Change your blogging attitude for blogging inspiration? I know I said I’d never write another blogging tips post, but I lied . . . sort of. I caught glimpse of some Twitter Tweets where a few people voiced their lack of blogging inspiration or they were a little burned out. So . . . what is the cure? What can you do to incite blogging passion–to get excited about writing? Fire breathing, over the top full throttle freaking blogging excitement? Well, I have a few ideas and I will share them with you.
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Posts Tagged fiction
Midnight Exorcism
Sep 25
I slithered through the back alleys of viscid blackness – a thickened spume of midnight – echoes of terror trickling from the frothing gutters of silence. From betwixt the stench of fermenting decomposition, a pungent-sweet dankness rolled in from the dead-end crevasse to my left. An aromatic cannabinoid, poisoning the nostrilic apertures of my hemorrhaging withdrawals.
I peregrinated through the vastness – a chasm of netherworld delectation, sweetening the primeval atmosphere of scorching desire…and I heard a silken female voice, “Oh man…this is so sweet. A hint of pine, spice and warmth – yet not saccharine or harsh.”
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I was tagged by Mitchell Allen on his post Six Simple Sounds Summarize Self Story and Anastasia on her article 6 Word Memoir for this six word vignette to fully and accurately describe the highly distilled, purified and laboratory filtered essence of my blog. I wanted to peel back the endless layers – an exfoliation of galvanized life crust – disrobing all meaning to uncover the naked truth. I want to strip bare my blog and unsheath what lies beneath.
To get the truth, I traveled west to meet up with my half Mayan shaman, the enigmatic and powerful warlock master, Eldeguado Giovianni Menguadatucci. He has been the Revell family soothsayer for over 942 years. I met him in Sedona’s Painted desert. The ominous storm clouds gathered above as always – known as Eldeguado’s Cumulonimbus. He lives in the yellow tent-house pictured below. Unfortunately, his mule Poncho, passed away last year and he travels barefoot everywhere he goes.
eldeguado's cumulonimbus
I traveled there with my guide, Quentin Montana, who has been with me on many shamanic journeys. We crawled in a beautiful tepee, which sported an atmospheric Aztec motif. We sat inside, sipping the highly bitter witches brew of Datura, which contains narcotic alkaloids and is known in Sanskrit as dhattūrāḥ or thorn apple. It has long been used as an instrument for obtaining prophetic dreams or messages in various tribes. Another powerful ingredient was peyote, a spineless, dome-shaped cactus (Lophophora williamsii) native to Mexico and the southwest United States, having buttonlike tubercles that are chewed fresh or dry as a narcotic drug by certain Native American peoples. Also called mescal.
Eldeguado Guovianni Menguadatucci
Eldeguado read my blog in a shamanic vision and channeled the ancient man-god Quetzalcoatl (A god of the Toltecs and Aztecs, one of the manifestations of the sun god Tezcatlipoca and represented as a plumed serpent), who appeared before me in all his kaleidoscopic glory. I melted in a river of liquid dreamscapes, tasted lemon sun rays and traversed the astral plane.
Quetzalcoatl in human form, using the symbols of Ehecatl, from the Codex Borgia
Eldeguado and I hummed the musical pitch of E flat in perfect unison. Quetzalcoatl, joined in with a spectacular operatic low A natural – together forming a thunderous tritone. The dissonance of this specific tritone (often used as the main interval of dissonance in musical harmony) further intensifies the prophetic nature of the visions. We faced at the correct mathematical angles to form a psychic epiphany, opening the gates to the netherworlds. The powerful chord resonated through the marrow of my bones, stimulating my third eye (pineal gland), allowing me to retrieve my six word memoir.
It was an incredible experience, though I have had an excruciatingly swollen medulla oblongata ever since. This would have made genius author Carlos Castaneda and his metaphoric character Don Juan proud. So…here’s my prophetic memoir, as told by Quetzalcoatl:
Psychic Voodoo Master’s Love Quest Spectacle
*Ahhh…I feel better now.
