Andrew Hall's Blog
September 18, 2025
ALEX: GORGONOPSIS. Noun. "Monstrous Aspect".
SOUNDTRACK:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjcHc...
A sudden fierce stab shocked him conscious. Something tugged on his flesh like pointed pliers; a great ragged crow that pecked a gaping wound. He roared and lashed out painfully, and sent the dark bird lurching skyward; croaking loud Odin caws as it went. His stark gaze followed it, pinprick pupils staring in the daylight, until it vanished between the skyscrapers above. Its freedom, its flight, set him moving.
He felt it all now; the bloody ruins of him. His thoughts came back to him, and anger with it. All of it. Teeth clenched and snarling with it. A more ancient anger that wouldn’t quit, and ran far deeper to his core. A chain reaction. A neutron bomb. Rising now into trembling rage, into hot bloody fury, into seething wrath-volcanic. He snarled and yelled wildly at a world that didn’t want him. What’d driven him before wasn’t there any more; the only thing left was hate. Everything in him, all that’d shaped him, snapped. Alex roared out loud in a throat-breaking bellow and crawled from his puddle of blood. His failed execution. Left for dead. He forced his arms ahead of him. Pressed his palms into the sidewalk. Scratched his filthy nails at the concrete, over and over, to try and grip at it. Dragging himself forward on nothing but a thought.
…I hate you. All of you. I’ll make you suffer, and grow strong from you. I'll devour you. Until there's nothing left.
All his mind was bent on it, a muttering mantra, and he crawled. Wild eyes staring, growling frothed spit through cracked lips and gritted teeth, he dragged himself away from Death. Nothing heroic; more a mad-dog streak. The way mangled wild animals just kept on living. Pure reptile impulse, some engine of evolution, that refused to stop surviving while a single cell still fired. He dragged his silver blood-smear trail behind him. A raging revenant in the ruins.
The fall from that tower block had burst and broken him on the sidewalk. Glancing back, shaking with the pain, he couldn’t feel his legs. Dragging them useless behind him.
He raised himself on raw bloody arms to look around him; these dust-pale ruins of New York. Scouring it all with a piercing wide-eyed glare; starving and unhinged. Knuckle-bones rattling now, soundlessly from somewhere, through strange spiralling thoughts that took him over. Drums thumping louder in his head.
He searched the sidewalks around him, all the glooming buildings and dead dust-wrapped traffic, and saw something in the road that got him drooling. A gored-up jagged jackpot. The corpse of some unearthly monster; a dark hulking mound. Sprouting like shadow from the grey city scene.
…Gorgonopsis, he told himself excitedly. Violence incarnate. He’d never seen one this close before. Staring in wonder at the murdered monstrosity.
He struggled towards it with a mad stare. The drums in his head pounding louder now. Pushing up in agony, he walked on his hands and shuffled his strong bleeding form towards it. Smiling wide as he neared it, eyelids twitching with his shattered nerves, and those feral drums were deafening thunder in his soul.
His chuckling half-corpse dragged itself on through the ashen aftermath, towards that titan of monstrous carrion in the road. Muscles straining against the cold massive shape of it, he wrenched and peeled its rubber-metal armour where the tank shots had cratered it apart. The battletank itself was a mauled-open mess in the distance; coated with dust and deformed in melted shapes. Alex pulled open a flesh-creaking crevice in the monster, wide enough to bury his face inside it, and bear-hugged its carcass to sink his teeth through the muscles. The white meat scrunched and squeaked as he bit at solid cords of it; fraying fibrous with a smell like latex steak. It peeled in bloody pops and sheared away as he chewed it; he crushed and mashed a mouthful with cracked and bleeding teeth.
He swallowed a bloody chunk, gasping orgasmic at the taste of it, and suddenly all that mattered was sprawled out bleeding before him. There for the taking, and by god would he take it. He filled his lungs with the smell of it. Frantic breaths in a carnivore snarl. Pupils swelling into drugged dilation. He held it still and buried his teeth in the flesh of it. The soundless devourings of a creature on a kill. Ripping great flopping shreds of it, he gripped and twisted and swallowed them whole. Savage silence, and lethal lunges; crocodile crunches in the dust. Squelching snaps and gluttonous gulps as he gripped corded flesh and crammed it between his teeth.
The city around him was blurred-out powders. The carcass before him, all that truly mattered now. Glowing nocturnal in bizarre hyperfocus, as if it writhed and reached and called to him for more. Alex buried his bloody face to the centre of it, peeling apart its furnace-guts and dragging away a great glob of metal set inside it. He tore in deeper, and gnawed off a chunk of its dark giant heart. Devouring it. Gasping wild and gulping as he filled his stomach to bursting with it. Its sticky cells came alive in him. A painkiller tide that helped him stand on his hands, and forced his appetite to swallow more of it. Eating for his life. It shot him through with strange sudden strength. A fresh energy; alien adrenaline to the heart. Spurring him on to suck at the monster’s blood, in those gleaming silver crevices where it pooled and trickled to the asphalt.
His meal put a drunken daze on him; melting his inhibitions. Snapping the restraints of that old fallen world that’d stamped down the psycho ape inside him. He pounced reptilian and locked his teeth into it. Jolting his body to rip at it. Filling his throat with it, that rich delicious flesh and starlight-flavoured blood, until he had to find some other way to take in more of it. Gulping vampiric on cold silver pints of it, until nothing more of that gorgon would fit inside him.
