I finally have a working title for the book, Alien Fields. This may not be the final title, however it’s working for me at the moment.
This whole project has become much more ambitious than originally intended as the world around the story grew, my notes have gone from a few scribblings to no less than a large appendices with its own six hundred sixty-eight day calendar and custom zodiac.
My progress is slow, but the primary text is complete. Currently I’m working on the second draft and playing with some style details.
I no longer see having a finished product by the end of January as feasible, however if you’re interested in being a beta-reader, when we reach that stage, please let me know.
January 16, 2011 | Categories: About, Creative Endeavors, fiction, Prose, sci-fi, scifi, Stories | Tags: About, alien, Book Writing, fiction, Novel, Prose, sci-fi, science fiction, scifi, Story, Writing | Leave A Comment »
Well I didn’t make it to 50,000 words my the end of November, so I failed at #NaNoWriMo this year. However it’s not a complete loss. The reasons for my failure were:
1. I got distracted by life. Seriously, who decided national novel-writing month would be November? Though that’s just me making excuses. I realize that #NaNoWriMo is a world event and should not be hindered by American holidays. I can still bitch though.
2. This is the biggie. My novel actually concluded itself at around 40,000 words. The natural progression of the words I had written led to an early ending.
Now, this does not mean I will abandon the novel. I believe a lot that was written has potential and the story entertains me. So I will continue to work at it and I’m glad to say progress is being made; currently I’m working on the second draft using yWriter5. I hope to have a finished product by the end of January.
I plan to post a plot and cultural synopsis soon, but for now I will tell you that it’s a sci-fi coming of age story that borders on the slipstream genre with many fantasy elements throughout.
Cheers
-Hunter
December 2, 2010 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fantacy, fiction, Prose, sci-fi, scifi, Slipstream, Stories | Leave A Comment »
I’ve reached the halfway point in my NaNoWriMo novel, no quitting now. Here’s another excerpt to celebrate. Again please note this is a raw and unedited first draft, so please forgive any mistakes, misspellings, and dyslexic moments. Enjoy:
We kept to the night, to keep out of sight of the raiders and the sun. Phobos lit our way with what little light he provided. The way was filled with the black and gold dunes, that were common in the Arabia, though these were smaller than the giant dunes of the eastern desert of the stories of old. So we walked carefully on the ridges, keeping care of our footing, knowing to fall into a dune valley could spell disaster by entrapment, quicksand, or many other fates un-thought of. We camped when the sun was up, using canvas for shade and skins for bedding. We traveled mainly in silence as the desert air carries sound.
And though the night was our day and slowed the consumption of water, the supply was slowly dwindling. So we watched an listened for the roving thieves perhaps to raid the raiders. As luck would have it the neighing of a horse sounded from north-east of us.
From up top a dune we spied down with the rifles scope on a small plane of rock. A small group of five camped near the foot of a dune around a small fire by what looked like a well, the horses tied to a porous boulder, barred a blue sash with a red snake.
“I don’t feel right just attacking,” I whispered.
“I understand,” was her reply.
“A test of character?”
She responded with an acquisitive look.
“A helpless woman lost in the desert, stumbles down a dune,” I added.
She almost let out a laugh of excitement, then took the plunge with a scream of the stereotypical female victim.
Her fall was an act on par with the greatest of actors. The fall and stumble down the sand was chaotic and deadly to those who’ve never seen Miki in action. Each tumble was an act of grace in chaotic form. When she reached the bottom she removed the katana, sticking it in the sand with her hand still berried, grasped to the hilt.
I moved the scope to follow the five men. They were up and moving towards Miki’s still body. The walked without care or concern. I saw and heard the men laughing, some spoke but I was too far to make out words.
At Miki one bent down and checked for a pulse; a good sign, the only one. He slapped her face and said something. Another raider went to one of the horses, removing a roll of rope. When I returned my site to the rest, they were all circled, looking down at her. The man who knelt cupped Miki’s right breast; bad move pal.
I put my finger on the trigger.
Then the man with the rope returned.
Another man kicked Miki gently and started caressing her. Anger filled me. I decided to take the initiative, and pulled the trigger on the caressing man. The thunder of the rifle carried in the air as the bullet landed in my target. He fell back to the ground and twisted. The others jumped back in surprise.
Miki jumped up spinning and tossing the sand that hid her weapon in all directions; blinding one. Two were running back to the camp. Miki sliced down on the one that fondled her, removing the offending hand, then twisted up slicing open his belly, disemboweling the raider.
I moved back to the fleeing two, finding them at the horses; one removing a rifle the other a pair of blades. I lined the cross hairs on the one with the rifle; triggered pulled. He fell back into one of the horses and sadly the horse fell too.
Sites back to Miki, her last opponent headless, she rushed the bladed man who was rushing her. They collided with the mans blades slicing down, Miki blocked, spun with the blue-black blade digging deep into the raiders spine.
With that I slid down the dune.
