Coming to Town

Each teenager comes to the city of Agowatiha differently. Each sees it differently for the first time. Here is Matt's.

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The road to the city was laid out like a carpet and the shuddering waves of maize were spectators desperate to take their photographs of the onrushing hulk of coiled rust and war stains splashed across its flanks like scattered hand prints. Escaping crows carrying along beside it like thundering soldiers of old, steel axes fresh in their hands, mounts like an avalanche beneath their hands, and the whorls of crawling time stood proudly resplendent on their bellies, to mark this day as the first charge of a long and trying conflict. The city was the enemy, a looming man with broad and thick shoulders that rubbed up against the sky. They had his back to the sea, though, and his defeat was certain to come, if not from the land, from the great storms Thunder would draw up from the waters Agowatiha could not watch.

The front line was already broken; the maize was winning, striking death blows through old and cracked concrete and marching through twisted metal skeletons, searching for holdout troops and covering them with leaves and stem until were stomped into dirt and ash, ground up to feed the new generation. The hungry generation. Matt spied a few of the more adventurous stalks already working their way into a nearby home, but the moment passed as quickly as they passed the front line. Among the trenches, soldiers had erected concrete barrier walls and paved the roads, removing dirt carefully so that the maize could find no purchase here, no matter how much it skulked right up to them. Farmers waited here in hovels constructed of scrap metal and old storefronts before the troops would send them out to mingle with and hopefully calm the attackers, to bring some diplomacy to those lawless killing fields.

Their car, unlike the car before them, went unmolested through the dilapidated district, past the shanty town and up further into the roads that could turn off onto the highways and bridges that rose into the core of the city, that tall and monolithic sentinel that gently touched the heavens and rested his elbows on clouds.

Sky Crossing: The Dreaming Land

Current chapters: 26
Current draft word count: 91,000

Fuck yes.

Chapters to go? Not sure.

I Write on Sleeping Pills Sometimes

I am on sleep aids. Sometimes I will take them while still doing some writing, then go to sleep when they kick in. Sometimes I just keep writing, then come back the next day, knowing full well what I thought I was writing.

I am usually wrong. Here is an example.

What I wrote:

“Your haven't scene this creed for my pokes, bow!” it spite, and look for the lair to try around the dray basic, snooping up morbid for the alligators. “I am your drought ton, again? You have cowed me, so do not complain about bringing your mighty fate!”

What I meant:

“You haven't seen the speed of my strikes, boy!” it spat, and took to the air to fly around the dry basin, scooping up mouthfuls of alligators. “I am your dragon, then! You have called me, so do not complain about what you think you might face!”

Sky People Like Fritos

The race of Air who is said to have evolved solely from spirits, the Sky People resemble grayish white humanoid figures, having ankles but no feet, thick forearms with seemingly unfinished fingers, and a series of muscular folds for a neck. Their head is a round ball, dotted with symbols, with a single hole, inside which a blue light can be seen. They have a single eye, which is either human or reptilian; the muscular folds of their neck allow them to roll their head to angle the eye in any direction.

They have no mouth, and whisper through the blue light inside their hollow heads. They also feed through this "orifice," pressing food items into the light, where it's consumed as if by great heat. Much of the jewelry they wear appears to hang about them rather than on them. They are said to be Thunder's people, and live in his kingdom in the sky, which can be accessed through clouds; they can also pull metal from the clouds and shape it into tools and materials through processes that seem like human smelting.

Various ethnicities exist. They vary in height, weight, build, and over all color, from grey to white or soft blue. It's said that sky people can disguise themselves as human beings, and when they do, their voices buzz like speakers or bug lights. Three together can form a "foo fighter," a swiftly flying ball of light that allows them to quickly escape or travel from the ground to the sky.

State of the Everything

I have two novels in the works. One is psychologically harmful to work on, but will help me in the long run. It will never sell. The other is tripe, fun to work on, and not very good at all. I think it has a great opportunity to sell.

I am still doing plotting, scripting, and layouts for OMS. I just don't have the time to actually try to draw them, which I am shitty at, anyway.

I've gone back to therapy in order to work out the issues I'm having with life in general, and am on sleep aids now. A lot of this has to do with finally confronting a wide variety of problems I've had re growing up, going outside, and so on.