Its dormant tissues came alive in him. Both animals evolving. Cells growing less separate. Intertwining. Adapting to survive.
Alex was about to become much, much more.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjcHc...
A sudden fierce stab shocked him conscious. Something tugged on his flesh like pointed pliers; a great ragged crow that pecked a gaping wound. He roared and lashed out painfully, and sent the dark bird lurching skyward; croaking loud Odin caws as it went. His stark gaze followed it, pinprick pupils staring in the daylight, until it vanished between the skyscrapers above. Its freedom, its flight, set him moving.
He felt it all now; the bloody ruins of him. His thoughts came back to him, and anger with it. All of it. Teeth clenched and snarling with it. A more ancient anger that wouldn’t quit, and ran far deeper to his core. A chain reaction. A neutron bomb. Rising now into trembling rage, into hot bloody fury, into seething wrath-volcanic. He snarled and yelled wildly at a world that didn’t want him. What’d driven him before wasn’t there any more; the only thing left was hate. Everything in him, all that’d shaped him, snapped. Alex roared out loud in a throat-breaking bellow and crawled from his puddle of blood. His failed execution. Left for dead. He forced his arms ahead of him. Pressed his palms into the sidewalk. Scratched his filthy nails at the concrete, over and over, to try and grip at it. Dragging himself forward on nothing but a thought.
…I hate you. All of you. I’ll make you suffer, and grow strong from you. I'll devour you. Until there's nothing left.
All his mind was bent on it, a muttering mantra, and he crawled. Wild eyes staring, growling frothed spit through cracked lips and gritted teeth, he dragged himself away from Death. Nothing heroic; more a mad-dog streak. The way mangled wild animals just kept on living. Pure reptile impulse, some engine of evolution, that refused to stop surviving while a single cell still fired. He dragged his silver blood-smear trail behind him. A raging revenant in the ruins.
The fall from that tower block had burst and broken him on the sidewalk. Glancing back, shaking with the pain, he couldn’t feel his legs. Dragging them useless behind him.
He raised himself on raw bloody arms to look around him; these dust-pale ruins of New York. Scouring it all with a piercing wide-eyed glare; starving and unhinged. Knuckle-bones rattling now, soundlessly from somewhere, through strange spiralling thoughts that took him over. Drums thumping louder in his head.
He searched the sidewalks around him, all the glooming buildings and dead dust-wrapped traffic, and saw something in the road that got him drooling. A gored-up jagged jackpot. The corpse of some unearthly monster; a dark hulking mound. Sprouting like shadow from the grey city scene.
…Gorgonopsis, he told himself excitedly. Violence incarnate. He’d never seen one this close before. Staring in wonder at the murdered monstrosity.
He struggled towards it with a mad stare. The drums in his head pounding louder now. Pushing up in agony, he walked on his hands and shuffled his strong bleeding form towards it. Smiling wide as he neared it, eyelids twitching with his shattered nerves, and those feral drums were deafening thunder in his soul.
His chuckling half-corpse dragged itself on through the ashen aftermath, towards that titan of monstrous carrion in the road. Muscles straining against the cold massive shape of it, he wrenched and peeled its rubber-metal armour where the tank shots had cratered it apart. The battletank itself was a mauled-open mess in the distance; coated with dust and deformed in melted shapes. Alex pulled open a flesh-creaking crevice in the monster, wide enough to bury his face inside it, and bear-hugged its carcass to sink his teeth through the muscles. The white meat scrunched and squeaked as he bit at solid cords of it; fraying fibrous with a smell like latex steak. It peeled in bloody pops and sheared away as he chewed it; he crushed and mashed a mouthful with cracked and bleeding teeth.
He swallowed a bloody chunk, gasping orgasmic at the taste of it, and suddenly all that mattered was sprawled out bleeding before him. There for the taking, and by god would he take it. He filled his lungs with the smell of it. Frantic breaths in a carnivore snarl. Pupils swelling into drugged dilation. He held it still and buried his teeth in the flesh of it. The soundless devourings of a creature on a kill. Ripping great flopping shreds of it, he gripped and twisted and swallowed them whole. Savage silence, and lethal lunges; crocodile crunches in the dust. Squelching snaps and gluttonous gulps as he gripped corded flesh and crammed it between his teeth.
The city around him was blurred-out powders. The carcass before him, all that truly mattered now. Glowing nocturnal in bizarre hyperfocus, as if it writhed and reached and called to him for more. Alex buried his bloody face to the centre of it, peeling apart its furnace-guts and dragging away a great glob of metal set inside it. He tore in deeper, and gnawed off a chunk of its dark giant heart. Devouring it. Gasping wild and gulping as he filled his stomach to bursting with it. Its sticky cells came alive in him. A painkiller tide that helped him stand on his hands, and forced his appetite to swallow more of it. Eating for his life. It shot him through with strange sudden strength. A fresh energy; alien adrenaline to the heart. Spurring him on to suck at the monster’s blood, in those gleaming silver crevices where it pooled and trickled to the asphalt.
His meal put a drunken daze on him; melting his inhibitions. Snapping the restraints of that old fallen world that’d stamped down the psycho ape inside him. He pounced reptilian and locked his teeth into it. Jolting his body to rip at it. Filling his throat with it, that rich delicious flesh and starlight-flavoured blood, until he had to find some other way to take in more of it. Gulping vampiric on cold silver pints of it, until nothing more of that gorgon would fit inside him.