*I do not advocate drug use, this post is entirely fiction
*The spectacular desert cloud picture is Skyorclowns by Shaze2
*The beautiful blue picture with meditating man is This desert is not hot by Perfectclick
*I tag the following people to write their own six word memoir:
Paisley, Setu, Moyrn, Floog, Karen, Marzie, Haney, Miss MoneyPenny, and of course Nick Phillips
You don’t have to include a mesmerizing story, but it would be fun if you did!
The Waffle House Massacre
Mar 27
12:00 Midnight
I could feel strangeness in the air as I drove through the midnight mist. A full blood-moon eerily hung, spilling it’s maddening radiance across the black gulf water which was but a short distance from highway 90. It was a desolate night, and I had the only car on the road. I rolled my window down—my tongue sheathed in moistened, salty ocean breeze. Something was going to happen, something terrible.
I turned on the radio to hear the latest weather report, the announcer said, “I repeat, hurricane Katrina has been upgraded to category 3 . . . land fall is less than twenty-four hours. The National Weather Service reports the storm will hit somewhere between New Orleans and Biloxi, Mississippi. I repeat…”
I turned it off not wanting to listen to one more second. Rain started drizzling, while wisps of wind rocked my car—short but powerful gusts. I decided to stop and have a bite at Waffle House, the bright yellow sign flickered as I pulled in, foreshadowing what was to come.
Waffle House
wafflehouse
Luckily, there were only four cars parked out front and the open sign was still on. I walked in and was pleased by the delicious aroma of sizzling bacon and hot coffee. The beautiful young waitress smiled and quickly walked over, “Hello! How ya doing tonight?” She reached out and took my hand—I was flushed—my heart pounding. She stopped suddenly and turned around, facing me, close enough to kiss me, “Table for one?”
I tightened my grip on her petite, lovely hand and groaned, “I love you…will you marry me?”
We both giggled like silly love birds—my attraction to her overwhelming. I staggered, falling into my seat. “Candy,” the angered cook bellowed from behind the bar, “Get your ass back here and clean up this mess.”
“I’m Bobby.”
“I’ll think about it Bobby, my name is Candy,” she said walking backwards towards the cook, smiling and lips plumped.
Remembering a favorite line from the movie Highlander, I said, “Candy…of course you are.”
The Showdown
In the booth across from mine was a most bizarre spectacle, the likes of which would be a headliner on the Jerry Springer show. Two wannabe gangbangers in a standoff, staring each other down. One was a bald headed albino; a wicked blond brow forcefully muscled atop his piercing pink eyes—the left cocked high, both bloodshot. The other, a short pudgy Italian with two missing front teeth, the rest capped in gold. They both wore black leather jackets and nostril rings, something I find revolting.
They both turned their attention to my eavesdropping manners. Before they could ask, I quickly explained, “What it be like homey, name’s Bobby.”
The albino smirked, “Yo dude…I’m Casper. This is my boy G-dog,” then returned to their showdown.
Casper unsheathed a fourteen inch bowie knife, cut open the brick of cocaine sitting next to his eggs, trimming himself out a large line. “This better be Peruvian flake,” he grumbled, dunking his ghostly face into the pile and snorted like a wild boar, “Ahhh…damn, this is fire.”
G-dog nodded his head, smiling, “I told you, Pedro just flew it in today, 93.7% pure, no gasoline taste, no fat, no filler.”
Casper stabbed his mammoth blade into the table top, a single sparkle of light twinkled from the beautifully polished 440-c stainless steel—splinters blasting from the gouge. He tossed a brown paper bag onto G-Dog’s licked-clean plate and proudly stated, “That’s one-hundred and twenty thousand front money, I’ll get you the rest in three days.”
