Into the darkness I've sought

Aye, it sounds dark and disturbing already... let me explain.

So, I've always searched for that story that could inspire others. A story with a believable premise, endearing characters, and a dark plot to move my audience. For the last few months I've been working on a story involving some acapella singers and the adventures they are inadvertently thrust into... I liked the characters, particularly Wynan Thatch, but... it still didn't have what I was looking for in a story. I still want to write some short stories on those characters, but it's not what I've been looking for.

For years, I've always tried to come up with a story that could realistically involve furry characters in some way and still have the characters relatable and emotionally compelling. I think... I think I've finally come up with a story that could very possibly happen in real life. A story involving genetic research gone wrong. A man mad with desire who's driven to perform traumatic and extremely painful "genetic therapy" experiments on people.

The base plot is coming together as sort of a dark mystery, almost Lovecraftian in mood but without breaking the feel of true realism. This is a thought experiment... of the kind of person I try to avoid being but is always on the very edge of my mind... would I do it knowing the consequences?

Anyway, let me know your thoughts/questions/concerns. Sorry I don't post often.

~Wes

Panic attack

So, I very nearly had a panic attack today. Here's the summary of my previous semester leading up to today's freakout.

So, for the summer semester, I was taking Chemistry prep (at 7am to 10am), Geography(1pm to 4pm), and precalculus (5pm to 9pm), all of which were crammed into a 6 week course. I had THOUGHT that my chemistry class was an 8 week course, and I missed the final... failing the course entirely... 0.0 SO, I have to retake that course. BUT, I hadn't gotten the rescheduling done. I was planning on taking that care of today...
I log on to OASIS and find out that classes start today, including my new chemistry class that I can't take since I failed the previous one... so, I panic and rush to the school to get my rescheduling done immediately. Get re registered... thankfully I managed to get the class I needed which would otherwise have messed up my entire academic plan... but I got it... turned in my new schedule to the VA... I'm likely going to have to pay back some of my BAH... joy...
I run to go get my new books only to find out that some of them aren't on the shelf. They're probably all taken already. Great... I'll have to order them online or something, right? No... they haven't been stocked yet. Why? August 25 is the final day for book return. They're currently stocking the books for all the classes which don't start until September 22nd... the book return date is the date I saw when checking my schedule... I pretty much collapsed in front of the poor lady with relief... Aaaaand then I had my first cigarette in a month when I got home...

SO, note to everyone... DO NOT PROCRASTINATE... I'm going to have a lie down for a little bit to cool off...

Wynan's Legacy

I just wanted to let everyone know that I haven't stopped writing. In fact, I'm currently working on a compilation of short stories having to do with Wynan Thatch and his legacy. Right now, I've written 2 short stories based on some characters he's tutoring as a professor of music theory and history.
1: Takayuki Shoichi - a japanese exchange student who enjoys physical activities and has a voice for bass and beats.
2: Amy Snow - a strong LDS girl who sings a beautiful soprano to praise the Lord with her musical gifts
3: William - ex sailor with a gift for techno and dubstep. Searching for the perfect sound to shake the foundation of music at its core
4: Flora - Hispanic girl , fairly promiscuous, has a very large scholarship in music from an unknown donor as long as she's taught by Professor Thatch.
5: Zacharius Nectario - Italian American boy with a strong tenor voice. Picked up out of high school by Wynan himself and paid for his tuition in order to teach him the value of his voice. Zach has a strong attraction to Wynan due to his generosity and his talent for music.
6: Wynan Thatch - Professor at a small community college somewhere in Washington (likely OC... because why not?). Not much is known about his past. His credentials check out, but something still seems off about this old musician.

The first two have rough drafts written so far. I may or may not post them as teasers as the story comes together.

Zacharius

Hey everyone. Sorry I haven't been on in a while. I've been a bit of a slump lately, and I recently signed up to the YMCA to get in shape... cause I'm getting ugly. Oy...

Anyway, I got these new headphones that let me hear my music SO much clearer and a piece of inspiration hit me. Some of you may remember my story in class called "Zacharius Iphus Nectarios" the one about the bat in love with a human girl. He goes to visit his crazy brother and gets the ring, right? Well, that's part of a much much larger story that I even wrote a book to once... it was pretty shitty. Don't ask to read it. It's a travesty... but the story has stuck to me because I've always wanted to retell it.

