined twelve fields. We could’ve had a famine if you didn’t fix my mistakes.”
“And who is that, down in the town square? Looks like Sekamal, remember? The warrior who was bitten by an asp last month. Do you recall who drained the poison from his wound?”
“That was me, but-”
“He looks good as new,” Turuna said with a smile. “And the well. Two weeks ago we were in the middle of a drought. I seem to remember a certain shaman apprentice who made it rain.”
A grin replaced Kishna‘s frown. “Okay, I’ve done some good things. More bad than good.”
“Your intentions are pure, and you’re learning fast. If you want to succeed, you’ll have to make lots of mistakes first.”
Turuna placed a withered hand to her ear, listening to the faint music pouring from the village. “The festival’s about to start. Don’t want to miss it, do you? Hurry along now.”
Kishna made to head down the cliff, glancing back at her teacher. “Will you be there?”
Turuna shook her head. “I have to prepare for your test tonight. I have a few reagents to gather.”
“The test which I’ll fail,” Kishna moped.
“The test which you’ll pass with flying colors,” Turuna corrected. “Go, my dear, have fun. Say hello to Ina for me?”
Kishna nodded. “Thanks, Turuna.”
The old woman waved goodbye as Kishna stepped down the cliff and headed into town. She could already smell the spiced potato bread and incense. Cheerful music wafted through the streets, muffled by the distance. Wiping sweat from her dark olive skin, Kishna ran down the road to the village square as the braids in her hair meandered behind her like dancing cobras. Her shin-high moccasins left a trail of footprints following her to the village square.
Pushing past crowds of people, Kishna glanced around the square, the ever-burning pyre in the center surrounded by vendor carts and street performers. She heard her name through the flute songs.
“Kishna!” A girl with flat braided buns in her ebony hair stumbled out of the crowd and jogged to her. “There you are. This place is crawling with people.”
“Hi, Ina,” Kishna chirped. “Sorry if I‘m late, I was having a lesson with Turuna.” They walked together throughout the drove, Ina looping her arm around Kishna’s elbow.
“Pfft. You and that silly shaman stuff. When are you going to realize that studying a dead art is no fun, and the glory of swinging a sword around is a thousand times better?”
Kishna frowned. “Shamanism isn’t dead.”
“There’s you, and there’s Turuna. And... that’s it. Everyone else is too afraid to study it.”
They approached a turbaned vendor. Ina held up two fingers and passed the merchant five shells, who traded her two steaming bread pockets stuffed with spiced potatoes. She handed one to Kishna.
“The Windriders killing off our shamans was fifty years ago,” Kishna said, taking a bite into the bread. “They haven’t come into the Soletuski Desert since then.”
Ina scoffed. “Windriders, ugh. They may have cooled down some since the height of their pillage-and-plunder days, but I still don’t trust them. I’m telling you, they’re up to something.”
She glanced at Kishna. “You know I’m just kidding with you, right?”
“About what?”
“Your studies. I support you. I think it’s strange, but I support you.”
Kishna smiled. “And I support your warrior training. It’s important, with all these raging armies not pouring in to Yir’asha that you’re fighting.”
Ina elbowed her gently. “Oh, hush. Come on, let’s go see the dancers.”
They passed an illusionist, who was busy pouring water down his sleeve. He reached in his collar and extracted a thick silver chain, causing his audience to erupt in applause. A bard plucked a flat harp on his lap and sang of the Drow and Elven wars as passersby dropped treasure in his instrument case. A girl cheered as she threw her final dart into the center of a tiny dart board, the vendor handing her a prize of a corn husk doll.
Suddenly, the wind whispered Kishna’s name.
The shaman turned. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Ina said, stuffing the last piece of her bread pocket in her mouth.
Kishna listened again, but the sounds of the festival drowned out anything should could have heard. “Hmm... nothing, I guess.”
A white owl flapped through the desert air and perched upon a colorful vendor tent beside them. Kishna stared into its clear blue eyes, who looked at her with curiosity and wisdom.
“Wow,” Kishna breathed, turning to her friend. “Ina... look at that owl. It’s white... have you ever seen such a thing?”
Ina looked to where Kishna was pointing. “What owl?”
Kishna looked back. “It was right there.”
“Okay, Kishna,” Ina said, dragging her forward by the arm. “I think you’ve been breathing in too much of Turuna’s meditation smoke.”
With a sigh, Kishna followed Ina, watching the spot where she had seen the strange owl. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. Did the owl call her name? She shook her head. “Maybe I am losing my mind.”
As Kishna and Ina vanished in the crowd, the owl watched her from underneath a cart. With a hop and a flap, it flew from the noisy village into the desolate dunes of the desert.
“I will see you tonight, Kishna,” the owl whispered. “I pray that it’s soon enough.”
“Concentrate.”
The flame wavered frailly within the bronze lamp. Kishna swiped her long black hair behind her shoulders and glared at it, hands shaking. It danced in the breeze, mocking her.
“Don’t give up. Clear your mind.”
Gently, the fire rose, illuminating her mentor’s face with a dim orange glow. A smile cracked across the old woman’s lips, the wrinkles across her dark cheeks deepening.
“That’s it,” her mentor said. “Careful now.”
The flame paused briefly and, with a wink, vanished into a thin silver stream of smoke. Kishna dropped her hands with a sigh.
“I can’t do this, Turuna. Last week I set the hut on fire, and now I can’t even get the flame to listen to me.”
“Oh, dear, you’re still learning,” Turuna said, standing shakily to her feet with the lamp in hand. She dusted off her long white robe, her feathered belt coated with soot, and placed the lamp on a bamboo bookshelf. As she leaned upon her carved walking stick, she smiled gently at her apprentice, who was sitting on the floor of the hut cross-legged and melancholy. Turuna cracked her stooped back and glanced out the door through the beaded curtain. “That’s enough for today.”
Kishna sighed again as she stood. She looked down at her green knee-length dress, whitened with ash. Adjusting the beaded sash across her chest, Kishna frowned at the lamp.
“I’m not ready for my final test, Turuna.”
The old woman turned slowly, her body shaking with age. “Oh? Why is that, my dear?”
“I’m useless,” Kishna said. “Fire ignores me, Water does as it pleases, Air runs away from me. Earth is stubborn. The only one I have any grasp on is Spirit. I’m not ready.”
“You are still young,” Turuna said. “You never stop learning. If you’re not ready now, when will you ever be?”
“Maybe just one more year...”
“Come with me, my dear.” The elder pulled aside the bead curtain, motioning outside. As Kishna stepped out of the cliffside hut, she blinked into the desert sunlight, relieved at the scent of fresh coastal air. Turuna hobbled after her, the walking stick clicking against the rocky crag floor.
“Now look,” she said, spreading her hand before her. “Tell me, what can you see?” Kishna squinted down the cliff face, seeing nothing but her small village nestled between the sparkling ocean and the endless sand dunes.
