søndag den 30. januar 2011

Cor, blimey!

A thousand views!

The Watch

Drawn by Francis Law and Meg

  In a small house on Lantern Street, The Grand Meister of Timekeeping inspected himself in the mirror. He looked at his scarlet waistcoat, his black tie and his white dress shirt. Spotless. He ran a comb through his black, glossy hair. Not a hair out of place. Satisfied, he draped his long coat over his shoulders and, with infinite care, lowered his top hat squarely onto his head. He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, fastened his monocle and turned to leave. He paused and turned back to the mirror with a frown. After a moment's deliberation, he gave his mustache an extra twirl. Perfect.

    The Grand Meister of Timekeeping, or Bernard Pleasant as he was commonly known, was for all intents and purposes a perfectly normal gentleman. He got up at a reasonable hour every morning. He put on his pants one leg at a time. He worked a decent job for decent pay. He addressed his betters with just the right amount of polite respect and those less fortunate than him with aloof disdain. He was completely and wholly unremarkable. Except, of course, that he was anything but.
    The Grand Meister of Timekeeping fished a small, delicate pocket watch out of his pocket and flipped open the beautiful, engraved lid. The inside of the golden timepiece was a jumble of intricate metalwork. Four arms moved, one at a time, emitting a constant tick tick tick tick. They moved both clockwise and counter-clockwise, jumping from one number to another. The numbers weren't the usual one to twelve. Eighteen seemingly random numbers, ranging from zero to 824, lined the outer rim. Around the center of the watch, the numbers zero to five were arranged in a circle. Today was the day.
    "I say, Bernard, you look positively dapper today!"
    The Grand Meister of Timekeeping snapped shut his watch and looked up with a pleasant smile. An enormously fat man had emerged from the crowded street and now stood smiling before him.
    "Thank you, Jenkins," The Grand Meister of Timekeeping said. "A gentleman should always look their best for special occasions, do you not agree?"
    "Of course, of course." He gestured at the empty spot on the bench next to The Grand Meister of Timekeeping. "May I?"
     Jenkins groaned as he lowered his not inconsiderable girth onto the wooden bench. He dabbed at his sweaty face with a tiny handkerchief.
    "I really shouldn't be walking around in this weather," he said. "This blasted heat could rightly kill a man if he weren't careful. But," he said, gazing at a woman walking past, "It's not all bad, eh?" He nudged The Grand Meister of Timekeeping with his elbow.
    "How's that?" he said without much interest and stole another glance at his watch. It was almost time.
    "The women, of course!" Jenkins laughed.
    Any other day, Bernard Pleasant would have been just as excited about the prospect of scantily clad ladies as his fat friend was. But today he was The Grand Meister of Timekeeping. Today, his mind was occupied by something of much greater importance.
    "I must be cruel only to be kind," he muttered. "Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind."
    "What's that?"
    "Shakespeare, Jenkins." He made to stand. "I'm afraid I must leave you now, my dear friends. I have important matters to attend. But before I go..." He searched his pockets and produced a pair of silver coins. "Take these."
    Jenkins looked from the coins to The Grand Meister of Timekeeping with puzzlement.
    "I... Well, thank you, Bernard. May I ask what they're for?"
    "Why, the ferryman, of course." He smiled, tipped his hat and disappeared into the crowded street.