Benjamin has been trying to get me to write stuff that's more... normal... believable... real world situations. I agree for the most part, but I just can't get out of my head the idea of a story that has something unbelievable to it. Some little bit of magic, or a creature that doesn't exist... SOMETHING to take away from the stagnant reality... and it hit me...

I had a few ideas regarding Zacharius and Wynan Thatch... Lets remove all the anthropomorphic animals and the vast majority of crazy epic magic. We have this normal every day joe named Zach who is in love with another guy. (yes, the gay thing... bear with me... it's the only way that really makes it work, or it turns into a different story with a different meaning entirely... hell, we may as well turn it into Romeo and Juliet if we leave it as "boy meets girl" etc...) Anyway... This other guy kinda likes him too, but not in a totally committed way... bored already?

I'm unclear with the details, yet... I've just gotten the idea, k? I'm writing this down to get it out since I can't find my journal for some reason... SO, this other guy who seems non-committed would be... Wynan... k?
NOW, there's a third person. He's seen as a terrorist. Let's call him Jesse... (he was previously a raccoon necromancer who simply could not die and loved to kill people to make them his zombie slaves... Think Alex (main character from Clockwork Orange) meets Panic at the Disco (band) and Avenged Seven Fold (band) ... He's toned down just a tad... seriously, he pretty much just isn't a raccoon anymore, but he's also not quite so open with his abilities to live through anything and make zombie slaves... In fact, none of the crazy magic shit doesn't even appear until like... at least half way through the story...) Jesse aka Black Spectre as he calls himself.
Now... Zach doesn't really have anything to offer Wynan other than his affection. He tries to convince Wynan that they should be together... Wynan is iffy but not completely against the idea... you know how that goes... There's drama and complications... Black Spectre ends up becoming notorious, on the news everywhere, etc... then just vanishes.
Wynan gets captured (or Zach... undecided...) by Jesse... one has to get over (Zach - Fear, Wynan - Necessity to stay inconspicuous or whatever...) to go after Jesse to discover his hideout in an abandoned nuthouse... sanitorium... whatever... You know how this ends...

Now, I could leave out all magic entirely and it would still hold together as a good story just fine. Jesse is just a really intelligent terrorist who takes Wynan away because they have history together... w/e... However, if I remove all that, then we're missing out on some really fun scenes. I'll give a couple examples.

Zach is invited over to Wynan's place. He gets there a little early and overhears a Wynan talking loudly... it sounds like a phone call. "...You know you're not supposed to talk to me! I told you to stop! ... No. Unless there's a significant danger or emergency, you keep your mouth shut! ... Look, I get it, you care about me, but if someone finds out about us, we could get in big trouble... Look, Zach is coming over, so please stay quiet, ok? We can spend some time alone later, alright?" Zach enters after the conversation ends to see Wynan texting on his phone and a hand over the hilt of his lucky silver dagger hanging on his belt... remember that thing? Yeah... he's talking to the dagger...

So... another scene in mind. Jesse has captured Wynan knowing full well what Wynan (or his bound dagger is capable of). Jesse kills Wynan. Wynan resurrects as his younger self (due to certain properties of the dagger's magic), which is exactly what Jesse wants before he kills him again only to enslave his body and soul, preventing the Dagger's magic from resurrecting him again... at all... until Jesse's magic is released. In comes Zach with nothing to offer the situation except his normal human self... maybe he has a gun... whatever use that would be... Somehow gets hold of the silver dagger which starts talking to him to help him succeed in the situation to free Wynan from Jesse's grasp, and the rest is history...

Let me know your thoughts. I can do it with or without the magic, but there's just so much fun to be had with these characters together, and I NEED a relatable protagonist for once.

Sorry again for not keeping in touch much... There's a lot of personal stuff going on with family... I don't feel up to talking about it yet... but yeah... Story... thoughts?

~Wes

Boomhauer - Dust in the Wind

Even King of the Hill can have something deep to say every now and then... powerful... I've been listening to this every day for the last month. I figured I'd share it.

