“Welcome to hell,” the devil said, his long white beard scraggling down from his acne-ridden, pockmarked chin the hair couldn’t quite hide. He holds one arm out, the other too familiar on my back, his sweat-stained suit hanging limply, as though with no feasible options for homicide, it had resorted to suicide instead. (more…)
Delilah Jane Houston, known locally as radio personality DJ Houston of Houston, We Have Some Problems, the ten o’clock radio show commonly referred to around campus as “wait, we have a radio station?”, was experiencing a moral dilemma.
I love writing. It’s frustrating, impossible, irritating, and often painful, and the end product is never actually completed. It’s great. I’ve been working on a few stories (with plots that form as they go), but for some reason today my brain refuses to get into the writing mode. Enter beautiful people:
So, I’ve been quiet on here as of late, ruining last year’s New Years resolution to write every day or once a week or whatever it was that I resolved to do in 2016. It wasn’t for lack of ideas–so get ready for a lot of rants inspired by the things I find around the internet–but I do have a good excuse. Or, an excuse, anyway.
A few friends and I have started writing a serial story: Thieves of Bakkaj. It’s a fantasy story, and a chapter is published each week, alternating between me and the other three writers. It’s got well-developed characters and the potential to become something really awesome. I’d love it if you’d check it out and give us a read!
We also have a Facebook page, and we’re trying to get the word out best we can.
So here’s to 2017 being the year I manage to keep up my blog for more than four months while working on the other things I’m writing, and here’s to 2017 being the year I become internet famous, because it certainly wasn’t 2016. But we’re getting there.
She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. The strung lights cast long shadows as she curled her perfectly manicured toes against the rough wood. It was the first time in a long time her toenails had all been the same color. She covered her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the stupid white painted flower. Instead images from earlier flashed through her mind. His smile, his bare feet, the way his skin looked against the white button-down. His frown, the hurt in his eyes… She fell backwards with a groan. This is not how this night is supposed to end. Her fingers traced patterns in the white bedspread as she stared at the wooden ceiling and the impractical mosquito net. This night was supposed to be perfect—for both of us. A single tear dropped from her eye. This is stupid, she thought. Screw them. Screw him. He’s worthless, anyway. She didn’t mean to say it out loud. She hadn’t heard the door open; but she heard it close.