“Yir’asha,” the apprentice said. “Our home.”
Turuna nodded. “Yes, but look closer. See that wheat field over there? Who was the one who coaxed the seedlings out of the ground, allowing them to grow?”
“Well, I did, I guess. But I’ve also ruined twelve fields. We could’ve had a famine if you didn’t fix my mistakes.”
“And who is that, down in the town square? Looks like Sekamal, remember? The warrior who was bitten by an asp last month. Do you recall who drained the poison from his wound?”
“That was me, but-”
“He looks good as new,” Turuna said with a smile. “And the well. Two weeks ago we were in the middle of a drought. I seem to remember a certain shaman apprentice who made it rain.”
A grin replaced Kishna‘s frown. “Okay, I’ve done some good things. More bad than good.”
“Your intentions are pure, and you’re learning fast. If you want to succeed, you’ll have to make lots of mistakes first.”
Turuna placed a withered hand to her ear, listening to the faint music pouring from the village. “The festival’s about to start. Don’t want to miss it, do you? Hurry along now.”
Kishna made to head down the cliff, glancing back at her teacher. “Will you be there?”
Turuna shook her head. “I have to prepare for your test tonight. I have a few reagents to gather.”
“The test which I’ll fail,” Kishna moped.
“The test which you’ll pass with flying colors,” Turuna corrected. “Go, my dear, have fun. Say hello to Ina for me?”
Kishna nodded. “Thanks, Turuna.”
The old woman waved goodbye as Kishna stepped down the cliff and headed into town. She could already smell the spiced potato bread and incense. Cheerful music wafted through the streets, muffled by the distance. Wiping sweat from her dark olive skin, Kishna ran down the road to the village square as the braids in her hair meandered behind her like dancing cobras. Her shin-high moccasins left a trail of footprints following her to the village square.
Pushing past crowds of people, Kishna glanced around the square, the ever-burning pyre in the center surrounded by vendor carts and street performers. She heard her name through the flute songs.
“Kishna!” A girl with flat braided buns in her ebony hair stumbled out of the crowd and jogged to her. “There you are. This place is crawling with people.”
“Hi, Ina,” Kishna chirped. “Sorry if I‘m late, I was having a lesson with Turuna.” They walked together throughout the drove, Ina looping her arm around Kishna’s elbow.
“Pfft. You and that silly shaman stuff. When are you going to realize that studying a dead art is no fun, and the glory of swinging a sword around is a thousand times better?”
Kishna frowned. “Shamanism isn’t dead.”
“There’s you, and there’s Turuna. And... that’s it. Everyone else is too afraid to study it.”
They approached a turbaned vendor. Ina held up two fingers and passed the merchant five shells, who traded her two steaming bread pockets stuffed with spiced potatoes. She handed one to Kishna.
“The Windriders killing off our shamans was fifty years ago,” Kishna said, taking a bite into the bread. “They haven’t come into the Soletuski Desert since then.”
Ina scoffed. “Windriders, ugh. They may have cooled down some since the height of their pillage-and-plunder days, but I still don’t trust them. I’m telling you, they’re up to something.”
She glanced at Kishna. “You know I’m just kidding with you, right?”
“About what?”
“Your studies. I support you. I think it’s strange, but I support you.”
Kishna smiled. “And I support your warrior training. It’s important, with all these raging armies not pouring in to Yir’asha that you’re fighting.”
Ina elbowed her gently. “Oh, hush. Come on, let’s go see the dancers.”
They passed an illusionist, who was busy pouring water down his sleeve. He reached in his collar and extracted a thick silver chain, causing his audience to erupt in applause. A bard plucked a flat harp on his lap and sang of the Drow and Elven wars as passersby dropped treasure in his instrument case. A girl cheered as she threw her final dart into the center of a tiny dart board, the vendor handing her a prize of a corn husk doll.
Suddenly, the wind whispered Kishna’s name.
The shaman turned. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Ina said, stuffing the last piece of her bread pocket in her mouth.
Kishna listened again, but the sounds of the festival drowned out anything should could have heard. “Hmm... nothing, I guess.”
A white owl flapped through the desert air and perched upon a colorful vendor tent beside them. Kishna stared into its clear blue eyes, who looked at her with curiosity and wisdom.
“Wow,” Kishna breathed, turning to her friend. “Ina... look at that owl. It’s white... have you ever seen such a thing?”
Ina looked to where Kishna was pointing. “What owl?”
Kishna looked back. “It was right there.”
“Okay, Kishna,” Ina said, dragging her forward by the arm. “I think you’ve been breathing in too much of Turuna’s meditation smoke.”
With a sigh, Kishna followed Ina, watching the spot where she had seen the strange owl. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. Did the owl call her name? She shook her head. “Maybe I am losing my mind.”
As Kishna and Ina vanished in the crowd, the owl watched her from underneath a cart. With a hop and a flap, it flew from the noisy village into the desolate dunes of the desert.
“I will see you tonight, Kishna,” the owl whispered. “I pray that it’s soon enough.”
Monday, October 18, 2010
Take me home, country roads (without zombies)
I live in West Virginia. I wasn't born here, but I've lived here for most of my life. Most people I know complain about how much they hate it and how they can't wait to leave it. I've met people from out-of-state who don't even realize we are a state. I get this conversation a lot:
Them: You live in West Virginia? That's cool! I have family from Roanoake!
Me: Roanoake is in Virginia.
Them: Yeah? So?
Me: West Virginia is a different state. It separated from Virginia and became a state in 1863. It was kind of a big deal.
Them: Whatever. Bunch of hillbillies.
For years West Virginians have been labeled as a group of moonshine-swilling, deer-hunting, racist, shoeless rednecks. Oh, those do exist here, don't get me wrong. They also exist everywhere else in the United States. We don't have the monopoly on rednecks.
Because of people's general misunderstanding of our state, I decided to devise a list of why West Virginia is awesome and once the apocalypse is neigh we'll still be here.
1. West Virginia is completely covered by the Appalachian range. That means when zombies or sentient robots invade, we'll be pretty safe in our dazzling array of peaks, valleys, caves, and cliffs. Since West Virginians are used to walking on an inclined plane, that means we're good at it and can escape easily, especially if these invaders are from the Midwest.
Them: You live in West Virginia? That's cool! I have family from Roanoake!
Me: Roanoake is in Virginia.
Them: Yeah? So?
Me: West Virginia is a different state. It separated from Virginia and became a state in 1863. It was kind of a big deal.
Them: Whatever. Bunch of hillbillies.
For years West Virginians have been labeled as a group of moonshine-swilling, deer-hunting, racist, shoeless rednecks. Oh, those do exist here, don't get me wrong. They also exist everywhere else in the United States. We don't have the monopoly on rednecks.
Because of people's general misunderstanding of our state, I decided to devise a list of why West Virginia is awesome and once the apocalypse is neigh we'll still be here.