    He pushed his way through the great unwashed, grumbling and muttering. Shoving a woman aside, he emerged into the city square. Normally, the square would have been filled with thousands of people going about their lifes. Lords and ladies. Beggars and whores. Liars and murderers. The air would be filled with the hollering of merchants and laughter of children.
    But today, the crowd formed a massive circle around the very center of the square. They stared, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, at the great, golden disk that hovered above them, revolving slowly. It gave off a soft hum. The Grand Meister of Timekeeping grinned. It was magnificent. I was three times the height of a man, shining like a miniature sun. He tore his eyes away from the incredible sight and, with trembling fingers, opened his watch. Now was the time. Tick tick tick tick.
    He whirled around and threw out his arms.
    "Ladies and gentlemen!" He roared. His voice carried to every corner of the square. "Sinners and heathens! Today is the day of reckoning! The day of judgement! Today, you look upon the face of your maker." He jabbed an accusing finger at the throng of people. "You have lived out your pitiful lives in sin, and the great creator is displeased."
    Behind him, the golden disk started spinning faster and faster until it was a blur. The humming rose in sound and intensity.
    "Today, his judgement descends upon you!"
    Lightning flashed across the disc. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
    "And here..." He faced the disc. "It..." Lightning jumped and flashed from the disc to the ground. "Comes."
    With a deafening boom and a blinding flash of light, a tear in reality appeared where the disc had been. From the tear streamed pure, white light. A few people screamed. Most remained silent.
    "Yes," The Grand Meister of Timekeeping hissed. "Yes!" Something was emerging from the tear. A single figure, tall and gaunt, descended slowly. When it came to rest on the ground, it raised its head, and The Grand Meister of Timekeeping saw it for the first time.
    It was half again as tall as he, and made entirely of golden metal. It resembled a skeleton, but inside its gleaming ribcage, where its heart should have been, hung a large, golden pocket watch. He could hear it tick. The creature was beautiful. A white and unmoving metal mask rested on the metal skull. It was of such brilliant beauty that The Grand Meister of Timekeeping knew what the creature truly was.
    "The angels have come." He whispered.
     With a soft whirring sound, the metal angel unfolded its wings, row upon row of gleaming, metallic feathers spreading out behind it in a great arc.
    With a swift beat of its wings, it moved to stand before The Grand Meister of Timekeeping.
    "Thank you," it said, a voice like a thousand people whispering. "Timekeeper. Your task is done." It held out one of its delicate hands, palm up. "Give me the heart."
    Head spinning and hands trembling, he took out his watch and placed it carefully in the angel's hand. Its fingers closed around it softly.
    "And now," it said. "The judgement will commence."
    It was then that Bernard Pleasant noticed the other angels. Hundreds of them, rank upon rank, emerged from the tear. A thrill of fear flashed through him. They didn't look as angelic as they had a moment ago. The metal was grey and dull. The masks were cold and unfeeling. He could hear their hearts ticking in disconcerting unison. The angels stood in perfect circles around the portal. Like a ripple in water, they moved as one, gliding slowly towards the throng of people surrounding them. A man near Bernard stumbled towards the angels, breath shuddering in his chest. He let his cane drop, clutched his hat in his hands and fell to his knees before one of them.
    The angel placed a gentle hand over the man's heart. "Greed." it said. Bernard heard a sharp click. The man coughed once and collapsed. A pool of blood formed beneath the limp body. Confused, Bernard looked from the dead man to the angel. From the delicate, metal hand protruded a blade. It was stained red.
    Moments later, he heard hundreds of angels speak. Every one of them stood before an awestruck man, woman or child, metal hands over human hearts.
    "Lust." One said. A sharp click followed, and the man fell to the ground.
    "Envy." Said another. Click. The woman let out a ragged sigh and fell at the angel's feet.
    Then the screaming started. People were starting to regain their senses. Some cried out. Some tried to help those in front. Most simply fled. Bernard saw one man try to bludgeon one of the angels with a brick. Gently, and without fuss, the angel grabbed the man's arm and placed its hand above his heart.
    "Wrath." It said. Click.

    The next hours passed in a blur of violence. Bernard saw thousands killed at the hands of the angels. Not a single man, woman or child was spared. He saw Jenkins kneeling before an angel, crying and pleading to be let free. The angel paid his blubbering no heed. Gluttony. Click. He saw desperate soldiers fighting the angels with blade and rifle to no avail. Wrath. Click. He saw people trying to flee the city, only to be swept into the air by angels, great wings beating. Greed. Click. Lust. Click. Sloth. Click. Pride. Click. Envy. Click.
    Tick tick tick tick.
    Finally, the city fell silent. The only sound to be heard was the angels' hearts. The golden angel swept down to stand before Bernard. Blood dripped from its golden fingers.
    "What happens now?" Bernard asked. He felt very tired.
    "We proceed." The angel lifted its head toward the sky. Bernard did the same. Far above them, he could see the angels gliding out of the city like a great flock of metal birds. "Man will be judged." It said and placed its hand over Bernard's heart. In the other hand, it held his watch. His heart. Tick tick tick t-
    It stopped.