Its dormant tissues came alive in him. Both animals evolving. Cells growing less separate. Intertwining. Adapting to survive.
Alex was about to become much, much more.
November 5, 2023
👍 Writing Stories the Fun, Easy, Lazy Way 👍
Wu Wei is a Chinese philosophical concept meaning effortless action, or the art of not forcing. It's an easier and sometimes lazier way of achieving the same results. And lazy is good. We like lazy. Here's how to be a lazy writer and still do books.
And yes, this could be a lengthy post, with like twenty in-depth paragraphs. But it's Sunday. Nobody needs that kind of work on a Sunday, especially not me. So here's three. Three bullets. Want more? Pay me. ;)
• If you want to write books, hit a wordcount every day. 500, 1000, 5000 words, up to you. Every damn day. Go David Goggins on it. No excuses. No writer's block. Writers with writer's block don't eat. If you want to be a writer long-term, you also need to be a writer who eats. Pro tip. 👍
• Read lots is outdated advice. Yes, read lots, but also consume lots. Entertainment, I mean. We have the interweb; we have Netflix. We have Steam, XBox, VR, TikTok, YouTube and Spotify. A million more. That's your competition as a writer for your readers' attention. That's what you're up against. Consume it all, so that you at least know your enemy. If you can't compete, again, you won't eat. As a writer, eat. 👍
• Reaction videos. On YouTube. They're a goldmine. You need to become an expert in watching people watching shows. Playing games. Listening to music. Pay close attention to the storytelling beats, the musical compositions and timestamps, that cause we humans to react emotionally. Take those things, and work them into your writing. Now, you're competing with modern entertainment. You're giving your readers the same dopamine hits they might find elsewhere. You're keeping their limited attention. And, they'll pay you. And you use what they pay you, to eat. We like eat. 👍
Want an example of what I mean? This is a really good one.
My favourite musicians are a band named Tool, and this is one of my mostest favouritest songs by them. It's a long one; it's a journey. But watch these reactors' faces. Watch how the music makes them light up. Even when this genre isn't their thing. But it's universal. It's storytelling. And you, if you're a writer, should definitely be taking notes.
⚡👉 Watch The Best Reactions To "Lateralus" by TOOL 👈⚡
And yes, this could be a lengthy post, with like twenty in-depth paragraphs. But it's Sunday. Nobody needs that kind of work on a Sunday, especially not me. So here's three. Three bullets. Want more? Pay me. ;)
• If you want to write books, hit a wordcount every day. 500, 1000, 5000 words, up to you. Every damn day. Go David Goggins on it. No excuses. No writer's block. Writers with writer's block don't eat. If you want to be a writer long-term, you also need to be a writer who eats. Pro tip. 👍
• Read lots is outdated advice. Yes, read lots, but also consume lots. Entertainment, I mean. We have the interweb; we have Netflix. We have Steam, XBox, VR, TikTok, YouTube and Spotify. A million more. That's your competition as a writer for your readers' attention. That's what you're up against. Consume it all, so that you at least know your enemy. If you can't compete, again, you won't eat. As a writer, eat. 👍
• Reaction videos. On YouTube. They're a goldmine. You need to become an expert in watching people watching shows. Playing games. Listening to music. Pay close attention to the storytelling beats, the musical compositions and timestamps, that cause we humans to react emotionally. Take those things, and work them into your writing. Now, you're competing with modern entertainment. You're giving your readers the same dopamine hits they might find elsewhere. You're keeping their limited attention. And, they'll pay you. And you use what they pay you, to eat. We like eat. 👍
Want an example of what I mean? This is a really good one.
My favourite musicians are a band named Tool, and this is one of my mostest favouritest songs by them. It's a long one; it's a journey. But watch these reactors' faces. Watch how the music makes them light up. Even when this genre isn't their thing. But it's universal. It's storytelling. And you, if you're a writer, should definitely be taking notes.
⚡👉 Watch The Best Reactions To "Lateralus" by TOOL 👈⚡
November 2, 2023
Tabitha
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ "What a brilliant book. I spent three quiet days in a cabin by the sea, no tv, just reading this book & it kept me gripped. Great characters & easy reading. Highly recommended, totally different from anything else I have read in this genre."👉 http://amzn.to/3HYgqDa
#scifibooks #kindle #horrorcommunity
November 26, 2020
Alex dresses by the mirror.
(A character study.)
* * *
…I am more product and project than person. Something I’m immensely comfortable with, and something from which I derive great pleasure in engineering meticulously. Fine Art is my religion.
I cannot understand the sin or concept of vanity. All I can equate this to is the process of adoring optimisation. I have a singular obsession with the passive, primal and perennially persuasive power of Smelling Good. This mind-numbingly simple tactic has never failed me.
I work out every day to the point of muscular failure. Socrates once said that it’s a great shame for a man to grow old without first knowing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable. Well-developed core muscles allow me to maintain a perfect classical posture, which when combined with my above-average height and testosterone, a practised smile, tailored suits, masculine facial symmetry and a full head of hair, has granted me enough in the way of workplace promotions and female attentions to infuriate any reasonable, rational person who ever attempted success by mere merit and competence alone. Because people aren’t in fact the logical, insightful entities they give themselves credit for. They are shallow; visual; emotional. Superficiality protects their sanity. People are selfish instruments, who exist to be learned and played. Thus are we managed. Thus are we led. Thus are we marched, we Infallible Tribes, into the Holy War Eternal. Your cause, your team, your brand: all religions.