Some Ideas

So, I got to thinking about my character Wynan Thatch and his dagger, and I realized that this was a character with nearly endless possibilities. This was a character I could do whatever I wanted with in whatever time period, setting, theme I so desired. So many options opened up for him, and I don't know which of these ideas are the best route right now. Some require a little research, some require a lot, some are just silly, some may require an interview with Jack Black just to make them that much more over the top extreme. Regardless, here are a few of my most enjoyed ideas involving Wynan.

Wynan in 22nd century seattle as a homeless man showing the downfall of the US economy. Saves the city from a terrorist attack and becomes famous against his will.

Wynan in 18th century seattle during it's beginnings, battling with Lovecraftian Horrors and cults to protect the world from annihilation and insanity. In this story, Wynan may disappear and effectively die for good. Can't be resurrected if you're just stuck in another dimension.

Wynan in ancient egypt. I'm not sure where to go with this one other than that it's where he first discovers the dagger. That would make him egyptian or jewish, depending on where I wanted to go with it. I'm thinking escaped slave of someone important who had him around as a courtesan or other means of entertainment.

Modern day Wynan decides to stop hiding and becomes a huge musical hit (again), wooing crowds with his seemingly magical music. He has his place in history as several different musical legends who supposedly died, such as Elvis Presley and John Lennon.

Going along with the last idea and possibly the first, maybe Wynan was always taken toward trying to be a spy or something of that nature, but he was never very good at it and died in several important historical ways. For example, he could be the guy who ran the original marathon and died after running. He could also be Benedict Arnold.

Anyway, those are my favorite ideas so far. Let me know what you think.

Random Journal Entry

In my mind, here I stand applauding. I'm crying for the beauty of music. The symphony inspires me, brings images and stories to life. What is life without music? The glorious orchestra with its epic chords and movements echoing through the cathedral. There are no words, no messages, no morals. All is music and joy and sorrow and life incarnate.
I take my notebook and scribble some such inspiration barely coherent or worthy of expression in comparison to this majesty. I hope and wish to move someone the way the music moves me. I desire only to force some emotion from my readers, then my life would be complete. Can I move you? Can I make you love, hate, sing, cry, shout? Eat, read and be merry, for your works will never die.
The music stops, but the sounds reverberate through my heart. I cannot bear it. I must bring as much joy to my own audience. I must bring my own symphony of words to my readers. This is my calling. Come forth, my followers, and "hear" what I have to say.

This Army is Mine

So, I've got this little rant I'd like to get off my chest. It's about what some people consider to be actual art. It just... it drives me nuts when people tell me that if it comes out of a box, it can't be considered true art because all the artistic license is lost.

Some modern art fanatics say game miniature painting isn’t an art. Critics say it isn’t truly a creative craft, because it comes out of a box pre-molded; that most of the work has already been done. They couldn’t be more wrong. It is art. It is moderately guided art, but it is still a work of creativity.

It does begin when the modelist takes that first model out of the box, but that’s where the store bought regularity ends. Their heart drops as they realize how little the clumps of plastic attached to sprues resemble the beautifully painted soldiers on said box.

With clippers in hand and a haphazard set of tools including sculpting knives, super glue, and some “Zap” spray, the artist gets to work. The directions they were given are a mess. “This piece goes where?” “Why can’t I find that piece on the sprue?” “Oh great, I glued it on backward.” Like the painter who has to go back and paint base white over his ruined landscape, the model assembler must cut the glue or start over with a new box.

After hours of trial and error, eventually they have a bland grey plastic model barely resembling the tapestry on the box. The tiny cultist scowls lifelessly at the artist, daring them to slap some paint on it. The modelist cracks his knuckles and picks up the paintbrush. Several tiny pots of special paints, glazes, and technical ooze litter the newspaper coated tabletop.

Just to be safe, they do some research online to find out exactly how to do this sort of painting. After frustrating hours of searching through hundreds of sites detailing their own paint jobs, finally the artist finds a few videos on Youtube giving some tips on painting simple models like the tiny cultist they hold in their hand.

First they start with the black spray on primer. This only takes a few seconds to spray on, but takes about five hours to dry fully. By then they’ve scoured all the different paint schemes online one could mimic with the few paints they took home from the store. “But why not create your own? Surely, there’s room to be more original than simply copying what everyone else is doing.”