We plundered the bodies, refilled our supply of water and stole the four living horses. Good, well bred desert horses. We rode off back into the dunes silent and fast.
November 16, 2010 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fantacy, News, Prose, sci-fi, scifi, Stories, Writing | Leave A Comment »
I promised my self I’d do a blog post when I hit the 10,000 word mark for NaNoWriMo. So not to distract me too much I’m just going to copy and paste a small part here. Please keep in mind this is completely raw unedited and prone to dyslexic moments (that does not just mean mis-spellings). I hope you enjoy this small moment:
I die.
I sit lotus in black void and soon the stars begin to pierce. The expanse is forever and time is without meaning. A cosmic loneliness settles into my being. In this vast expanse nothingness is forever. Ages crept. Motion is without meaning but shapes come into view; a small sun shines, a world is below.
I am exposed within eternity.
Cities shine in it’s dark side in webs of light with vast oceans.
I am another world, smaller and barren, and made of Iron. I can feel the fear from below as knowledge of death settles. Escape is an option.
Small jets of light and smoke flee into the void, heading towards hope closer to the sun. Repeatedly they make good an escape. I approach slowly.
I am the coming extinction.
I am Thánatos, my mother is Nyx.
I come because it is time.
I am Śiva the destroyer and transformer.
I come because I must.
Two worlds become one. We are consumed by fire in holy unity. Two souls becoming one in a transmutation from the passion of our joining.
From our ecstasy comes death.
From our two bodies comes one.
Our friction is the fire that consumes and this fire lasts for an age. But we are no longer we; now a new me. A once living, now dead world with two awkward moons.
I am more.
I am a fertile egg waiting for the seed of life that comes from my sister.
Eons pass.
Eventually the seed comes. Life begins again.
You can also find another NaNoWriMo excerpt here.
November 7, 2010 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, News, Prose, sci-fi, scifi, Writing | Leave A Comment »
I wanted to inform you all that I’ll be participating in NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) this year. I hope to post the progress of my novel here as well as on the NaNoWriMo site. I believe I’ll be writing a sci-fi story but wont know for sure until I actually begin the story November 1st.
NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, and it encourages authors to write a 50,000 (or more) word novel in 30 days. If you wish to participate or know more please visit the official site and sign up with no obligations, and if you want to be my writing buddy (corny, I know) I signed up as esahc. More information on National Novel Writing Month can also be found here.
October 30, 2010 | Categories: Blog, Creative Endeavors, News, Writing | Tags: Arts, Book Writing, fiction, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, Novel, Writing | Leave A Comment »
Haiku in QR Code:
September 4, 2010 | Categories: Haiku, Poetry | Leave A Comment »
Rainy dusk arrives,
An evening of tremors come
to a brain not bound
by earthly structures.
Visited by dreamless lights,
and uprooted thoughts.
February 25, 2010 | Categories: Art, Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Tanka | Leave A Comment »
Hello all you wonderful people. I just want to note that I realize that’s it’s been a while since I posted something on Your Predator and I apologize. The only excuse I have is that life had gotten in the way.
Writing can at many times be quite difficult for me, a time-consuming art-form, not only am I dyslexic (sometimes not being able to read at all), words are an art I care deeply about. The pieces I create, I don’t try to tell a perfect story, it’s more poetry to me. Placement of the words are of paramount importance. The sound and flow when spoken out loud and taken into account. Imagery and a deeper meaning within the words are my goals.
More words a coming, I promise.
Coming soon:
- Lotus and the Rose: The Song of Calling
- Lotus and the Rose: Prologue
- More western Wednesday.
February 1, 2010 | Categories: Blog, Creative Endeavors, News, Writing | Tags: About, site news | 4 Comments »
An enlightened night brought dreams of dark days under the desert sun. Times do not come when called, and the thirst builds to an apex of desire. Ride the sand, the reaper instructs. And a dance is summoned; my feat fly to the inviable song. Spots jump in my eyes. A scream is called from parched lungs. Death.
January 11, 2010 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Prose | Leave A Comment »
Time brings longing and
distress for the missing, gone
into the wild.
To the seeker comes treasure
and the quest brings fulfillment.
December 10, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors | Leave A Comment »
Time lost to the sun,
the world seems warprd by ancent
glass and small quivers.
Memories rush to fill
life’s desertion to the sand.
Life in the dark shines,
but a life in hot light thirsts,
Longing under heat,
and visions of moist vistas,
turned to dust on inspection.
November 26, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors | Leave A Comment »
The Song of Ximena Aljibe Part #1 can be found here.
What does your soul sing when the sparrows fly west?
What hope does the desert eagle bring?
What sleeps in the nest?
What songs do the coyote sing?
A dread mist fills the streets and alleys. A fog of sloth brought by wrath; the dark man brings vengeance to the town that defiles a muse. And the rolling thunder would come again and again; Only Ximena new it was that dark man whom dwelt in the storm.
By the next performance the fog lingered; people are forgetful & apathetic . . . They will never forget again after this evening. A big night was planned. More than one performer and Ximena was to be the star, the one to close the night.