Finding Things on the Internets

A time ago (I don't exactly remember how long ago; years, at least four years), I had created a supernatural critter to fill a gap in a World of Darkness game I was running, more specifically to create a single villain with which to plague and creep out my players. I threw what little material I'd crapped out over the course of the weekend up on a geocities site and thought nothing of it (and when geocities faded away, I let it, too, fade away).

I discovered some time later through my deviantart account that at least some people had heard of or read it. This came as a surprise to me, since I had hoped, when I got some time, to tighten it up, discard the elements I didn't like, and get to work on it again, but time got in the way, and more fruitful projects kept lining up (and I don't run or play WoD anymore due to the ridiculous prep time horror games normally require).

Then, this afternoon, a friend sent me a message that he found a forum thread on tvtropes about it, and even a tropes page. Strangely enough, the OP even mentions the presence of paedomorphosis being odd or out there, which I agree with, and was even going to remove at one point, but left it in because I'm eminently lazy. Actually, I agree with nearly all the complaints, interestingly enough, and totally endorse the public gutting of the material.

This on the heels of an e-mail about a review of OMS that's appeared in the Innsmouth Free Press, which you can find here. I haven't read it yet, I'm scared to, but I like to pretend it's probably totally awesome, and I'll read it at some point when I've got myself all mentally prepared for it.

In other news, I've got the ISBN, front matter, and a pdf of the interior contents of Ten-Ghost, and it's all looking excellent. There's maybe a sentence or two I'd like to change, but it's a bit late now, and they're no big deal, really.

Chapter 1 Excerpt: Trashing the Ha-ahk-oo (draft)

She came to a mound, a square pyramidal structure with nothing more than a small, one-room hut at the top, decorated with prayer strips and pinned money, the base of the mound scattered with ashes and broken flatware and food scorched into black char. She stomped up the slope, which rose only about seven feet into the air, hoping they were north enough that the door would actually function and south enough that this was a good place to stay the night. She threw the wooden latch open and slipped inside, ducking down almost to crawl due to its size, and was instantly in a room about as square and large as a suburban parlor.

There was simple furniture inside, and the lights were on in the corners, lamps that shone steady, a radio set in the corner, with crystal candlesticks and a corn blanket over the top, showcasing a ring of sculptures that would be more at home in an upper-class dwelling. She heard the gentle hum of music as she entered, some stereotypical drivel borne on strings after a trumpeted opening.

“Oh, well, good afternoon!” someone belted out, his voice distorted as from a speaker.

Her head jerked up to the stairs, eying the man descending the stairs with a critical gaze; his shirt had no symbol on the right shoulder, a blank family guide, but deeds surrounded the empty space, trailing down his sleeve and part of the way toward his neck. He wore suspenders, with loose slacks like a city man. He was some kind of house spirit. His deeds strictly remained confined to homes, protecting them from intrusion, earning money, and fixing broken things. Wondering how to trick it, she pressed her lips together. Taking in a deep breath, she shifted to a cheery voice.

“Hi, honey!” she said, and he cracked a smile.

“Oh, well, hello, Maude!” he replied, and she waved Rules up to the door.

“You're not going to believe this!” she shouted, “I found the boy out wandering with his friends, and he's still on that whole human thing.”

He glowered at Rules as he entered the building, and she fixed a glare on him.

“You're probably going to have to give the boy a good talking-to,” she nodded, approaching the spirit, one hand reaching into her pocket, the other held up to point at him.

He nodded in response, crossing his arms.

“Well, you know how Zachary is," the spirit laughed, "the more I try to talk some sense into him, the further apart we drift. I think we should cut the boy a little slack.”

Ten-Ghost nodded and shoved a handful of dried nettle into the spirit's face, who immediately began to scream and cough. She dumped out her moccasins, spilling sand on the floor, and ordered Rules to do the same, shouting and banging on the walls as she did. The man stumbled back further, screeching and howling, and she pushed the sculptures off the radio top and told Rules to pull off the corn mat and sit on it; she kicked over a coffee table, and shook her pack, rattling the pots and belting out forest songs in a rough voice. He shivered and fell apart into a small crab-thing that resembled a high chair with human arms and a preponderance of rusted feet, the carapace scrawled over with those same deeds, etched in gold.

“Why did you do that?” he howled, opening one large eye with his mandibles.

“I had to assert my dominance,” she said, “I need to sleep here for tonight, and I didn't want to ask you when you have the possibility to say no.”