Finally, they bring tiny dried black model over to their overly neat shrine of paints. The tiny pot of “Loren Forest Green” stands open. The paintbrush rests in their hand, hovering over the model as they try to decide where to start. “Should I start from the bottom and work my way up, or should I start at the top and let gravity do some of the work?”

They hesitate. “What if it sucks? What if it looks horrible when I’m done? What if the others laugh at me and tell me to play another game with the other new artists?” All this runs through their mind until finally they start to paint. The voices inside go silent as nothing else seems to matter but the model. The paint settles easily into the tiny cracks and crevices of tiny plastic trousers as their paint brush glides over the smooth surface. They feel like a pocket clocksmith bent over the tiny gears and bobbles with tiny tools and a monacle.

Without fail, some of the paint gets in places they don’t want it. Painting at this scale takes a steady hand, and they’ve just started. They grumble and consider giving up, but they remember the modelers online telling them not to worry about some of the paint getting away from them. All that will be fixed with touch ups. They picture the writer sneering at his own work as he skims and deletes this or rewrites that.

Next color up. “Rakkarth Flesh,” a sort of pale skin color adorns the brush and they start to apply it to the body and head. More painting ensues as they apply new colors and get little speckles onto parts they’ve already painted. They go back to touch that up before moving to the next color only to make more mistakes.

After hours of toiling over one tiny little model, they feel ready to give up. They’ve spent literally days over one guy and they still have a whole army to paint. How does anyone ever get this done? How does any artist become a master at their skill. They suddenly feel overwhelmed. They feel like just commissioning someone else to paint it for them. But no, they’re determined to do this. This is their army. They are the master.

After spending what seems like an eternity doing cleaning and touch ups and adding technical layers and washes in all the right places, finally they have some semblance of a completed model. It’s no masterpiece, but its their first. The ugly model scowls behind fleshy and bony teeth as it glares with inhuman pupilless eyes. The dagger and gun they tried to portray as rusty looks more like a sloppy orange paint job. The green pants came out well, though slimy and dirty looking. It’s playable as long as nobody looks too close.

But, this is just the beginning. They can remember mom putting their finger painted picture of the house and family on the fridge under a magnet. She was so proud, and they wanted to make more. Now, they’re at the beginning again but with a more 3D approach.

Some months later, they look at their work and notice they have a full army that they painted alone. The models shriek behind their many spikes, skulls, and plates of armor. Many of it has been sculpted from scratch out of “Green Stuff,” a product of soft plastic that one mixes together to form into a hard plastic cement after some hours of drying. Ghouls, demons, and cultists by the dozen glisten in magnificent putrescence.

This is their masterpiece. Every model is perfect. There’s nothing like the feeling of having a complete army at their feet literally crafted to the exact image they had in mind. This is art as pure as any painting, sketch, or sculpture.

Many great works of art are made with constraints or controls in place to direct the artist. Going by the same rationality that great art cannot come from a box, one would leave out many creative works. Would one consider cooking to be a farce since some of the ingredients came out of a box? What about the home mechanic who built a car on his own with parts that were technically prefabricated? Even the Sistine Chapel was a commissioned work of art that restricted Michelangelo’s creative process. He wasn’t free to explore every possibility and create anything he desired. Is it not considered true art?

Model assembly and painting is art. Go to your nearest gaming store and look inside the displays. Those are not toys purchased from Walmart. Those armies of elves, androids, zombies, goblins, space marines, and so forth are all put together piece by piece and painted painstakingly and with great care. Those beautiful sheens on vehicles are done with love by real artists. I challenge any modern artist to try painting an army of game models.

Gladsong the Dagger

Gladsong

J. Wesley Hill

Wynan Thatch sat glaring into the fireplace, beckoning for it to consume him. Tears stained his thin face and matted his thick grey beard.

“Master,” the voice of some god of mischief echoed from the silver dagger, Gladsong, hanging from his belt. “You shouldn’t cry so much. This amount of stress isn’t healthy.”

Wynan sobbed and threw back another long gulp from his leather wineskin.

“Did you know that wine is literally poison?” The dagger gasped. “Master! You could get tumors! I insist that you stop drinking that wine this instant!”

Wynan heaved a disgruntled sigh and strapped the wineskin to his belt. He stood and yawned.