Music of the now: By The Wall, Imaginarium Soundtrack

fredag den 28. januar 2011


    "You let him go." Lume said.
    "Aye." Rook rolled up the sleeves on his fresh shirt.
    "Wanted to make sure that they think twice before trying this again."
    "Surely all this," he gestured at the carnage. "Conveys your message quite clearly?"
    Rook gazed out the window, fiddling with one of his shirtsleeves. He sighed, but remained otherwise silent.
    "Something on your mind, big guy?"
    "The kid. Doesn't he remind you of Sal?"
    "Hah, aye, I suppose he does. He was quite the s-"
    "Is, Lume. He is. Never saw him go down."
    "He was no fighter, Rook. You know that."
Music of the now: Tommy Wiseau - The Room (Cheep Cheep Remix), by alcala323

torsdag den 27. januar 2011


    The soldier stumbled and fell, his weapon clattering onto the bodies that covered the floor.
    "Please," he whispered. Rook's shadow fell across his fear-stricken face as he stepped closer. "Please don't kill me."
    "What's your name, boy?" Rook asked as he wiped the blood from his hands with a white piece of cloth. He seemed like a butcher, satisfied after a long day's work. Somehow, that made him all the more terrifying.
    "Jozel Malk, sire."
    "Sire?" He chuckled, raising an eyebrow.  "That's a new one." He threw away the blood-soaked cloth. "I need you to bring your masters a message, Jozel."

Music of the now: Run, by Gnarls Barkley

onsdag den 26. januar 2011

Fall of Halberds

    The noise was deafening. Twenty - now eighteen - men clad in heavy plates of armor crashing into each other, shouting in anger and screaming in pain. Rook danced and weaved between them. Whenever he spotted an opening in their armor, he struck, his hands lashing out to snap bones and rend flesh. His arms were covered in blood.
    The noise lasted for less than a minute. Then silence. A single soldier remained standing. He'd lost his helmet at some point. He couldn't remember when. He took a step backwards, away from the man, and stumbled over one of the bodies.

Music of the now: Fighting Trousers, by Professor Elemental

tirsdag den 25. januar 2011

Even More Halberds

    Halberds are daunting things to face on a battlefield. Rook knew this from experience. Works wonders on cavalry. Unfortunately for the twenty young soldiers, such cumbersome weapons only got in the way in a room this small.
    The moment the first man charged, Rook sprang forward, batting the weapon aside. Without losing momentum, he grabbed the soldier's helmeted head and twisted, cracking bones and snapping tendons. Then he was within their ranks, too close for them to to bring their halberds to bear. He closed his fingers around the nearest soldier's exposed throat and pulled back savagely. Blood spattered his face.

Music of the now: Kontroll På Kontinentet, by Kaizers Orchestra

mandag den 24. januar 2011

Octopi, cont.

Day seven (7):
Subject 70-a sedated for transport to bigger cage. Mid-transport, however, it regained consciousness. It proceeded to escape captivity and rampage through the town. Recaptured and sedated. Acceptable civilian casualties. 

Day fourteen (14):
After thorough autopsies, it appears that Subject 70-a's many spikes and beaks secrete an incredibly powerful neurotoxin. Tests for possible weaponization are pending. Subject 70-a now measures approximately eight (8) meters in height.

Day forty (40): 
Subject 70-a appears to be the herald of an ancient, terrible god. After reaching approximately fifty meters in height, it destroyed the town and disappeared into the sea. Research cancelled. 

Music of the now: SUPERVILLAINY, by Lucy Knisley

søndag den 23. januar 2011


Notes regarding evolution and behavior of post-hand octopi in captivity

Day one (1):
Two (2) octopi, after surgically removed from Subject 70's arms, are placed in a reinforced BlitzGlass(C) container. Behavior appears dull, possibly due to stress.

Day two (2): 
Subject 70-a appears to have attacked, killed and consumed Subject 70-b overnight. It has grown to approximately three times its original size. Noticeably more aggressive. 

Day five (5): 
Subject 70-a, now approximately 3 meters in height, escaped its cell. It was recaptured and restrained thanks to Ulrich's martial skill and brute strength, but not before it located and consumed Subject 70. 

Music of the now: Waka Waka (This Time For Africa), by Shakira

lørdag den 22. januar 2011


    Blitzmann took a step back to admire his handiwork. Beside him stood Ulrich, one of his rock-like eyebrows raised.
    "Well," said Blitzmann. "What do you think?"
    "It's certainly..."
    "It's very creative, Doc, like always. Although..." Ulrich hesitated. "You could have built a pair of hands for him."
    Blitzmann waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, but that would have been boring. This is much more exciting, no?"
    Ulrich had to admit that it was. He pointed at the mass of whirring gears and clicking widgets that sprouted from the bound man's arm. "What does this do?"
   "Haven't the foggiest," Blitzmann said.