1. West Virginia is completely covered by the Appalachian range. That means when zombies or sentient robots invade, we'll be pretty safe in our dazzling array of peaks, valleys, caves, and cliffs. Since West Virginians are used to walking on an inclined plane, that means we're good at it and can escape easily, especially if these invaders are from the Midwest.
Good luck scaling this bitch.
2. This state is one of the most beautiful, natural, rugged, and scenic in the country. Wildlife is everywhere. I have a fawn that has taken up residence in the backyard (I named her Crimson, after the crimson roadstains that spot the West Virginian highways of dead deer), as well as three rabbits (Fluffers, Twitchy, and Sir Hopsalot). There are snakes, bobcats, coyotes, owls, foxes, black bears, even freaking cougars, and that's just scratching the surface. Because we are so used to seeing wild fauna, we have become intuned with them and can actually control them telepathically to rise up and destroy our invaders. The Mountaineer is the one with the strongest powers.
The backbone of our armies.
3. We have lots of coal, which means lots of steam power, which means steampunk, which means steampunk zeppelins that will drop barrels of explosive moonshine on enemies. Moonshine is hardcore, because if it's made wrong, it'll make you go blind.
Typical West Virginian gentlemen making moonshine, the artillery of our militias.
4. Most of our populace hunt. It makes sense; we have more deer here than people. That's not really a hyperbole. It makes sense to hunt deer because they're rampant and dumb, as well as tasty. Because so many people here hunt, that means they are a good shot, which makes gathering an Apocalypse Militia easy. Also, they won't have to starve like most people do because we have herds of retarded food grazing all over the place. I don't really hunt, but I'm good at fishing, and West Virginia bluegill is tasty.
Dumbshits.
5. Not a lot of people, and therefore less of a chance of zombie bites spreading. We're also less of a priority for invaders. If the robot overlords are anything like out-of-staters driving through over the New River Gorge bridge, they'll be going 25 miles an hour with their flashers on while we speed by at 80. Therefore, it'll be a pain for them to invade.
Entertainment is being a West Virginian and watching a New Yorker drive over this.
6. Endless mine shafts to hide in.
Also good for hiding the bodies.
Portraits and cupcakes.
Here's the portrait that I did today in Watercolor. Again, not great because I was working from a photo rather than an actual person, but I kind of like the way she turned out. I wish I had more time or I would've actually done her neck instead of a vague outline.
Anyway, I haven't posted in a few days because of how exhausting work was over the weekend, plus I screwed up my arm again. Back in June I hurt my shoulder from catching a heavy box from up high falling at my face, and I keep screwing it up every couple of weeks. I went to the doctor for it and he told me "Sorry, can't do anything! Here's some painkillers. Now go away." My left arm is more or less useless, because it's so blindingly painful that I can't really lift it.
As you know, I work midnights as a waitress. For the longest time, we had a cop that would do duty in the restaurant, staying from 12AM-4AM, which was great for deterring retarded drunks. Now that we have a new GM, we don't have a cop anymore and it's been bad. Really bad. We're getting tables trying to fight with each other, people ruining the sugar caddies in a drunken rage, and dudes asking me for a beej. I used to love midnights because I am a true night owl, but now it's awful because alcohol turns so many people into raging savages. Ugh.
Yesterday, I had a hankering for cupcakes and decided to create a tasty autumnesque creation. I found a way to make cupcakes slightly healthier and they are delicious! I took a box of cinnamon cake mix, mixed in an entire can of pumpkin, put whipped icing with sprinkles and cinnamon sugar on top, and created some delicious cupcakes. They taste somewhat like pumpkin bread, but lighter and more cinnamon-y, and they're less chock full of calories. Try it out if you like pumpkin.
I'm thinking about putting an excerpt from my first chapter on here for people to read and let me know what they think. My friend Michael has read six chapters so far, so he's been a huge help along with Sean, and I'd like to expand a little to see if the story is interesting enough. Would anyone be interested in such a thing?
As you know, I work midnights as a waitress. For the longest time, we had a cop that would do duty in the restaurant, staying from 12AM-4AM, which was great for deterring retarded drunks. Now that we have a new GM, we don't have a cop anymore and it's been bad. Really bad. We're getting tables trying to fight with each other, people ruining the sugar caddies in a drunken rage, and dudes asking me for a beej. I used to love midnights because I am a true night owl, but now it's awful because alcohol turns so many people into raging savages. Ugh.
Yesterday, I had a hankering for cupcakes and decided to create a tasty autumnesque creation. I found a way to make cupcakes slightly healthier and they are delicious! I took a box of cinnamon cake mix, mixed in an entire can of pumpkin, put whipped icing with sprinkles and cinnamon sugar on top, and created some delicious cupcakes. They taste somewhat like pumpkin bread, but lighter and more cinnamon-y, and they're less chock full of calories. Try it out if you like pumpkin.
I'm thinking about putting an excerpt from my first chapter on here for people to read and let me know what they think. My friend Michael has read six chapters so far, so he's been a huge help along with Sean, and I'd like to expand a little to see if the story is interesting enough. Would anyone be interested in such a thing?
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Scavenger hunt!
Well isn't this fun, a scavenger hunt. I've been tagged by Morgan, go check her out!
1. Your Favorite YouTube Video
If you haven't seen the first one, watch it here.
2. A photo that will make everyone say 'awww':
Who doesn't love adorable, fuzzy fox kits?
3. A funny T-shirt:)/images/products/prose.jpg)
Wisdom from Billy Shakes.
4. Something geeky:
A classic.
5. A link or image to your favorite movie:
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
6. A link to the newest blog you've discovered:
Aquí.
7. An item on your wish list:
Well, there's no real tangible item that I really really want. Maybe this awesome jacket, or clothes from here. The thing I want most is to get published and have my story be moderately successful.
I'm supposed to tag more people, but I don't know a lot of bloggers on here yet so I will with time. If you have an interesting blog let me know and I'll follow ya!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
More arts.
Here's some more art I've done. These are all from classes I've taken over the years.
Still-life With a PheasantOil, Fall 2009
Raven Speaks to the Wise Women
Oil, Fall 2009.
Neural Circutry
Oil, Fall 2009.
Pheasant
Pastel and charcoal, Fall 2008.
Crisis
Watercolor, Fall 2010.
West Virginia Hills in Autumn
Watercolor, Fall 2010.
Draenei vs. Zombie
Etched print, Spring 2010.
Motherboard I.
Layered single print, Spring 2010.
Motherboard II
Layered single-run print, Spring 2010.
Writer's block...
So I'm up to Chapter 8 on my novel and for the most part it's going well. It's one of those stories that seem to write themselves, or the characters direct the action. However, I'm at the end of this chapter and they seem to have stopped helping. I stared at the blinking cursor for a full five minutes, fingers on the keyboard, and nothing coming out. I guess I should've chosen a simpler concept and plot for my first novel, but I'm 95 pages in and it's too late to quit now. Even my dreams won't help me at this point.