“Don’t get too close to the fire, master. You could burn yourself. Watch your step, it’s dark out. You should’ve eaten something! You’re getting skinny, Master. You look tired. You should get some sleep.”

His footsteps echoed through the hall above the inn as he trudged to his room. Without care or worry, he dropped his clothes and accessories to the floor and flopped onto the bed.

“Don’t worry, Master. I’ll keep a lookout.”

Wynan passed out almost immediately. Outside, dark shadows pooled in the alleyways. Figures of doom crept to the windows seeking to kill travelers for their purses.

“Eeeee! Master! Danger, Master Wynan!” The sleepy bard turned over and shoved the pillow over his head. The assassin outside curled up into a ball in the alley with a mostly eaten, moldy leg of mutton. “Oh… it’s just a beggar. Go back to sleep master.”

“Eeeee! Master! Fire! Danger! No… no wait, the innkeeper is just stoking the fireplace…”

“Eeeee! Master! I think the man in the next room is plotting to kill you! Get up! No, no wait. He was just thirsty. You can go back to sleep.”

“Eeeee! Master! Ratmen are swarming the city! They’re going to eat everyone alive! No, wait. It’s just a mouse in the kitchen. Ew. Don’t eat any of the bread, master.”

“Eeee! Master! Did you lock the window? I don’t think you did. I insist that you get up and lock it this instant before someone crawls through and tries to kill you.”

The poor man slid out of bed with dark circles sagging under his eyes. He took another gulp from the wineskin and slunk to the window. He opened it and stared into the dark alley below.

“Master, you need to sleep. And I told you to stop drinking that.”

He leaned over the edge, pleading to the cobblestones below to take him.

“Now master, we’ve been through this. I can only resurrect you once a month. If you keep intentionally dying, I have to wait for you to come back. I get lonely, master!”

Wynan sagged to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He tossed the cursed silver dagger aside and crawled toward the door.

“Master! Don’t leave me here! Remember that time you left me at the Dragonclaw Inn and the orc found me? I had to convince him to find you and try to kill you! He was successful, but I brought you back! I always find my way back to you!”

Wynan sighed and recovered the dagger before slogging back down the stairs.

“You’re up early, Sir” the fair haired bar maiden greeted him. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Yes, please,” Wynan’s voice was silk and honey.

The girl winked and fetched him some stew, a small loaf, and a pint of fine mead. “You must be a bard.”

Wynan nodded and set the bread aside. He tore into the stew like a starved wolf.

“Master, chew your food! Master, slow down! You’re going to choke! Oh, now look what you’ve done, you’re choking. The wench is screaming! Gods, her voice is awful. It’s not helping at all. Your face is turning purple. Careful when you fall down, Master. Don’t hit your head too hard or you’ll have a headache for days. Great, Master, see what you’ve done? Now I can’t use it again until next month. Are you happy now?”

“H-how…?” The bar maiden stared at Wynan in horror. The pitcher of mead she held had spilled all over her dress, but she wasn’t paying any attention. The bard had been raised from the dead and he didn’t even seem to notice.

“It’s the dagger,” Wynan sighed. He slumped over and buried his face in his arms. His dirty cotton shirt sleeves soaked through with new tears. “Damn thing won’t let me die.”

“Don’t cry, Master,” the dagger moaned. “This much stress isn’t good for your health.”

Pen Names

So, I've been thinking about a pen name for a long time, since it's important to choose a name to go with one's stories... among other reasons. I don't remember what they all are at the moment, but they're important.
Anyway, more to the point, I have a few ideas I wanna throw out there. Let me know what you think.

Robert Aaron
Robert Westley
W Aaron Roberts
Robert Jason

I'll add more when I think of them. Let me know if you have any ideas.

Doctor Smith

“You can come out now. I know you’re hiding. It’s okay, I have no weapons.”

The silk drapes by the window parted to reveal the assassin veiled in black. Doctor Smith stood tall with short dark hair. His face was long and bore a greying goatee which ended in a point. A thick red night robe complete with a warm silk scarf adorned this his shoulders.

He sighed and opened a globe on the side table by one of the several lounge chairs in his personal library. Inside was a mini bar. “Would you care for a drink? No? Well, before you kill me, at least let me explain what I’ve done. I need to get this off my chest. As the child of the man I murdered, I knew you would find me sooner or later. Have a seat, please.”