Music of the now: Lights Out, by Rick Astley (Yes, that Rick Astley)

fredag den 21. januar 2011


    "Right," Blitzmann said after tightening the gag. "What do you say we have a civilized conversation?"
    The man was hyperventilating, his nostrils flaring with each panicky breath. His eyes rolled around crazily, sweat pouring down his face. Blitzmann frowned.
    "Honestly," he said. "It's almost like you don't want me to help you." He turned, facing his surgical tools. After a moment's deliberation, he picked up a small, curved knife.
    "I agree that the reaction was unexpected. And while I'm not sure how it turned your hands into living octopi..." He replaced the knife with a saw. "I'm going to find out."

Music of the now: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien, by Edith Piaf

torsdag den 20. januar 2011


    "AAAAAAAH," the man screamed. He struggled wildly against the leather straps, bucking and twisting in vain. Blitzmann looked on in exasperation.
    "Listen," he said loudly, trying to make himself heard over the frantic screaming. "If you don't sit still, I'm not going to be able to help you."
    "OH GOD OH MY GOD," the man responded.
    "I agree that it didn't have the desired effect, but there's no need t-"
    "Would you-"
    "Would you SHUT UP?" Blitzmann roared, slamming his fist on the table. The carefully laid out collection of syringes, scalpels and surgical equipment rattled and shifted slightly.

Music of the now: Return Of The Mack, by Mark Morrison
Book of the now: Last Argument Of Kings, by Joe Abercrombie

onsdag den 19. januar 2011


    "Ha-HA!" Doctor Blitzmann exclaimed, lifting a vial of glowing, purple liquid and staring at it. "Once again, I have somehow managed to outdo myself!"
    "That so?" Ulrich said in a distant voice, leaning back, feet resting on the table.
    Blitzmann whirled around, brandishing the vial in one hand and a massive syringe in the other.
    "Yes!" he proclaimed. "This liquid is without a doubt my greatest achievement yet!" He waved the vial about wildly, spilling a few drops of the liquid dropped, where it sizzled and burned through the rock. "It will revolutionize everything we know about mouthwash!"
    "Fascinating." Ulrich said.

Music of the now: War Photographer, by Jason Forrest

tirsdag den 18. januar 2011

More Halberds

    For a few moments, Rook thought it had worked. The soldiers were muttering, some taking a hesitant step backwards.
    "Let's just go," one whispered in a desperate voice.
    "No!" hissed the man next to him. "If we come back empty-handed, we're done for! We'll be lucky if the captain doesn't just throw us to the inquisition." 
    Rook was a mountain, unmoving. Neither attacking nor retreating. 
    "Enough of this!" one of them said in a loud, angry voice, shouldering past the others. He pointed the gleaming point of his halberd at Rook. "For the king!" he yelled and charged.
    He died first.

Music of the now: Mock The Fools, by TotalBiscuit

mandag den 17. januar 2011


    Rook stood facing the crackling fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, feet slightly apart. Behind him stood twenty men, flickering light dancing on their polished plate mail. Twenty halberds were pointed at him. Twenty sets of frightened eyes watched his every movement.
    "Leave," he said with calm authority, as if addressing a servant. "Leave, and tell your superiors that the house was empty. You are still young," he said, turning around to face them. "Some with wives and children. I do not wish death on any of you, but know this. If you choose to draw steel... I. Will. Not. Hesitate."

Music of the now: Power Hour, by Freddie Wong and DeStorm

søndag den 16. januar 2011


    "So," said the baron, scratching one of his many chins. "What do we know about this Lume?" 
    "Not much, I'm afraid." Inquisitor Ghast stood in the center of the room, dressed in the black and white robes of his order, a deep frown framing his dark, sunken features. "Raised as an orphan in Pyre," he said,. "Made a living as a pickpocket. Joined a group of travelling minstrels. That's it."
    The baron nodded and devoured another grape. "Still," he said. "You should have found him by now."
    "As you may recall, my lord, I did find him. Him and his guardian."