At the risk of sounding like Stephenie Meyer, this story came to me in a dream (or rather, a series of dreams) when I was in high school. It was about a girl who lived on a desert island that had the rare ability to control and coax the natural elements. I kept the idea in my head, but never really did much with it because that girl in the desert was all I had. A few years later, I had a dream about an enormous black citadel, reaching past the clouds, its windows glittering like fireflies. I added that citadel to the story and kind of went from there, even taking that for my title (Citadel of Fireflies).
I've been writing Citadel of Fireflies since August, though I made up the characters and the first basic idea of plot back in late winter 2010. I'm painfully slow at writing this, I'm afraid. Beginning the journey was easy, and I know how it ends (for the most part)... I even know most of the middle, but it's the struggle of filling in those gaps that are the challenge. It's a fun challenge, but immensely difficult. Fantasy is difficult to write because you have to balance several characters while still making them complex and likeable, the world that you've created with the cultures and people of different lands, how magic works in that world, creatures you've created, the gods the people worship, and more. At the same time, you've got several small side plots that tie into the main plot, characters that may change or affect those plots, and rough patches until they reach their goal.
It's the hardest thing I've ever done and I love it. I've rewritten what I have so far twice and it's still awful, but knowing I'll get there someday keeps me writing.
It's a shame writer's block had to strike.
At the risk of sounding like Stephenie Meyer, this story came to me in a dream (or rather, a series of dreams) when I was in high school. It was about a girl who lived on a desert island that had the rare ability to control and coax the natural elements. I kept the idea in my head, but never really did much with it because that girl in the desert was all I had. A few years later, I had a dream about an enormous black citadel, reaching past the clouds, its windows glittering like fireflies. I added that citadel to the story and kind of went from there, even taking that for my title (Citadel of Fireflies).
I've been writing Citadel of Fireflies since August, though I made up the characters and the first basic idea of plot back in late winter 2010. I'm painfully slow at writing this, I'm afraid. Beginning the journey was easy, and I know how it ends (for the most part)... I even know most of the middle, but it's the struggle of filling in those gaps that are the challenge. It's a fun challenge, but immensely difficult. Fantasy is difficult to write because you have to balance several characters while still making them complex and likeable, the world that you've created with the cultures and people of different lands, how magic works in that world, creatures you've created, the gods the people worship, and more. At the same time, you've got several small side plots that tie into the main plot, characters that may change or affect those plots, and rough patches until they reach their goal.
It's the hardest thing I've ever done and I love it. I've rewritten what I have so far twice and it's still awful, but knowing I'll get there someday keeps me writing.
It's a shame writer's block had to strike.
If anyone's curious, my story centers on a girl named Kishna living with a desert tribe. She is a shaman apprentice, studying under a mentor believed to be the last known practicing shaman. For her last test, she is to go on a spirit journey, where she has a vision of her village being ransacked and its people either killed or taken as slaves for King Falden - a dying king who is building a citadel that will reach to the heavens and drain power from the gods for himself. She manages to save her village, but she and some others are still captured. Somewhat later, she discovers that the only way to destroy the citadel and close the portal between their world and the heavens is to gather the six mortal avatars of Nadala, the goddess of purity, sent by her to combat the evil in the world. Once gathered, these avatars, called Virtues, are able to call upon their godly powers and put an end to that evil.
The tl;dr version: A chick tries to destroy a thing. And there's magic.
Hopefully the end of Chapter 8 and the beginning of Chapter 9 will come to me soon, as I'd rather like to continue. Until then, here's the usual question for the end of my blog posts: What keeps you reading a story? Do you want to know if the characters succeed, or what will happen to them? Are you interested in the setting and are curious as to what will happen to it? Or do you read it because you have to?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Some arts.
Here's some quick rough portraits I did today. It's the first time I drew for pleasure in a while, so I'm a little rusty and they kind of suck. Fun to draw, though.
Here's an abstract watercolor. I painted with water first, and then added dabs of color. I love the way it comes out.
Here's an abstract watercolor. I painted with water first, and then added dabs of color. I love the way it comes out.
Will post more artses in the future. Let me know what you'd like to see drawn and I'll tackle it... thinking of a subject is the hardest part.
Federal holidays for genocide and slave trade.
So yesterday it was Columbus Day, celebrating the accidental sailing into the Caribbean islands by some Italian dude paid by some Spanish dudes, which began a regime of genocide and slave trade. Pretty upstanding guy, that Christopher.
For a while, there has been a small minority, mostly Native Americans and black Americans with some observant white Americans, asking to replace Columbus Day with Native American Day or a remembrance day for the suffering of minorities caused by Columbus's deeds. They've been unheard and we go about our business, saying a quiet "Fuck yeah Columbus" and cursing that the bank is closed.
Native Americans are an often ignored minority in the United States. Many people laugh about their casinos on their reservations, their alcoholism, and their desperation to cling to their culture. Most stay on reservations to keep a shred of their culture alive, but unfortunately these are pieces of land that the government gave to them that are infertile, far from jobs, and no where near cultural holy sites. Many start casinos to give their families a chance, and, if your culture stood in ruins around you and you couldn't find a job to feed your family, I'm sure you'd hit the bottle too.
So today, instead of celebrating the jerk that is Columbus, let's celebrate Native Americans, with some pictures and interesting facts.
- The United States Constitution is based enormously off of the laws of the Iroquois Nation, which included the Onondaga, Mohawk, Cayuga, Oneida, and Seneca tribes (and later the Tuscarora). Without the Iroquios Nation, there would be no US Constitution with such a strong basis.
- The medicine that tribes across the United States and Canada used was far more advanced and effective than their European breathrens, and some of these same remedies are used in modern medicine to this day.
- Sequoia, the Cherokee man who created the Cherokee alphabet, is the one who sequoya trees are named after.
- Many tribes did not have a written language, and relied solely on the excellent memory of their storytellers to hear tales of their mythology.
- Native Americans did not have horses until European contact. This is because horses are not native to the Americans, and the ones the tribes had were escaped horses from Spanish, French, and English explorers.
I know very little Cherokee back when I became interesting in learning the language, so here's a ridiculously simple conversation in Tsalagi (the Cherokee language) itself! Yay!
Osiyo, dto hi tsu?
Osda, ni hi na?
Osadadv.
Howa!
Osda, ni hi na?
Osadadv.
Howa!
Translation:
Yo, what up G.
Notta thang homes. How you doin'?
Chillin.
Aight!
Yo, what up G.
Notta thang homes. How you doin'?
Chillin.
Aight!
As you can see I'm quite fluent, and the translation is highly accurate.
A Hopi girl and her adorable squash-blossom hairstyle reserved for maidens.
A man in traditional Cherokee clothing. No, not all of them wore feathers and buckskin pants.
Thought to be Crazy Horse, or Tashunka Witco. He was pretty cool.