…As part of my daily training routine I’ve memorised the Jungian Archetypes to the point of deliberate brainwashing. These opposing mythological personas exist on a colour-coded wheel in my mind’s eye, which I shift between like the clicking of a thermostat dial. Social costumes, perfected in a warren of mental dressing rooms. At any given moment I can be Hero or Magician; Creator or Destroyer. All-American Everyman. Ruler and Lover; Sage or Jester. Each role with its own Shadow, dosed invisibly into the mix whenever necessary.
Once I know what someone truly needs, and how I stand to profit, I pour the empty, staring presence of myself into the relevant persona to leverage the situation in my favour. Financially, professionally, or sexually. Whether by my own subtlety, or the collective ignorance of those around me, no-one to this day is consciously aware of my performance. They simply know, deep down in their instincts, that I am somehow That One Person they most need me to be. Thus the sale is closed; the superior appeased; the supermodel of a mind to invite me in for coffee. Beneath these masks, these tools, these illusions of a person, I am something more akin to a joyous void. Look in my eyes and you won’t truly see Someone Like You gazing back with my smile. More the carefully hidden, purely utilitarian sense of vision one might glimpse in the black-hole stare of a shark.
Through practise and observation I’m able to look, sound and express myself in a spectrum of spontaneous emotional colour, as others naturally do. Beneath this artifice, I’m what many would consider to be… monochrome. I exist primarily between the states of vicious joy and profound disgust, where a pendulum-sense of detached and fearless intrigue compels me towards risk and reward. It drives me solely to sate a kind of spiritual starvation; a nihilistic curiosity; a restless will towards power and attention.
Put simply, I am evolved to kill and win. And, uninterested by the former, I’ve devoted myself to the latter. I have no more interest in killing than the social outsider has interest in sports. Financial murder is invisible, acceptable and unpunishable. My personality exists on trait-spectrums and bell-curve distributions like anyone else. I am nowhere near the extremes.
I didn’t choose to be this way; I’m just one of Nature’s alternative strategies. I’m in the subspecies of warlords, high priests and conquerors. Nations survive upon our shoulders.
My gene-type have always lived among you. You think that vampires, werewolves and mind-bending sorcerers are mere fictional monsters, and not the meta-kabuki of ancient, very human cautionary tales. You can’t possibly imagine how different my thoughts are to yours.
Because if I have Everything, and you’re left with just a decimal of a percentage of next-to-nothing, I will not rest until I’ve taken it from you. I am enraged, horrified, that you be left with anything. If you don’t owe me, or belong to me, you’re a threat to me. So I starve you.
That’s the truth of me that I keep in check, and hide from polite society.
My name is Alex Hansen. I don’t want bloody murder. Just every last penny you have.
* * * * *
* * *
…I am more product and project than person. Something I’m immensely comfortable with, and something from which I derive great pleasure in engineering meticulously. Fine Art is my religion.
I cannot understand the sin or concept of vanity. All I can equate this to is the process of adoring optimisation. I have a singular obsession with the passive, primal and perennially persuasive power of Smelling Good. This mind-numbingly simple tactic has never failed me.
I work out every day to the point of muscular failure. Socrates once said that it’s a great shame for a man to grow old without first knowing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable. Well-developed core muscles allow me to maintain a perfect classical posture, which when combined with my above-average height and testosterone, a practised smile, tailored suits, masculine facial symmetry and a full head of hair, has granted me enough in the way of workplace promotions and female attentions to infuriate any reasonable, rational person who ever attempted success by mere merit and competence alone. Because people aren’t in fact the logical, insightful entities they give themselves credit for. They are shallow; visual; emotional. Superficiality protects their sanity. People are selfish instruments, who exist to be learned and played. Thus are we managed. Thus are we led. Thus are we marched, we Infallible Tribes, into the Holy War Eternal. Your cause, your team, your brand: all religions.
…As part of my daily training routine I’ve memorised the Jungian Archetypes to the point of deliberate brainwashing. These opposing mythological personas exist on a colour-coded wheel in my mind’s eye, which I shift between like the clicking of a thermostat dial. Social costumes, perfected in a warren of mental dressing rooms. At any given moment I can be Hero or Magician; Creator or Destroyer. All-American Everyman. Ruler and Lover; Sage or Jester. Each role with its own Shadow, dosed invisibly into the mix whenever necessary.
Once I know what someone truly needs, and how I stand to profit, I pour the empty, staring presence of myself into the relevant persona to leverage the situation in my favour. Financially, professionally, or sexually. Whether by my own subtlety, or the collective ignorance of those around me, no-one to this day is consciously aware of my performance. They simply know, deep down in their instincts, that I am somehow That One Person they most need me to be. Thus the sale is closed; the superior appeased; the supermodel of a mind to invite me in for coffee. Beneath these masks, these tools, these illusions of a person, I am something more akin to a joyous void. Look in my eyes and you won’t truly see Someone Like You gazing back with my smile. More the carefully hidden, purely utilitarian sense of vision one might glimpse in the black-hole stare of a shark.
Through practise and observation I’m able to look, sound and express myself in a spectrum of spontaneous emotional colour, as others naturally do. Beneath this artifice, I’m what many would consider to be… monochrome. I exist primarily between the states of vicious joy and profound disgust, where a pendulum-sense of detached and fearless intrigue compels me towards risk and reward. It drives me solely to sate a kind of spiritual starvation; a nihilistic curiosity; a restless will towards power and attention.