Music of the now: John The Revelator, by Curtis Stigers & The Forest Rangers

lørdag den 15. januar 2011


   "What do you suppose these symbols mean?" Lume said, running his hand across the ancient stones. When Rook didn't reply, he turned his head back towards the camp, where Rook was trying to start a fire, clacking two stones together. "Rook? What do you suppose these symbols mean?"
    Rook looked down at the small pile of damp sticks and moss with disgust. Another night without a hot meal. He threw down the stones, muttering curses, and trudged over to Lume.
    "Well?" Lume said. "What do you suppo-"
    "I heard you the first time." 
    Rook searched through his pockets, producing a pair of glasses. He put them on and bent down to get a closer look. The glasses looked absurd on him, Lume thought. 
   "This one here," Rook said, pointing at one of the symbols carved into the crumbling wall. It looked like a snake with wings. "That means 'enemy' or 'traitor', or something to that effect. The one next to it, the flaming man, means 'war'. The last one means 'success'." 
   "So," Lume said. "There was an enemy who started a war. And won it?"
   Rook removed his glasses. He looked at the ruins that surrounded them. 
   "Looks that way," he said.

Music of the now: Beatz, by Holger Forman

torsdag den 13. januar 2011


    Jonathan Phrase was many things, but he was not a fool. He knew when to fight, when to run and when to hide. Now, he knew that none of those were possible. The dark suited men, eight of them, had him surrounded. At first, he had fought. The first man had gone down under a flurry of vicious blows, metal bones broken and shattered. Jonathan Phrase had been lucky, and he knew it. The second man had thrown a small, white sphere at him, and if he hadn't brought his arm up to deflect it, he would most certainly have died.


onsdag den 12. januar 2011

Harlequin, cont.

Apologies for the lack of update yesterday; I was preparing for an exam (which I passed, thanks for asking) and I had neither the time nor the energy to let loose the hounds of creativity. As means of atonement, today's story will be 202 words long - twice the normal length. Enjoy.

    Far below the Harlequin's prison, a young girl was laughing. With bright eyes, she stared in wonder at the myriad of bright colors and whirling shapes that filled the carnival. A man dressed in green and purple robes skated past on a pair of gold-colored roller skates, juggling torches. A woman with short, spiky, purple hair appeared before her, walking on her hands. Standing on one hand, she pulled a single gold sovereign out of the girl's ear. With a theatrical wink, she flicked it to the girl and ran off, legs in the air. 


"Sad story, really," Jonathan Phrase said to nobody in particular. 

"Wha' is?" a small voice asked.

He looked around for the source of the voice and was surprised to find a small girl looking up at him. 

"Why, the story of the Harlequin," he said, gesturing towards the star-filled sky. "See there, at the center of the moon? That's Harlequin. He was a great man, once; spreading peace and joy wherever he went. A knight of the realm and a champion of humanity. For his victory against the darkness, he was granted immortality." 

He looked down with a sad smile. "In the end, it drove him mad."

Music of the now: Winter Winds, by Mumford and Sons

mandag den 10. januar 2011


    Rook didn't ask for much. He was fine with walking for days on end. He didn't mind the fighting and killing. He'd gotten used to living on stale bread and dried meat. He just wished Lume would stop singing.

    "Once in my travels," Lume bellowed, waving his arms in tune with the melody. "I fell from my saddle, and landed right on a fish! I lighted a fire, a real great big pyre, and made it into a dish!"

    Rook skewered the last of the would-be ambushers and rubbed his temples. Lume had been singing for fourteen hours straight.

Book of the now: Before They Are Hanged, by Joe Abercrombie
Music of the now: Speed F*cks, by Charlie Parra

søndag den 9. januar 2011


    Jax prodded his nose gingerly, wincing at the pain. Yep, definitely broken. He placed a hand on either side of it and gritted his teeth.
    "That's what you get for jumping face first into a wall," he said and snapped his nose back into place. He failed to stifle a scream. It wasn't the first time he'd set his broken nose, but it always hurt like a bitch.
    Groaning, he got to his feet, brushing off dirt and licking the blood off his lips. A man dropped to the ground in front of Jax, punched him in the face and broke his nose.

Music of the now: Stormy Weather Boys, by Drumlin

lørdag den 8. januar 2011


The burned out remnants of a forgotten age. That was what Jonathan Phrase saw. Massive buildings - now nothing more than hollow shells - towered above him. Thousands upon thousands of empty windows. Broken shards of glass crunched under his boots as he stalked along a nameless street. A blackened skeleton lay in the middle of the road, arms reaching out as if trying to crawl away from him. He'd probably died instantly, Jonathan Phrase thought. When the orb shattered and unleashed the fires within, everything within a thousand miles perished. Far above, a pair of bright blue eyes watched him.