A Pacific Northwestern carving of a Kwakwaka'wakw, Pugwis, an undersea spirit.
In conclusion, remember those who were slaughtered because some stuffy guy in a silly hat couldn't find his way to Indonesia, and celebrate them instead of him. My fiance is Cherokee, so I celebrated in the most fun way possible.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Movies: a reflection of our culture.
I watched a great documentary the other day called This Film is Not Yet Rated. Highly recommended if you love movies... it's available for streaming on Netflix. It talks about the standards set by the MPAA and how it controls culture.
One of the primary things the documentary talks about is how violence is accepted in American movies, sometimes even glorified, but nudity and sex are shameful and strongly regulated. Which, to me, doesn't make any sense. We were born nude. It's our natural state. Humans began to wear clothing to protect themselves from the elements, and through time, a nude figure was seen as provocative. If we didn't have sex, we wouldn't reproduce, and not to mention we would be awfully grumpy. Porno is one thing, but our culture is so shy of sex in general.
Pictured: the decay of decency.
A lot of movies we have nowadays are also ridiculously violent. Violence can be used in conjunction with other elements to tell a story. It's necessary for films such as Saving Private Ryan to portray a realistic warscape. However, anymore we have movie after movie of a plot centered solely on violence.
I'm not squeamish, but Hostel was disgusting. It was nothing more than a torture film with very little plot. Saw was an interesting concept, but as they made more and more movies they turned into snuff films. In a way, humans crave violence. We're warring, primate creatures underneath a sophisticated facade; it's instinct put into place for our survival. But sex is an instinct too, and a good one at that. Why is a romantic scene, or a nude person, so offensive to us when we don't blink an eye at decapitations and mutilations?
A good point that the documentary brought up was the fact that, for much of Europe, their movies are the complete opposite. Violence is regulated more strongly, and nudity and sex aren't a big deal. Look at Amelie: a sweet, quirky story that anyone could love. It's rated R in the US because of two five-second upper-body sex scenes with no nudity and a time-lapse picture of a pregnant woman with her breasts exposed.
The Lilith who is planting demons in our childrens' minds.
It's also interesting that gay couples are also looked down upon more strongly in movies than violence. Take But I'm a Cheerleader. Run-of-the-mill teen movie, except it's about a cheerleader who realizes she's a lesbian and her parents send her off to straight camp. There's a fully-clothed masturbation scene and a fully-clothed sex scene where her and her girlfriend do nothing but mess around a little, both very brief. Apparently this got it a NC-17 rating. American Pie depicts a guy having sex with a pie, and one of the Scary Movie films shows a guy blast a girl and glue her to the ceiling with his semen, yet those are only R. But I'm a Cheerleader got the same rating as a porno because it had a lesbian couple.
Maybe someday we'll come to terms with the fact that the rest of the English-speaking and Western world thinks we're a bunch of ultraconservative puritans and lighten up a bit. But until now, I guess we'll have to enjoy our horror films that aren't so much horror anymore as they are a contest to see who can get the most blood and viscera on screen.
This is normal and acceptable.
Fantasy: Nerds like it and so should you.
As a few of you who have been reading this know, I've been working on a novel for the past few months. Writing a complete fantasy novel is #2 on the list of things to do before I die (#1 being a tour of Ireland). I want to do a lot of things before I kick the bucket, so it's pretty far up there.
When I was in high school, I spent the time during my history class writing a story. It was ridiculous and pretty terrible, focusing on my three best friends as the main characters and involving some silly quest. I still have it stuffed in my closet somewhere. After that, I decided I wanted to actually try a real novel. You know, one with a real plot and characters and a story that doesn't suck too bad. Unfortunately, I had an extremely short attention span. I'd write the first two chapters, get bored, and trash it.
It's amazing that the thing college has taught me the most (besides the fact that no one really knows as much as they and myself think we do) is patience. Over a period of a couple of months, I have a good plot, complex characters, a better command of writing narrative, and the realization of how people actually talk. I'm up to Chapter 8, nearly Chapter 9, and still going strong. I'm sure the story is pretty terrible, but I want to at least say I wrote a full-length novel.
Being an enormous fantasy nerd, this is the genre I've always been settled on. Also, being one who reads more fantasy (and tons of other books) than is healthy, I've come up with a few qualms with the fantasy genre.
Firstly, most fantasy is set in a Celtic, Norse, or medieval European inspired setting. It's what we like and are comfortable with. Tolkien based his books off of Norse mythology, and since he is the grandfather of fantasy, many followed. I like books set in this type of world, don't get me wrong. But what about other cultures? The world has such vibrant, beautiful, and rich mythologies, yet it's somewhat rare for those to inspire fantasy books. What about sub-Sahara Africa? The Aztecs and Mayans? The Japanese Shinto or the Mongolians, the Soloman Islanders, the Saudi Arabians, or the tribes and people around the Caspian and Baltic seas?
Because of this, my main character is from a desert land, a mingle of Arabia, pre-colonial America, Mongolia, and the Pacific islands. She is a shaman apprentice, one who can control the faucets of nature and dive into the spiritual realm.
Second, a lot of fantasy uses the same rules as Tolkien or Dungeons and Dragons for different creatures and races. Elves are aloof and eternally wise, dwarves are grumpy and love drinking, humans are a young jack-of-all-trades race. Orcs, drow, and the like are evil, with extremely few exceptions.
When I played Dragon Age, it was a breath of fresh air to have elves that were not all-knowing and superior, but with a dying culture that was seen as inferior to humans. Dwarves still loved drinking, but they were backstabbing politicians that divided their people into castes. I've read a couple of other novels where the author bends the rules, but they're hard to find.
The way I'm trying to go about it is make races more realistic. The antagonist land is not evil, just loyal to their dying king. No one realm or race is evil, just individuals who choose to be. Humans are varied by culture, none really good nor bad. Light elves and drow live begrudgely in the same land, and dwarves are tied to the earth, choosing to live along side it instead of mining its ore and making flasks and battleaxes. Not to say that dwarves who drink lots of ale and swing weapons around aren't awesome, because they are. Everyone likes Vikings, except the rest of medieval Europe.
Third, I like character-driven story over plot-driven story. I think most people do, in fact. If something completely ordinary happens in a character-driven book, you'll still care because you feel attached to the protagonist. If something insane and surreal happens in a plot-driven book, you wouldn't give a damn because you don't care for any of the characters too much. Plot is necessary to a good story, but I feel that characters are more important. I've read a ton of fantasies with unlikeable, boring characters that had a great story, but I couldn't enjoy it because I felt no attachment to anyone there.
I have to say I've spent more time developing the characters than writing the damn book. I know their pasts, dreams, personalities, secrets, strengths, weaknesses, etc. I've done character studies, written up background stories, and created extensive profiles for each.
In conclusion, I'm a nerd. My novel is probably really bad, but it's fun. Something to pass the time while I can't sleep for my 24th hour and am hallucinating gnomes crawling into my vacuum cleaner.