I was mortified, thinking these guys would never leave a live body before they departed. I turned to notice the scruffy old man sitting in the corner, sipping a hot cappuccino. He sported a nefarious scowl, wore a tattered army jacket and a hideous scar engraved into his face – a scar obviously stitched with heavy gauge fishing line in a wicked night of blood drenched warfare sometime in his nightmarish past. The man continually glared at the drug dealing pair. I fully expected him to unleash a shotgun and paint the walls in blood sodden flesh . . . any second now.
I suddenly picked up the scent of perfume, noticing lovely legs standing before me. Candy stood as an illuminated goddess in her waffle house skirt, tenderly speaking through freshly glossed lips, “Bobby, you haven’t even looked at the menu,” sitting down beside me, “we close in twenty minutes and I haven’t had my break. Would you like something or maybe . . . I can spend twenty minutes with you?”
Do you think it’s safe in here? There’s a dangerous situation brewing,” I said.
She leaned over, kissing me and said, “The storm? Hehe…the only thing dangerous is you and me . . . together.”
What kind of Waffle House is this? I felt like I was having a pulp-fictionesque nightmare, expecting Quentin Tarantino to be standing behind a camera, directing every scene. I said, “This could be our last night on Earth. What should we do?”
An argument exploded from the gangster booth—Candy nibbling on my earlobe—the vulgar albino stood up . . . blasting, “That’s nothing. Look at this,” pulling up his shirt to reveal five closely spaced bullet wound scars, “Five .44 magnum hollow points, right in the belly, top that . . . punk.”
G-dog jumped to his feet, pulling his collar down. A gruesome, serrated scar of pinkish tissue protruded thickly from his neck, “Ear to ear . . . fool. A razor sharp machete nearly cut my head off back in ‘97.”
They sat back down—Candy twirled her tongue across my neck, a soft hand moving inside my shirt—the two thugs in a horrific standoff. I was sweltering; scared, shivering, excited and petrified in stone rigidity. The old man in the corner throated, “You two need to get a hotel room.”
Candy had me intoxicated, her wondrous green eyes luring me wherever she wanted, “I love you too Bobby and yes . . . I’ll marry you.”
Candy turned towards the old man in the corner and shocked me, “Sorry daddy! This is my new husband.”
He replied, “Take her with you . . . please.”
Was he talking to me? That was her father? Both psychopaths took a huge snort of cocaine and faced off once more. The milky white Casper said, “Watch this.”
bloody knife
He extended his middle finger, crowned by a crusty yellow nail—apparently gnawed on by jagged teeth. He held the razored knife on his finger tip, gently peeling a strip of flesh from top to bottom—blood drizzling over his half eaten waffle. He continued peeling his finger as if it were a blood filled banana. He wound the three flesh strips together and tore them off with his teeth—spitting them on the table. He then put the skinless finger in his mouth and suckled the juices from it.
My body quivered in grotesqueness, trembling in the clutches of supreme horror. Candy saw the sickening event, turned and kissed me—wet with lust. Unbelievably, she said, “Wow, what a turn on . . . I wonder if they’re going to kill each other,” and licked my cheek.
My eyes opened so wide, it almost tore my eyelids off. My heart muscle began twitching in pain, pumping violently, my aorta about to tear open. G-dog quickly snatched a .44 magnum out of nowhere pointing it at Casper’s chest, yelling, “Take your shirt off. I want to see what five slugs look like ripping an albino’s chest open.”
From behind, a mammoth explosion murdered all tension, then another and another. The brutal stench of blood and gun smoke fogged the dining room in hellish fury. The sound of body parts pelted the greasy floor. I wasn’t sure if I was even alive. Once the smoke cleared, I witnessed two headless bodies lying on the floor, one with no arm. I turned and saw the old man standing with a sawed off shotgun, smoke still percolating from the molten barrel.
He walked over and said, “Let go of my daughter and step aside.”
Candy kissed me once more, smiling, “I love you Bobby,” while a cold chill slithered up my spine.