Book of the now: The Blade Itself, by Joe Abercrombie
Music of the now: Don't Pay The Ferryman, by Chris de Burgh

fredag den 7. januar 2011


    "Exile rocks," Lume declared, planting his right foot on a rock and striking a pose. "The entire world lies before us, just begging to be explored." He gestured wildly at the flat, desolate plain. "Think of the marvels we'll find, Rook. Fame and fortune awaits!"
    Rook glared at his boistrous companion, adjusted the shield strapped to his back and started walking. His sword clanked gently against his chainmail as he walked towards the forest looming in the distance. "That's the spirit," Lume said, running to catch up. "I knew I could trust you!" He punched Rook's arm good-naturedly. "Ow," he muttered.

torsdag den 6. januar 2011

The Orb

    Jonathan Phrase threw the orb to Jax who promptly dropped it. It bounced once, twice. Jonathan Phrase looked at Jax.

    "Really?" he said. "Really, Jax?"

    "Sorry," Jax said and picked up the orb. He turned it over in his hands, staring intently. After a few moments he held it out to Jonathan. "See?" he said. "Not even a scratch. It's gonna take more than a little fall to break this fucker, old man."

    Jonathan Phrase smacked him on the head with the end of his staff. "That's for cursing," he said. He smacked him again. "And that's for calling me old."

onsdag den 5. januar 2011


    Jax lands hard, biting his tongue and tasting blood. Nothing is broken or strained. That's good. His heart is racing and his arms are shaking. His palms are bleeding,  sand and gravel sticking to them. He dares a quick peek behind him and sees the dark suited men jumping from rooftop to rooftop. They're gaining on me, he thinks. If he doesn't do something clever, he's going to end up like Jane. He launches himself off the roof and towards the large window in the building opposite. With a resounding thud he hits the 2 inch-thick window and knocks himself unconscious.

tirsdag den 4. januar 2011


High above the hustle and bustle of his carnival, Harlequin sat slumped in his colourful throne, gazing at the moon. 

"Solomooon," he whined and turned his masked face - a grimace of despair - towards the raven perched on the armrest. "I'm ever so bored.

The raven cawed, as ravens are wont to do, and picked a loose thread out of Harlequin's ruffled sleeve. The sound of firecrackers and children's laughter reached his prison, and, not for the first time, he struggled violently against the irons that shackled him to his throne. He let out a frustrated scream before falling silent.

Pretty Pictures

I urge you to visit http://ironicallydelicious.blogspot.com/, an art blog by my friend Francis. It has some very pretty pictures.

mandag den 3. januar 2011

The Mine

I will try to update this here blog every day from now on. I will be posting one story - each of them 101 words long - every day of the week. Here goes nothing.

What little courage he'd had at the beginning of his descent was long gone by the time he and his team had reached the bottom of the mineshaft. They'd lost a man on the way down. To his merit, he never screamed as he fell. There was a scraping sound, a surprised intake of breath and the fluttering sound of a body plummeting into the darkness below. The rest of them - Dox, Rainwell, Moore and himself – had clung to their respective places on the walls in silence until they were sure none of the cave's inhabitants had been awakened. 

lørdag den 1. januar 2011

Self-important rambling

As a writer, I have an enemy. A nemesis, if you will, who insists on sabotaging my increasingly rare creative outbursts. Let's call him Steve. Steve is self-doubt incarnate. Steve is the voice in my head that whispers “No, what you're doing is wrong.” whenever I start writing. “People will think less of you if they read it,” he says. “Why not do something else to take your mind off it? Play some video games, perhaps?”

Steve is kind of a dick.

I know perfectly well that was Steve tells me is a pile of manure. I know that it doesn't matter what random internet people think of me or my writing. I didn't start this blog to gain fame and fortune. I started it to get better at writing. I'm well aware of my shortcomings, and that I still have many years to go before I can start resembling anything like a proper writer. But I'll never get there if I don't practice, Steve.

Furthermore, I am becoming increasingly sure that enabling ads was a bad idea. I find myself constantly checking my pageviews and how many people have clicked on my ads. Suddenly, it's become about the money. I don't want it to be about the money. 

Remember back in the days? When I first started posting? I was sure I'd post a story every single day. It quickly changed to 5 days a week. Then at least 3 days a week. At least once a week. And now, I realize that I'm updating for the wrong reasons. I'm updating to get more views. More money. More internet fame. Enough, I say! No more ads, no more fishing for hits. I write because I love writing, and It's time I started to act accordingly.

On a lighter, less stupid note: Short people.