When I was in high school, I spent the time during my history class writing a story. It was ridiculous and pretty terrible, focusing on my three best friends as the main characters and involving some silly quest. I still have it stuffed in my closet somewhere. After that, I decided I wanted to actually try a real novel. You know, one with a real plot and characters and a story that doesn't suck too bad. Unfortunately, I had an extremely short attention span. I'd write the first two chapters, get bored, and trash it.
It's amazing that the thing college has taught me the most (besides the fact that no one really knows as much as they and myself think we do) is patience. Over a period of a couple of months, I have a good plot, complex characters, a better command of writing narrative, and the realization of how people actually talk. I'm up to Chapter 8, nearly Chapter 9, and still going strong. I'm sure the story is pretty terrible, but I want to at least say I wrote a full-length novel.
Being an enormous fantasy nerd, this is the genre I've always been settled on. Also, being one who reads more fantasy (and tons of other books) than is healthy, I've come up with a few qualms with the fantasy genre.
Firstly, most fantasy is set in a Celtic, Norse, or medieval European inspired setting. It's what we like and are comfortable with. Tolkien based his books off of Norse mythology, and since he is the grandfather of fantasy, many followed. I like books set in this type of world, don't get me wrong. But what about other cultures? The world has such vibrant, beautiful, and rich mythologies, yet it's somewhat rare for those to inspire fantasy books. What about sub-Sahara Africa? The Aztecs and Mayans? The Japanese Shinto or the Mongolians, the Soloman Islanders, the Saudi Arabians, or the tribes and people around the Caspian and Baltic seas?
This is awesome.
Because of this, my main character is from a desert land, a mingle of Arabia, pre-colonial America, Mongolia, and the Pacific islands. She is a shaman apprentice, one who can control the faucets of nature and dive into the spiritual realm.
Second, a lot of fantasy uses the same rules as Tolkien or Dungeons and Dragons for different creatures and races. Elves are aloof and eternally wise, dwarves are grumpy and love drinking, humans are a young jack-of-all-trades race. Orcs, drow, and the like are evil, with extremely few exceptions.
When I played Dragon Age, it was a breath of fresh air to have elves that were not all-knowing and superior, but with a dying culture that was seen as inferior to humans. Dwarves still loved drinking, but they were backstabbing politicians that divided their people into castes. I've read a couple of other novels where the author bends the rules, but they're hard to find.
The way I'm trying to go about it is make races more realistic. The antagonist land is not evil, just loyal to their dying king. No one realm or race is evil, just individuals who choose to be. Humans are varied by culture, none really good nor bad. Light elves and drow live begrudgely in the same land, and dwarves are tied to the earth, choosing to live along side it instead of mining its ore and making flasks and battleaxes. Not to say that dwarves who drink lots of ale and swing weapons around aren't awesome, because they are. Everyone likes Vikings, except the rest of medieval Europe.
Third, I like character-driven story over plot-driven story. I think most people do, in fact. If something completely ordinary happens in a character-driven book, you'll still care because you feel attached to the protagonist. If something insane and surreal happens in a plot-driven book, you wouldn't give a damn because you don't care for any of the characters too much. Plot is necessary to a good story, but I feel that characters are more important. I've read a ton of fantasies with unlikeable, boring characters that had a great story, but I couldn't enjoy it because I felt no attachment to anyone there.
I have to say I've spent more time developing the characters than writing the damn book. I know their pasts, dreams, personalities, secrets, strengths, weaknesses, etc. I've done character studies, written up background stories, and created extensive profiles for each.
In conclusion, I'm a nerd. My novel is probably really bad, but it's fun. Something to pass the time while I can't sleep for my 24th hour and am hallucinating gnomes crawling into my vacuum cleaner.
Crafty bastards.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Art for art's sake.
I'm in what is hopefully my last semester of college. I would give anything to just drop out and begin searching for a trade job, but there's enormous pressure for me to continue. I don't care anymore. Why bother finishing my graphic design degree in an area where no graphics jobs exist, and where they do I'd be making more money waiting on tables? I would love to work in the industrial field, and I would've left college long ago if I knew jobs like a machinist existed. Just think, no general public to work with, $15-20/hour starting out, working with tools, union benefits... the list goes on and on. I want to start looking now but apparently I have to waste another couple of months stressing about school, and even then I may not actually be done.
Which brings me to the point about art in schools. I loved my first few studio classes. Figure drawing was somewhat disappointing (one model throughout the entire semester... drawing the same dude gets old after a few months), but other than that it was great.
Then I took Printmaking.
Printmaking is a class that would've been interesting if it wasn't for the fact that a) you can create the same things with graphics programs, but cheaper and better, with 1/4 of the time and effort, b) the class was extremely late. Like, 6PM-9PM. I already had class during the day, too. Longest freakin' Mondays and Wednesdays of my life. Not to mention, half the time working for that class was bringing stuff home or staying late to finish prints. Awful.
After that I began to hate art for art's sake little by little. Not art that you feel like making because you're inspired, or just because. Not because you had a great idea that you'd like to do, and don't care about whether you can sell it or not. I hate art for art's sake when you're forced to make it for other artists. Whether they want to admit it or not, the majority of the art community is pretty pretentious. Many artists will try to find meaning in human feces smeared across a canvas. Something about the decay of humanity or something.
The art community hates non-artistic art. Artistic art is avant garde, and a lot of it is great. You'll see some of the most interesting and creative pieces with avant garde. You also have dumb shit like Kasimir Malevich's White on White, which looks exactly like it sounds. It's also hanging in a museum. Here, here's a picture of the masterpiece:
Then there's kitsch. A lot of it is bad. Think of most of the stuff on DeviantArt, homemade decorations sold at flea markets, or fiber optic angel paintings at Wal-mart. That's kitsch. There's a great article on avant garde vs. kitsch by Clement Greenberg, which you can read here: http://www.sharecom.ca/greenberg/kitsch.html
But then there's good non-avant garde art, as well. I've heard of a lot of people considering commercial art, fantasy art, digital art, and some other forms kitsch, which isn't fair. In a sense, kitsch is inferior to real art and is created by popular demand, and sucks the whole creative process out. However, why does all of this art have to be considered inferior? I've seen some amazing artists on places such as Elfwood that create fantasy pieces that would be sadly considered kitsch. I've seen some terrible art that would be considered avant garde. Why would the terrible avant garde piece be considered superior to the wonderful drawing of an elf or a dragon?
I think it's a problem with the art community in itself. It searches for substance when there doesn't have to be any. It glorifies art made for itself, and dismisses anything made for pure aesthetics as trash. Sometimes, I just want to make something pretty. Is that so wrong? Why does White on White have to be superior to a huge, colorful mural made on a crumbling wall in a poor neighborhood? Why does a single line or paint slopped down a canvas have to be better than a piece of fanart inspired by World of Warcraft or Trigun?