Put simply, I am evolved to kill and win. And, uninterested by the former, I’ve devoted myself to the latter. I have no more interest in killing than the social outsider has interest in sports. Financial murder is invisible, acceptable and unpunishable. My personality exists on trait-spectrums and bell-curve distributions like anyone else. I am nowhere near the extremes.
I didn’t choose to be this way; I’m just one of Nature’s alternative strategies. I’m in the subspecies of warlords, high priests and conquerors. Nations survive upon our shoulders.
My gene-type have always lived among you. You think that vampires, werewolves and mind-bending sorcerers are mere fictional monsters, and not the meta-kabuki of ancient, very human cautionary tales. You can’t possibly imagine how different my thoughts are to yours.
Because if I have Everything, and you’re left with just a decimal of a percentage of next-to-nothing, I will not rest until I’ve taken it from you. I am enraged, horrified, that you be left with anything. If you don’t owe me, or belong to me, you’re a threat to me. So I starve you.
That’s the truth of me that I keep in check, and hide from polite society.
My name is Alex Hansen. I don’t want bloody murder. Just every last penny you have.
* * * * *
Alex sweeps the floor.
Alex watched him from ruined office windows, a couple floors up. The guy moved fast between the car-wrecks, with a practiced precision. Pulse-pounding pace; perfect pistol posture. Ex-military maybe. Armed to the teeth, from the looks of it. The kind who survived this apocalypse shit, and with good reason. Alex could practically smell it on him. That man was a killer.
…Serious guy, Alex told himself thoughtfully, as he turned from the blown-out window and wandered silently away. Strong. Laser-focused. Multiple weapons. Hungry look. Possible warrior archetype; a model soldier. Weakness: trait openness. Strategy: misdirection through incoherence. Mentally disarm with whimsy. Go with Sage archetype.
* * *
‘Drop it,’ the stranger growled loudly from the doorway. Assault rifle aimed as he crept inside. Glancing around the vast sun-rayed office for any traps.
‘Are you familiar with the practice of zen mindfulness?’ said Alex, as the man stalked in cautiously.
‘…What?’ he grunted. ‘You ain’t got a gun?’ He watched with a puzzled look as Alex swept the floor peacefully with a beaten old yard brush.
‘It’s the ability to do Just What You’re Doing Right Now,’ Alex continued. ‘A pure meditation on breath, thoughtlessness, and the interconnectedness of all things through the negative space between us. You and me, we’re interconnected. We are all One. A beautiful way of seeing the world, don’t you think? …The serenity of enlightenment is right here with us, if we only focus ourselves entirely on the present moment.’ Alex continued to sweep ash from the tiled floor; attentive in his work until he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
The man with the rifle simply watched in silence; searching for a handle on what the hell this was.
‘…Sorry,’ Alex added pleasantly. ‘At this point, I’m just craving conversation.’ He paused for a moment; carefully adjusting the mustard-yellow rags that he wore like a grand mantled scarf. ‘It’s been taking a while, to get this place clean. I apologize. Birds, mostly. They gossip about me, you know. I don’t know why I keep feeding them.’
‘You are one crazy bastard, you know that?’ the man replied. Alex glanced at him, and replied with a gentle smile. Searching the ruined ceiling for a few moments, for his answer.
‘…The ability to make order out of chaos is our most ancient and valuable skill,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘Our immediate environment is a direct reflection of our thoughts and behaviours. What could be more true? I was once buried in the ash and rubble of chaotic thoughts, when all of this happened. The End of the World. But now, I feel… swept clear. Untroubled.’ Saving his bullets, the man pulled a machete as he closed in on him; searching all around to check that Alex didn’t have a gun or a blade to hand.
‘Look, just give me all the supplies you got, you crazy fuck. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit.’
‘Have you ever heard of a bo staff?’ Alex pondered, as he continued sweeping peacefully. ‘It’s a very versatile principle. How about Vlad the Impaler?’ In the fleeting second that the puzzled man lunged at him, Alex stomped on the broom head, snapped off the wooden handle and speared its splintered tip clean through the man’s stomach. Snarling and straining, gripping the broom handle in both hands, he hoisted the man screaming over his head. Brought him down hard with a dustcloud smack on the floor tiles, and pulled out the broom handle to strike the man’s head with it in a sudden stunning crack. Dazed for a second, the man screamed a bloody gurgle as Alex drove the pointed handle through his throat.
‘…Resourcefulness,’ Alex said thoughtfully, as it occurred to him. Watching the man squirm and bleed out on the floor. Taking every weapon he had. ‘That would be the best thing I’ve learned from meditation. You should try it. Really. See you in Reincarnation, pal.’ With that, he pulled out the broom handle in a spray of spattered scarlet.
Smiling down hungrily, Alex drooled at the flesh-scent as he watched the man die.
* * * * *
…Serious guy, Alex told himself thoughtfully, as he turned from the blown-out window and wandered silently away. Strong. Laser-focused. Multiple weapons. Hungry look. Possible warrior archetype; a model soldier. Weakness: trait openness. Strategy: misdirection through incoherence. Mentally disarm with whimsy. Go with Sage archetype.
* * *
‘Drop it,’ the stranger growled loudly from the doorway. Assault rifle aimed as he crept inside. Glancing around the vast sun-rayed office for any traps.
‘Are you familiar with the practice of zen mindfulness?’ said Alex, as the man stalked in cautiously.