She stepped on Casper’s scarlet soaked chest and reached for the bag of cash. The old man whirled the shot gun at lightning velocity. Candy’s head disappeared and then the thunderous blast of death. She was overcome by morbid twitch—a fountain of hot blood pumped forth—splattering—shrouding me in terror. I stood as a frozen body, so scared I couldn’t even shake. Her headless body took three drunken steps and fell as a lifeless lump. I then heard the echoes of her last scream—after her decapitation—time passing in nightmarish segments.
Reprieve
The man stuffed the shotgun under his jacket and said, “Tastes like mercury don’t it?”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re covered in blood boy . . . it’s all up in your mouth. I killed her so fast, by the time she realized what happened, she was already dead. I wasn’t about to let that greedy little witch get a single nickel of my money . . . and besides, she didn’t really love you anyway. She would have murdered you dead—soon enough.”
He noticed how frightened I was, how fearful I was. He said, “Yep. Snakes, spiders, pungi sticks, napalm . . . nothing grosses out this old dog. Get outta here before I change my mind. If anyone asks, tell ‘em Sweet Willy did it.”
I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. Hurricane Katrina actually uprooted the entire Waffle House building, washing away all traces of what happened that night. Even if I told anyone, I know they wouldn’t believe me. I burned my blood soaked clothes and the car I drove that night. Every time the wind blows, I taste the morbid flavor of mercury.
*The Waffle House picture is from Flak Magazine.
*The bloody knife is from Tanner Cheeseman.
*This story is absolutely made up fiction by Bobby Revell.
*Sweet Willy currently lives richly in Burbank, California with his wife Helga and pet pit bull terrier, Roscoe.
The Blood River Flesh Hunter
Mar 12
Kuagili knelt to the blood river’s edge, her knees seated in warm black crystalline mud – a breathing plaque, percolating on transparent flesh. Cities of iridescence – muscular neurons firing off sparkled atop the liquid surface as it undulated – a gelatinous billow of shimmering flow.
She was tired of running. Seven long days and nights of endless escapes, but her hunter was still near; she could feel it’s presence. She needed sustenance. Her tired segments in need of precious xeroquam, the sweetened nectar of the quanxro tree – high in bloodfiber and spormadic quamozines. Her rubbery ligaments were stiffened from the endless journey and would become tenderly brittle without plasmodic moisture.
She extended her ridged back blades and tenderly plucked the mud sacs from betwixt her anterior cleft. They had become a source of tortuous pain. She filled her webbed palm with Blood River surface gel and smoothed it across her arid tongue – a succulent plasma indeed. Being in need of nutrients and liquidity, it was worth the risk. The river’s powerful hallucinogenic properties were the reality, but she had to feed.
She was corroded by fear. It devoured her. The very idea of being eaten alive by a flesh hunter chilled her deepest marrow. Her glands alive with secretions, her thorax plumped to full extension – ready to claw meat from the most vicious of beasts.
tangerine blood moon
Beautiful midnight smoke burst across the horizon. Angular geometries sculpted in vivid tentacles of insanity, sliced light rays woven by tangerine moon. “How beautiful” she thought, “No one from my village had ever seen the Blood River mist…and I too thought it was just a story.”
She remained hypnotic as psychoactive substrates infiltrated her cerebral cortex, flooding her soul in electric visions of fluidity. Xenon particle clouds soared through the blackness, illuminating every cell in her body. Her first intoxication – a stratified matrix – seething…expanding…breathing. Warmth flooded her in emotion whilst tears slowly oozed. Humid thickness lubricated her parched lenses. The pleasure was powerful and resonant, releasing her from eternity.
flesh hunter
She had never known such sinful ecstasy and continued forward…her tumid mindscape should never end. She writhed in haunting miasma, slithering across the crystalline shore. She was in need and gently slid into the river, floating as mouthwatering meal for her hunter; now – standing atop a quartz cylinder…peering down upon her glistening vesicle.