I think it's because human beings like to feel superior. I get treated like crap by some customers because they think they're better. People harrassed blacks, Native Americans, Mexicans, Middle Easterners, and Asians for years (and continue to this day) because they think they're better. It's when a person sees himself or herself as better than everyone else that evil lingers in their heart.
Yeah, I just called the art community evil. Here's some art inferior to Mr. Malevich's art up there.
The customer is always right?
You know what's fun? Idiotic customers. I come across a lot of them working midnights as a waitress. Dumb customers also seem to be the cheapest. I have a couple that stand out in my mind, and I thought I'd share.
1) A woman orders a turtle sundae for her kid. You know, hot fudge, caramel, peanuts, and ice cream, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Pretty run-of-the-mill turtle sundae. I bring the sundae to the kid and he looks excited.
When I check on them, the woman holds up the sundae, freaking out. "Honey, he can't eat his ice cream because there's all these peanuts and chocolate and yellowish brown stuff!"
"Yeah, that's what a turtle sundae is."
"Well, can you bring him a turtle sundae that's just ice cream and a little bit of chocolate at the bottom?"
I force a grin. "Right away."
I plop the un-turtled turtle sundae in front of the kid. "Now that's more like it!" I hold in the urge to smash his face on it. Thirty dollar check, 50 cent tip.
2) A table of five drunks come in. Now, I get a ton of drunks working midnights in a restaurant right across the street from one of the trashiest bars in north-central West Virginia. But these guys are beyond drunk, to the point where they've probably reached the sublimity of nirvana from having more whiskey in their veins than blood. They're loud, obnoxious... you know, the ones who you really don't want to be the DD for because you don't want to be mistaken for their caretaker.
The young guy catches the edge of my Starry Night sleeve and asks to see it. I lift my shirt sleeve and he blinks at it, then touches it. I guess he figured it was textured like that actual painting.
"Yeah, well check this!" He lifts his shirt sleeve to reveal a (albeit well-done) tattoo of a topless angel with enourmous bajongas.
I force a grin. It's an art form. "Nice."
The old guy at the table stands up with his coffee and says he's going to go outside for a second to smoke. I tell him that's fine.
"You know, I'd like to get to know you on a one-on-one basis." Mind you, he's as old as my grandfather.
"I'll pass."
I put in their order and take it out to them some time later. The guy with the angel tattoo is standing by the edge of the booth as I place his T-bone on the table. He picks it up with his hands, takes a bite, and slams in on the tabletop. Completely throws the fucker like a Olympian discus competitor.
I try to talk the manager of kicking them out, because they're disturbing other tables, but it doesn't happen. They leave the biggest mess I've ever seen. I've had people with babies that they give cookies and spaghetti to grind up and dump on the floor, and they were cleaner than the drunks. Oh, and a sixty dollar check with no tip. They were all trashed and drove away, possibly into a school or an elderly jogger.
3) A woman comes in with her two school-aged kids at 2 AM. She has no idea what different types of espresso drinks are, which is fine. Not everyone knows the difference. So I explain them to her, but she can't grasp the concept.
"Now, this... espresso... does it have caffeine?"
After standing there for literally ten minutes explaining drinks to her, she decides on a Pumpkin Chai Latte. She then screams at her kids to hurry up and choose a drink, she ain't got all night.
I bring their drinks and take their order. She once again screams at her kids to hurry up and pick something. One of them can't read that well yet, he must've be five. Again, she has me standing there for ten minutes while she decides.
(Side note: If you're at a restaurant and if the server asks if you're ready, don't say yes and then look through trying to decide. The server can come back. "Ready" means you're prepared to say your order.)
She looks at the omelettes, getting frustrated. "Why do you have to have these omelettes with all this stuff in it? All I want is an omelette with egg!" As calmly as I can, without turning around and bashing my head into the buffet glass, explain that omelettes are made of egg. That's the yellow stuff holding the other stuff.
She also orders a salad, with three huge cups of ranch. She's having ranch soup at this point. Forty dollar check, no tip.
Those are my best that I remember. Here are some from when I worked midnight buffet. For those of you that don't work with or live near me, the midnight buffet has a hot side of breakfast food like egg, home fries, bacon, etc, and a cold side with fruit. Drunks love that shit.
1) Had a bunch of rednecks arguing over what the prunes were. One insisted it was a cold bowl filled with mushrooms.
2) Sean's customer on the bar came up to him and asked where the syrup was. He pointed to the wells at the end of the bar. "Oh, I thought that was sweet tea!" Yes, we keep an enormous pitcher of hot, sticky sweet tea with a ladle at the end of a buffet.
3) I had just taken a container of bacon out. One whole box of bacon will fill a container. As I went in and came back out to fill something else, an enormously fat guy, at least 350-400 pounds, waved at me.
"When are you going to bring more bacon out?" I look over at the just-filled container. It was all gone. He was the only one in the restaurant at the time who had the buffet.
4) A customer is asking me what stuff is. Understandable, for some of it. He gets to the pancakes and asks what they are. When I explain, he looks bewildered.
And finally, dumb customers that were not my own:
1) My friend Kurtis was running some coffee out to a table. The guy looks at the coffee pot and stops him.
"What is that?" He explains that it's coffee. "Oh, I thought that was black water."
2) Sean gets a To-Go order. The lady says, "What's that pasta dish you have with chicken and... that green stuff?"
"Chicken Broccoli Alfredo?"
"That's the one. I want that." Sean tells her she gets a side with it. "No, I just want the regular Chicken Broccoli Alfredo." He says yes, you get the alfredo, but it comes with a side. "No, no, I just want the regular size Chicken Broccoli Alfredo."
3) I forget who this was, but Sean was telling me about it. The server checks on his/her customer, who has the midnight buffet. "This is some good cheese soup you have!" He was eating straight cheese sauce.
And finally, the dumb question everyone gets constantly:
"What time does your midnight buffet start?"
I don't know. 7 AM maybe.
1) A woman orders a turtle sundae for her kid. You know, hot fudge, caramel, peanuts, and ice cream, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Pretty run-of-the-mill turtle sundae. I bring the sundae to the kid and he looks excited.
When I check on them, the woman holds up the sundae, freaking out. "Honey, he can't eat his ice cream because there's all these peanuts and chocolate and yellowish brown stuff!"
"Yeah, that's what a turtle sundae is."
"Well, can you bring him a turtle sundae that's just ice cream and a little bit of chocolate at the bottom?"
I force a grin. "Right away."
I plop the un-turtled turtle sundae in front of the kid. "Now that's more like it!" I hold in the urge to smash his face on it. Thirty dollar check, 50 cent tip.
2) A table of five drunks come in. Now, I get a ton of drunks working midnights in a restaurant right across the street from one of the trashiest bars in north-central West Virginia. But these guys are beyond drunk, to the point where they've probably reached the sublimity of nirvana from having more whiskey in their veins than blood. They're loud, obnoxious... you know, the ones who you really don't want to be the DD for because you don't want to be mistaken for their caretaker.