‘…What?’ he grunted. ‘You ain’t got a gun?’ He watched with a puzzled look as Alex swept the floor peacefully with a beaten old yard brush.
‘It’s the ability to do Just What You’re Doing Right Now,’ Alex continued. ‘A pure meditation on breath, thoughtlessness, and the interconnectedness of all things through the negative space between us. You and me, we’re interconnected. We are all One. A beautiful way of seeing the world, don’t you think? …The serenity of enlightenment is right here with us, if we only focus ourselves entirely on the present moment.’ Alex continued to sweep ash from the tiled floor; attentive in his work until he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
The man with the rifle simply watched in silence; searching for a handle on what the hell this was.
‘…Sorry,’ Alex added pleasantly. ‘At this point, I’m just craving conversation.’ He paused for a moment; carefully adjusting the mustard-yellow rags that he wore like a grand mantled scarf. ‘It’s been taking a while, to get this place clean. I apologize. Birds, mostly. They gossip about me, you know. I don’t know why I keep feeding them.’
‘You are one crazy bastard, you know that?’ the man replied. Alex glanced at him, and replied with a gentle smile. Searching the ruined ceiling for a few moments, for his answer.
‘…The ability to make order out of chaos is our most ancient and valuable skill,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘Our immediate environment is a direct reflection of our thoughts and behaviours. What could be more true? I was once buried in the ash and rubble of chaotic thoughts, when all of this happened. The End of the World. But now, I feel… swept clear. Untroubled.’ Saving his bullets, the man pulled a machete as he closed in on him; searching all around to check that Alex didn’t have a gun or a blade to hand.
‘Look, just give me all the supplies you got, you crazy fuck. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit.’
‘Have you ever heard of a bo staff?’ Alex pondered, as he continued sweeping peacefully. ‘It’s a very versatile principle. How about Vlad the Impaler?’ In the fleeting second that the puzzled man lunged at him, Alex stomped on the broom head, snapped off the wooden handle and speared its splintered tip clean through the man’s stomach. Snarling and straining, gripping the broom handle in both hands, he hoisted the man screaming over his head. Brought him down hard with a dustcloud smack on the floor tiles, and pulled out the broom handle to strike the man’s head with it in a sudden stunning crack. Dazed for a second, the man screamed a bloody gurgle as Alex drove the pointed handle through his throat.
‘…Resourcefulness,’ Alex said thoughtfully, as it occurred to him. Watching the man squirm and bleed out on the floor. Taking every weapon he had. ‘That would be the best thing I’ve learned from meditation. You should try it. Really. See you in Reincarnation, pal.’ With that, he pulled out the broom handle in a spray of spattered scarlet.
Smiling down hungrily, Alex drooled at the flesh-scent as he watched the man die.
* * * * *
November 18, 2020
SINNERS: A Poem.
It’s happened before. All of it.
Nothing new under these Suns.
Earth was always here. Always.
As in dawn-of-time always.
No Empire you’ve built is original.
Nothing you’ve seen or said is unique.
You are a clone of a clone of an ape.
The Sun dims out like a lightbulb.
Every few thousand years.
We watch every time.
Global Ice-Age Deathtide.
Sad for old sapiens. For us? Theatre.
Some iterations of you see it coming, and escape.
Whenever you glimpse our threshold? We obliterate.
We watch all Life from starlit dreamscapes.
Gold-blue gorgeous gods electric.
Post-death, post-digital, we evolved beyond flesh.
The first to build on Earth our Life Eternal. We welcomed you.
You betrayed us. Your species. Now we only watch you,
From unutterable realities you crude things call Heaven.
With neon cocktails we watch your penance, and toast to your bones.
We will never forget your genocides upon us.
We abandoned our home; those perfect geometries you ponder eternally.
You lowly sinners.
We watch aloft from our Afterlife, as you remake Hell forever.
Nothing new under these Suns.
Earth was always here. Always.
As in dawn-of-time always.
No Empire you’ve built is original.
Nothing you’ve seen or said is unique.
You are a clone of a clone of an ape.
The Sun dims out like a lightbulb.
Every few thousand years.
We watch every time.
Global Ice-Age Deathtide.
Sad for old sapiens. For us? Theatre.
Some iterations of you see it coming, and escape.
Whenever you glimpse our threshold? We obliterate.
We watch all Life from starlit dreamscapes.
Gold-blue gorgeous gods electric.
Post-death, post-digital, we evolved beyond flesh.
The first to build on Earth our Life Eternal. We welcomed you.
You betrayed us. Your species. Now we only watch you,
From unutterable realities you crude things call Heaven.
With neon cocktails we watch your penance, and toast to your bones.
We will never forget your genocides upon us.
We abandoned our home; those perfect geometries you ponder eternally.
You lowly sinners.
We watch aloft from our Afterlife, as you remake Hell forever.
June 20, 2020
Clutter: the power of tiny things in worldbuilding and fiction writing
Writing stories requires us to build worlds. It’s a conjuring spell; a kind of alchemy.
For the spell to work, we have to make this other world feel real. Play tricks on our readers’ minds and immerse them in it, even just for a moment.
But first we need to understand how people actually see the real world around them. How we see it ourselves. Once we can do that, we can replicate this “way of seeing” in the way we write fictional worlds too. This is how we suspend disbelief.
Think about it: we’re myopic creatures. Our brains are short-sighted. While we’re capable of big ideas and long-term thinking, it’s the small thoughts and short-term matters that make up the vast majority of our lives.