She gazed into him as he stood violently, a bloodthirsty hell beast wielding claws of surgical precision. Thickly enameled fangs, serrated and fearful, grew in caliber as purplish lips receded. He exploded to the sky; a winding cyclone of hatred. His body expansive…outstretched to astonishing length as he landed – coiled and contracted. Searing red eyes scorched her with hunger…glaring into the heart of terror.
Her heart convulsed as a jackhammer, almost breaking her meaty ribs. Suddenly…pure darkness. She wondered, “Am I dead? Please, God help me!”
A stream of frigid vapor gushed across her face and soft light drizzled through her scaly eye flaps. A familiar voice nestled her ever so gently,”Kuagili…wake up my dear…it’s your father.”
She opened her eyes…relieved from the weight of a thousand suns. Her father picked her up by the dorsal nodule and cradled her softly in his secure grasp, “You were having a nightmare my sweet Kuagili Wuahili…poor thing. Did you dream of the Blood River Flesh Hunter?”
Though trembling in fear, she began to settle in daddy’s arms. “Yes father…I did. The tangerine moon…and Blood River mist was even more spectacular than I could have possibly imagined.”
He smiled, holding her tightly, “My little girl is growing up! Soon we can go there together. We shall drink xeroquam from mother’s chalice. She would be so proud of you my love.”
Kuagili fell into deep slumber, with a wondrous smile on her lips…safe at last.
The wicked beast picture is from The Haunted Mansion.
Before I get started with this week’s selections, I offer two short poems. I hope you enjoy them. I am trying my best to make each new batch as unique as possible – this week was particularly fun and fulfilling!
Reason
Liquid dreams convulse my tarnished soul
imperfect I stand
forever screams forged from anguished toll
accepting all I am
for the first time alive
destined to revive, to decide, to visualize
my reason for living…
I feel so incomplete and dry after the lines above, I have decided to go with this instead (hey, I can’t help it – I’m a horror writer):
Cold Razor
Twirling blades of razor
hissing snakes of sound
I approach; voiced in doom
death bladed master!
blood moon pastor!
Burning ice
the feeling they say
wind on wet bones; scarlet sheathed
knotted fingers shivering
blades flutter
skins of butter
and lonely surgeon
with victim quivering…
Poetic Deathmaster
Ahhh…I feel better already 
I’ve been reading a lot of great poetry about in the blogosphere. I really don’t read or study the legendary poets throughout history as I get my ideas from other places; such as an event in my life, a picture, a song or a fleeting thought; germinated and nurtured within the dynamic tissue of my innards. I strive for nothing as poetry shall be written…all by itself.
I think of all the starving artists; from every form…from music to painting and all between. Poets often go unnoticed – yet their work is so important – it defines the essence of expression. Therefore, I dedicate this week to but a few of the blogosphere’s finest poets and writers.
Jé Maverick is a wonderfully imaginative poet whom I recently started reading. I was mesmerized by his finely honed expressions and uniquely abstract motifs. With so many interesting poems to choose from – it wasn’t difficult – they are all worth reading. The first I read today was Other Sermons; filled with truths of spiritual hypocrisy as well as introspective complexion. While you’re there, spend some time and read several of his poems.
The explosively enigmatic Paisley wrote the flesh broiling, bone charring and ultraviolet poem, The “Green” Racket. You might need your polarized sunglasses for this one. Al Gore had better hide!
The illuminating and scintillating Anastasia wrote an interfusion of heated attraction and pheromone fantasy in her urge brimmed Twilight Taxi Ride. Holy carnal conniption Batman…I need a cold shower!
Square1…the fantasy scribing literary chemist engrafts realism with wonder in her beautifully inventive, Write Your Fire in the Sky. I absolutely loved this story!
I spent some time combing through Beaman’s archives; infiltrating his treasure trove of poetic lyricism. A truly brilliant poet can write from any perspective and offer a plenitude of assorted coolness. One such versification is Hunger – filled with feline violence and dark humour – a great read.