The assassin hesitated a moment before holstering his pistol. He remained standing with his arms crossed.

“Have it your way. It began years ago. This man paraded across town on a regular basis wreaking havoc on our fair city. Oh, he wasn’t the only one, but he was the best of them. His inventions caused devastation on a regular basis. Whole companies went under due to rebuilding costs. Insurance couldn’t keep up. All this unbridled mayhem is still pushing our country into another financial depression.”

Doctor Smith paused for a moment to pour himself a glass of brandy. The amber liquid matched the man perfectly; a harsh yet delicate drink that could only be consumed in small doses. This was a man of poise, a man who demanded respect.

He continued. “But, the important bit is all the people he killed. Every building destroyed by one of his crazy robots or one of his death rays resulted in the deaths of hundreds of people. For what? To get back at his nemesis? To purge the city of the unworthy? Most of the time, their kind have well understood motives. Your father was just reckless.”

The doctor sighed and took a seat nearby with the glass of brandy in his hand. Now that he was closer to the light, the assassin saw the dark bags under his eyes. There were deep wrinkles in his brow, not from age but from stress. A man of his early thirties should not be quite so grey.

“And so we come to just a few nights ago. Your father lay before me on a gurney, clothed in his garish costume and mask. He was facing one of his more powerful enemies that night. Several blocks had been obliterated from that combat. Wounded civilians were pouring into the hospital in droves. Being the best surgeon this side of the country, I was tasked to help your father.

“This man who was but a creature of chaos and destruction was now in my domain, helpless and under my complete control. I alone could decide whether he was to live or die.”

Dr. Smith leaned back and picked up a framed picture from the table next to him. The photo depicted a wedding between a much younger man in a rented tuxedo and a beautiful woman with chestnut colored hair. They smiled behind the glass with a glimmer of love in their eyes. “She died that night, you know. The same night your father did. She was working late at the Rathsberg Insurance office when it came crashing down from the spider robot thing. Just one of many deaths…

His hands shook as he replaced the picture. He picked up a polished wooden pipe and puffed thick clouds of noxious smoke as he lit it. “I hope you don’t mind. I’d like a smoke before I die. Where were we?

“As you know, I’m under oath to do everything in my power to save the life of whatever patient I’m charged with. It is my duty as a medical practitioner to treat every man, woman, and child exactly the same no matter their background. For the most part, we never know anything more than their name and medical history. But everyone knew exactly who he was.

“I had to make a decision, and believe me it wasn’t easy. Should I do my duty as a professional surgeon and save this man’s life? Or, should I purposefully make a critical mistake on the operating table and end the suffering caused by this one man? If I let him die, I would be saving countless lives.

“Of course, you know the answer. I made a mistake. The incision was just a hair too deep and his heart couldn’t take it. It was an extremely difficult procedure. Everyone knew the risks, and no one blamed me for it. I murdered your father and nobody knew.”

Dr. Smith raised his glass and gave the assassin a humorless smile. “Well, except for you of course, and probably just about anyone who knows me well enough to understand I don’t make mistakes.”

He swallowed the rest of his brandy and sighed. His grey-blue eyes stared at nothing as he leaned back in his heavy chair. “I’ve made my peace. I’m ready to die.”

It Begins

So, I've been writing short stories for years now, but I've been trying to find a way to share it with everyone. I've gone from DeviantArt down to less reputable sites like FurAffinity and even Fanfiction sites, trying to get some input.

Now, some of my more promising works I'll be posting on ebooks for a really really low price to see if I can get some money out of it, God knows I need it... But for now, I'd like to share some of my much smaller works after revision.

In the meantime, I'm following Joseph Inzirillo who is one of the writers in my Creative Writing class at Olympic College. I do recommend following his blog as well and seeing what he has to offer. He's working on a book by writing several chapters into short stories that will eventually become a novel. It seems like a novel idea to me. :p I may or may not continue on some of my stories, depending on how much of a following I get and whether or not you think it's interesting.

SO, I'm going to do a bit of revising on a story titled "Doctor Smith" and post it in a little while so you get an idea of what I'm working on.