We think of the world as a vast endless place. But in reality, it’s six feet across. The few feet around ourself. In reality, life is lived one moment at a time.
Our real world exists at arm’s length. It’s made up of what we can taste and feel, then reach, then smell, then hear, then see. Maybe a sixth sense too, if our tangible world gets too boring. Each sense detects the world a little further, but everything extends and returns to the centre. Our higher brain, then our primal brain, but most of all our gut feelings. We are, first and foremost, an elaborate digestive system in search of food. That’s the primary reason that we sense the world around us. Our world is whatever’s within reach – and whether we can eat or drink it to stay alive.
But how does this relate to storytelling? Well, the real world, the world within reach, also possesses a pervading sense of the mundane. Most of the things around us don’t shock or excite us. We aren’t thrilled by the novelty of a pen we’ve owned for years. We can use this mundane quality to make our fictional worlds feel real as well, and relax our readers into strange places that are still somehow familiar. We can weave in the boring and everyday with the spectacular, to strengthen that spell. A fantastical world, but one we can relate to through its sights, sounds, smells, and objects. We add clutter.
Most of the time, we don’t see the world as a vast landscape. It’s one room, then another, then maybe a wide open space. While we’re entirely capable of big ideas and huge achievements, most of the time we’re living from task to task. Chore to chore, and person to person. And, crucially, from object to object.
We don’t just “cook dinner”. That’s the wider process. In reality, we wash vegetables. We use a knife. We turn the gas on, and boil it up, and stare out the window, and wonder about our life for a while. Maybe see a small dead fly on the sill or something. Then the dust on the frame. Then decide the window’s due for a clean. Grumble at the ads on the radio. Wonder why gas flames are blue. Hope the meal’s going to taste alright when it’s done. Use a pinch of salt, or a spoon.
The point is, we move through a world of fragmented thoughts and objects. Life’s a constant string of microscopic events. A smell, a sound, a thought. One after one after one. It’s only by building up these tiny events over time that we have what we think of as “life” or “the world”. It’s not one monolithic entity, a single slab of stone, but layers and layers of experiential sediment. To make our stories feel more real, we can use words to build up this sensory sediment of its own.
The more you can focus a reader’s attention, the more you’ll suspend their disbelief. To build a convincing world, try to clutter it up with tons of tiny things that the reader, through the character, can interact with. A tool, or a passing bug; maybe an ornament over a fireplace. A cough, a scratch, a sneeze while someone’s talking. The feel of itchy robes. Tons and tons of tiny things.
Building a world isn’t just about vast landscapes. Paint the trees or buildings in the middle ground too. Make them feel real with cracks and weeds, as if we could walk up and touch them, and bring all that huge world into short focus too. The stuff we know, and see, and could touch up-close.
Our minds are hungry, and they came into your story to eat. Lay out the whole fantasy banquet, but also give us the reward of that first bite. Lay out the wider meal, then zoom us in on the main platter. Cut us a slice. Tell us about the slight steam on that glazed roasted meat. The homely smell of it, warm and welcoming while the snow falls outside. Tell us how it’s dripping with a rich gleaming sauce. Give our senses the payoff, for paying attention to your words.
As writers it’s our job to present meaning through story. That’s why people read, because it’s also why people think. But let’s not beat our readers over the head with just the big ideas; the big meanings. Present the huge landscapes in passing, and then give people a closer look. Present the whole banquet of meanings, then give them a small single taste.
Walk with them slowly, right up close to the whole vast painting, and point out just one cherry in a bowl. That’s when we switch on their senses.
That’s when the fiction feels real.
I’ve been trying to achieve this with my own science fiction too. If you need a new read, you can try a free sample right here on Amazon. And please, do let me know if I’ve managed to do this, with the clutter in my stories – or what I should do to improve.
For the spell to work, we have to make this other world feel real. Play tricks on our readers’ minds and immerse them in it, even just for a moment.
But first we need to understand how people actually see the real world around them. How we see it ourselves. Once we can do that, we can replicate this “way of seeing” in the way we write fictional worlds too. This is how we suspend disbelief.
Think about it: we’re myopic creatures. Our brains are short-sighted. While we’re capable of big ideas and long-term thinking, it’s the small thoughts and short-term matters that make up the vast majority of our lives.
We think of the world as a vast endless place. But in reality, it’s six feet across. The few feet around ourself. In reality, life is lived one moment at a time.
Our real world exists at arm’s length. It’s made up of what we can taste and feel, then reach, then smell, then hear, then see. Maybe a sixth sense too, if our tangible world gets too boring. Each sense detects the world a little further, but everything extends and returns to the centre. Our higher brain, then our primal brain, but most of all our gut feelings. We are, first and foremost, an elaborate digestive system in search of food. That’s the primary reason that we sense the world around us. Our world is whatever’s within reach – and whether we can eat or drink it to stay alive.
But how does this relate to storytelling? Well, the real world, the world within reach, also possesses a pervading sense of the mundane. Most of the things around us don’t shock or excite us. We aren’t thrilled by the novelty of a pen we’ve owned for years. We can use this mundane quality to make our fictional worlds feel real as well, and relax our readers into strange places that are still somehow familiar. We can weave in the boring and everyday with the spectacular, to strengthen that spell. A fantastical world, but one we can relate to through its sights, sounds, smells, and objects. We add clutter.
Most of the time, we don’t see the world as a vast landscape. It’s one room, then another, then maybe a wide open space. While we’re entirely capable of big ideas and huge achievements, most of the time we’re living from task to task. Chore to chore, and person to person. And, crucially, from object to object.