The world wise spiritual visionary, Michael Skowronski, wrote a fantastic piece filled with depth and meaning in International World Government. I have often thought that a similar government is the solution. This is in polarizing contrast to the current militaristic movement towards a one world government. I believe humankind has difficulty living up to it’s own intelligence…it’s time to do things right.
Killing Old Hag
Jan 15
I’m wandering through the frozen foods section in Wal-Mart wearing an ornate aura of nomadism, which masks my wicked intentions. Frozen dinners are the main part of my diet and I love shopping for them.
I’m reading the label on on a box of frozen egg rolls for twenty-five minutes while this vulgar old hag impatiently waits behind me trying to get to the freezer. I notice that she’s wearing sandals, exposing her hideously sickening, fungus encrusted toenails – with transparent skin sheathing purplish dead veins. “Sir. . .Please excuse me.” she says touching my arm.
I pretend to be surprised saying, “Who’s that!”
I step back quickly with my right leg wielding a thickly heeled boot – viciously stomping on her toes, placing all my weight on them. She tries to scream but cannot – hunched over with her hands on her knees. I bounce slightly, my heel still firmly planted on her foot.
“Scream you morbid old hag!” I quietly shrill.
She can barely breathe, much less scream. . .pure terror. My heel finally cuts through to the hard floor – her toes sheared from her repulsively milky foot while a puddle of black blood grew underneath. Mangled skin portions entangled in whole sections of varicose veins lie blood sodden, hanging from her amputated toes.
I’m smiling at her with my mouth, while my eyes stay frozen without emotion. With a look of excruciating pain on her face she clutches her chest; I can actually hear the muffled sound of her ribs breaking as her heart explodes. I pull a thick clump of paper towels from my pocket and wipe my boots.
I begin quickly walking towards the automatic doors and don’t see any store employees. I make it out of there without anyone noticing me – my dick is hard from all the excitement.
The picture I found years ago somewhere on line, if these are your feet or you are the originator of the photo, I’ll give you credit. No old hags were injured in the writing of this story.
BTW- This is an excerpt from one of two books I’ve been writing for over two years. It’s 1st person horror which makes it that much more disturbing. Remember, it’s just fiction…muah hahaha!
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Lick Your Fingers Clean
Jan 4
There it was again…my peripheral vision playing tricks on me, this quivering black shadow. I turned to look – evaporating, producing a humid steam…an exhalation of pungent dead man’s breath. I tried to comprehend where I was, the shadows of confusion encrusting my reality…what the hell is going on?
Oh my God…the morbid stench splashed across my face…this breath…the shadow revealed itself once more. I was not alone, something was there, all around me. I felt it sheath my body, I was embedded…cradled in this continuum of darkness, the fabric of death itself.
Trying to walk, I was blistered by a vulgar twitch…losing my balance, cracking my knee caps on the cold floor. Before my eyes sat five starving children screaming in tortuous agony, “Please feed us…we are so hungry…”
The vile dank of death hung thickly…I gagged, my stomach churning…ughh…uggghh! Choking, I couldn’t get air in my lungs. I coughed up a thickened black slab of greasy strings. Urrggh…bleeech…I splatter vomited that which clogged my esophagus…ridding my body from this horrid portion of sickening gelatinous matter.
The children pounced like bloodthirsty dogs upon my still hot puke – suckling the blackened gristle from their bony fingers. Voices moaned, “Run…you must run!”
I was paralyzed, frozen in fear…I couldn’t squeeze a single drop of movement from my wilted, dying body…”Help me…PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!!!” I bellowed violently. My undulating body quivered in absolute grotesqueness…”HELP ME…….!!!!”
The five albino children gathered around me, blood drenched strings draping from their drooling jowls – vomit crusted, milk-white faces…one said, “I’ll do the honors…” he smiled at me, “For that which we are about to receive, may we be truly thankful…”