The young guy catches the edge of my Starry Night sleeve and asks to see it. I lift my shirt sleeve and he blinks at it, then touches it. I guess he figured it was textured like that actual painting.
"Yeah, well check this!" He lifts his shirt sleeve to reveal a (albeit well-done) tattoo of a topless angel with enourmous bajongas.
I force a grin. It's an art form. "Nice."
The old guy at the table stands up with his coffee and says he's going to go outside for a second to smoke. I tell him that's fine.
"You know, I'd like to get to know you on a one-on-one basis." Mind you, he's as old as my grandfather.
"I'll pass."
I put in their order and take it out to them some time later. The guy with the angel tattoo is standing by the edge of the booth as I place his T-bone on the table. He picks it up with his hands, takes a bite, and slams in on the tabletop. Completely throws the fucker like a Olympian discus competitor.
I try to talk the manager of kicking them out, because they're disturbing other tables, but it doesn't happen. They leave the biggest mess I've ever seen. I've had people with babies that they give cookies and spaghetti to grind up and dump on the floor, and they were cleaner than the drunks. Oh, and a sixty dollar check with no tip. They were all trashed and drove away, possibly into a school or an elderly jogger.
3) A woman comes in with her two school-aged kids at 2 AM. She has no idea what different types of espresso drinks are, which is fine. Not everyone knows the difference. So I explain them to her, but she can't grasp the concept.
"Now, this... espresso... does it have caffeine?"
After standing there for literally ten minutes explaining drinks to her, she decides on a Pumpkin Chai Latte. She then screams at her kids to hurry up and choose a drink, she ain't got all night.
I bring their drinks and take their order. She once again screams at her kids to hurry up and pick something. One of them can't read that well yet, he must've be five. Again, she has me standing there for ten minutes while she decides.
(Side note: If you're at a restaurant and if the server asks if you're ready, don't say yes and then look through trying to decide. The server can come back. "Ready" means you're prepared to say your order.)
She looks at the omelettes, getting frustrated. "Why do you have to have these omelettes with all this stuff in it? All I want is an omelette with egg!" As calmly as I can, without turning around and bashing my head into the buffet glass, explain that omelettes are made of egg. That's the yellow stuff holding the other stuff.
She also orders a salad, with three huge cups of ranch. She's having ranch soup at this point. Forty dollar check, no tip.
Those are my best that I remember. Here are some from when I worked midnight buffet. For those of you that don't work with or live near me, the midnight buffet has a hot side of breakfast food like egg, home fries, bacon, etc, and a cold side with fruit. Drunks love that shit.
1) Had a bunch of rednecks arguing over what the prunes were. One insisted it was a cold bowl filled with mushrooms.
2) Sean's customer on the bar came up to him and asked where the syrup was. He pointed to the wells at the end of the bar. "Oh, I thought that was sweet tea!" Yes, we keep an enormous pitcher of hot, sticky sweet tea with a ladle at the end of a buffet.
3) I had just taken a container of bacon out. One whole box of bacon will fill a container. As I went in and came back out to fill something else, an enormously fat guy, at least 350-400 pounds, waved at me.
"When are you going to bring more bacon out?" I look over at the just-filled container. It was all gone. He was the only one in the restaurant at the time who had the buffet.
4) A customer is asking me what stuff is. Understandable, for some of it. He gets to the pancakes and asks what they are. When I explain, he looks bewildered.
And finally, dumb customers that were not my own:
1) My friend Kurtis was running some coffee out to a table. The guy looks at the coffee pot and stops him.
"What is that?" He explains that it's coffee. "Oh, I thought that was black water."
2) Sean gets a To-Go order. The lady says, "What's that pasta dish you have with chicken and... that green stuff?"
"Chicken Broccoli Alfredo?"
"That's the one. I want that." Sean tells her she gets a side with it. "No, I just want the regular Chicken Broccoli Alfredo." He says yes, you get the alfredo, but it comes with a side. "No, no, I just want the regular size Chicken Broccoli Alfredo."
3) I forget who this was, but Sean was telling me about it. The server checks on his/her customer, who has the midnight buffet. "This is some good cheese soup you have!" He was eating straight cheese sauce.
And finally, the dumb question everyone gets constantly:
"What time does your midnight buffet start?"
I don't know. 7 AM maybe.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
So it begins.
I began this blog to catalog my dreams, but I think I might expand into other horizons. For therapy's sake. Anyway, hi, I'm Brittany. I love writing though I'm not a writer, and I love arting even though I'm not an artist. I'm a graphic design student by day, waitress by night. I live with my boyfriend of four years, Sean, who is my bestest friend. That doesn't give him much credit, as I don't really have any close friends, but he's the best friend I could ever ask for.
The other day, I couldn't sleep, as usual. It was Sunday morning; I had just worked a 10PM-6AM shift the night before, and I had to be back at work at 4PM. When I got home from that shift, I had to work on a couple of projects for class. Needless to say, I was having the beginnings of a nervous breakdown. I was on the couch, cursing my insomnia, when I heard Sean rustling around in the kitchen. It sounded like he was messing with my kiwi bird. For reference, I have a project from a 3D design class sitting on top of my fridge. Obviously, it's a giant kiwi bird, constructed out of cardboard and covered with silk flowers. Here's a picture of the creature in its natural habitat:
I turn around on the couch to ask him what he's doing.
"Science," he responds.
Before I can get up, he trudges into the living room, the kiwi bird balanced precariously on his head. He's cackling like Dr. Frakenstein; I can almost see the crashing lightning behind him.
"I've done it! I've merged man and beast!"
I laugh. "You're mad."
"Mad? MAD?! I've grafted a kiwi bird to my head. Does that sound like the work of a madman to you?"
I felt better after that.
The other day, I couldn't sleep, as usual. It was Sunday morning; I had just worked a 10PM-6AM shift the night before, and I had to be back at work at 4PM. When I got home from that shift, I had to work on a couple of projects for class. Needless to say, I was having the beginnings of a nervous breakdown. I was on the couch, cursing my insomnia, when I heard Sean rustling around in the kitchen. It sounded like he was messing with my kiwi bird. For reference, I have a project from a 3D design class sitting on top of my fridge. Obviously, it's a giant kiwi bird, constructed out of cardboard and covered with silk flowers. Here's a picture of the creature in its natural habitat:
I turn around on the couch to ask him what he's doing.
"Science," he responds.
Before I can get up, he trudges into the living room, the kiwi bird balanced precariously on his head. He's cackling like Dr. Frakenstein; I can almost see the crashing lightning behind him.
"I've done it! I've merged man and beast!"
I laugh. "You're mad."
"Mad? MAD?! I've grafted a kiwi bird to my head. Does that sound like the work of a madman to you?"
I felt better after that.
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