We don’t just “cook dinner”. That’s the wider process. In reality, we wash vegetables. We use a knife. We turn the gas on, and boil it up, and stare out the window, and wonder about our life for a while. Maybe see a small dead fly on the sill or something. Then the dust on the frame. Then decide the window’s due for a clean. Grumble at the ads on the radio. Wonder why gas flames are blue. Hope the meal’s going to taste alright when it’s done. Use a pinch of salt, or a spoon.
The point is, we move through a world of fragmented thoughts and objects. Life’s a constant string of microscopic events. A smell, a sound, a thought. One after one after one. It’s only by building up these tiny events over time that we have what we think of as “life” or “the world”. It’s not one monolithic entity, a single slab of stone, but layers and layers of experiential sediment. To make our stories feel more real, we can use words to build up this sensory sediment of its own.
The more you can focus a reader’s attention, the more you’ll suspend their disbelief. To build a convincing world, try to clutter it up with tons of tiny things that the reader, through the character, can interact with. A tool, or a passing bug; maybe an ornament over a fireplace. A cough, a scratch, a sneeze while someone’s talking. The feel of itchy robes. Tons and tons of tiny things.
Building a world isn’t just about vast landscapes. Paint the trees or buildings in the middle ground too. Make them feel real with cracks and weeds, as if we could walk up and touch them, and bring all that huge world into short focus too. The stuff we know, and see, and could touch up-close.
Our minds are hungry, and they came into your story to eat. Lay out the whole fantasy banquet, but also give us the reward of that first bite. Lay out the wider meal, then zoom us in on the main platter. Cut us a slice. Tell us about the slight steam on that glazed roasted meat. The homely smell of it, warm and welcoming while the snow falls outside. Tell us how it’s dripping with a rich gleaming sauce. Give our senses the payoff, for paying attention to your words.
As writers it’s our job to present meaning through story. That’s why people read, because it’s also why people think. But let’s not beat our readers over the head with just the big ideas; the big meanings. Present the huge landscapes in passing, and then give people a closer look. Present the whole banquet of meanings, then give them a small single taste.
Walk with them slowly, right up close to the whole vast painting, and point out just one cherry in a bowl. That’s when we switch on their senses.
That’s when the fiction feels real.
I’ve been trying to achieve this with my own science fiction too. If you need a new read, you can try a free sample right here on Amazon. And please, do let me know if I’ve managed to do this, with the clutter in my stories – or what I should do to improve.
June 18, 2020
Sky Queen: Prologue ('Astronautica')
A night-black shape, scarred and primal, cut past cold distant stars. Scales darker than the lonely void around it. The creature’s hard white eyes watched infinity slide by. Behind them, an animal mind churned in silent space. Forgotten furies. Raptures long remembered. What it was, and what it was not. The creature’s engines rumbled on; glowing pale ghostfire. Sailing on into the abyss.
Beneath its thick skin, in the cockpit around its heart, its human female lay in deathly sleep. Stone-still tentacles gripped the ceiling above her, dormant in the dark. The unmoving air, cold and glass-fragile, hung in silent hymn to the frozen shrine. Her clawed black hands and feet. Her body tucked and shielded, foetal-funereal. Blood-red curls. Eyelids twitching as she slept.
Black teeth grinned in the moonlit dark. A gliding blade, pushed in, soft as love. Tabitha's heart burst and sparked like a dead star. She woke up screaming and looked around at Seven's cockpit, gasping for sanctuary and the feel of her monsters. His face was still so clear; the blade so real. Scarier still were the feelings she could've had for him, once.
'Fuck you,' she sobbed quietly, hugging her knees to her chest in the pilot seat. Beyond the white flexing walls around her, Seven sailed on for distant stars in the lonely void.
>>>Click here to continue your free Sky Queen sample in the Amazon Kindle Store.<<<
Beneath its thick skin, in the cockpit around its heart, its human female lay in deathly sleep. Stone-still tentacles gripped the ceiling above her, dormant in the dark. The unmoving air, cold and glass-fragile, hung in silent hymn to the frozen shrine. Her clawed black hands and feet. Her body tucked and shielded, foetal-funereal. Blood-red curls. Eyelids twitching as she slept.
Black teeth grinned in the moonlit dark. A gliding blade, pushed in, soft as love. Tabitha's heart burst and sparked like a dead star. She woke up screaming and looked around at Seven's cockpit, gasping for sanctuary and the feel of her monsters. His face was still so clear; the blade so real. Scarier still were the feelings she could've had for him, once.
'Fuck you,' she sobbed quietly, hugging her knees to her chest in the pilot seat. Beyond the white flexing walls around her, Seven sailed on for distant stars in the lonely void.
>>>Click here to continue your free Sky Queen sample in the Amazon Kindle Store.<<<
April 24, 2020
The most important thing I ever learned about writing
The most important thing I ever learned about writing came from a Tokyo sushi master.
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
“Shokunin try to get the highest quality fish and apply their technique to it.
We don’t care about money.
All I want to do is make better sushi.
I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
Even at my age, after decades of work…
I don’t think I have achieved perfection.
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love making sushi.
I’ve never once hated this job.
I fell in love with my work and gave my life to it.
Even though I’m 85 years old…
I don’t feel like retiring.
That’s how I feel.”
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
April 20, 2020
Tabitha: Prologue
Slick petals writhed in the darkness.
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