The dark man walks down allys unseen; hat hung low, collar turned high. One in each hand hangs the steaming colts. Though many saw him, none would remember the man who walks in the fog. The only remembrance comes in the form of dark terror and rolling thunder.
Crime of lust in the storage rooms, seeds spilled under the cellar door. Dark deeds in the minds of patrons filled with golden spirits. Music plays gently in the night air. Moisture stifles the sounds in the distance, but are still herd in the east by the riders who approached; comancheros on painted steeds.
Bandits of the waists, and the people of the desert town welcomed them (or rather welcomed the stolen wealth). Apathetic malice rode in the five hearts, whores and rape, opium and booze, the core of desire; and the big show.
Three notes began the show, two hard, one soft.
Nona Magaera began with a stomp on the bar she stood upon, then walked extending the legs gracefully but with great exaggeration with a wide swing of her hips. A sinful smile perked the corner of her lips as she sang a song of innocence defiled and virginity ruined. One could almost tell she was pregnant.
Then they walked in, the five bandits of the waists. Room was made for them. Seats were given to them. Whiskey was served. And as Nona danced and sang, a tear fell as she looked at the youngest of the comancheros but she covered it with a skillful swipe of her hand against her cheek but as the hand fell it caressed the very slightly protruding belly. The young bandit looked up in recognition, smacked his companion then pointed at the poor Nona, laughing with villainous pride.
The performance ended with the second woman leading in as None ran back to her room.
Decima Tisiphone came out with a rage in her eyes, even though she had a matronly look. Beginning her number with a scream that was either the sound of vengeance satisfied or sexual climax. Her song was not slow, her song was not sultry, but was more like a hard but satisfying fuck. It brought a new level of drunkenness to the crowd. A Dionysian dream was taking hold; which lead to next act as Dicima, instead of returning to her room, stepped down into the crowd and accepted the drinks offered.
Morta Alecto was a woman of dark attire, silk and lace in shades of black, magenta, and violet. She wore crimson on her lips, the color of blood. Skin pale like the high desert snow.
Her song and dance was slow, but her skill seemed off as if she waited for one set of eyes in particular. The performance was unlike any sung that night, more of a summoning than a song; but that would be correct. The object of her calling now stood in the large door. Then her song really began, as the dark man seemed to nod in response to the calling.
Fire was in the voice of Morta Alecto, and the Dionysian fever gained in heat.
One of the eastern bandits beat on Nona’s door, not the youngest who was now perusing matronly Decima, but no man longed for Morta though she shined with more beauty than all but one who now took her steps down the long staircase into the cravinous crowd.
She did not see him at first, but on the third step his pale grey eyes fond her hazel. He smiled pure wrath; pulled his pistols and let loose the rage . . .
November 12, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Stories, Western | Tags: fiction, Serials, Story, Western | Leave A Comment »
Light from the fire
of the golden apple seed
planted in ripe fields
on the flood plains fertilized
and fed from the river Styx.
Dancing with delirium,
Elysian fields soured,
Dreams of vile filth,
Deconstructions waking eye,
Sophia held by thick chains;
Born from the lotus,
and fathered by the logos,
she swam in waters
of the ethereal joy,
beached by creations left hand.
On the silver sands,
her spirit sings to the sky,
her being inspires,
born to give the world beauty,
born to give the world sorrow.
November 9, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Tanka | Tags: Poetry, Slipstream, Tanka | Leave A Comment »
Rage filled pale gray eyes
and his hate brought destruction,
To the desert towns,
Each step on the trail grows sage,
’till the sun sets and life starts.
But in the empty
waists and nightmare visages
of the deep visions
lost in the stars of heaven,
falling into reborn souls . . .
The lost are now found;
belonging to forgotten
badlands of lost youth,
You are all remembered beings,
Joined by violence of the minds.
November 5, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Tanka, Western | Tags: Poetry, Tanka, Western | Leave A Comment »
Before pale gray eyes,
Stands the heart of the desert,
dust blown and barren,
but holding the hidden life,
in the shade of a small stone.
November 3, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Tanka | Tags: Poetry, Tanka | Leave A Comment »
Screams from inside
and the ice melts
with the heat of terror,
and turmoil of the mind
bringing flashes and sparks
to the spinning world,
and lost thoughts.
A hidden wonder,
when the fire springs into vision,
the spirit lifts above,
then falls,
slamming the body in a fit,
and visions consume,
giving birth to the word,
and falling astral peaches.
To the world,
understanding lacks,
only to crush the heart,
but inspire the word,
given from the divine Sophia,
that light
of the divine.
October 30, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, free form, freeform, Poetry | Tags: free form, freeform, Poetry | 2 Comments »
“Good evening fine folk of the south desert, and honest men of the tilled earth. As you know, one night a week we have our very special performer. You all know her. You all lust for her, in your secret dreams. To all our delights . . . welcome our desert queen . . . Ximena Aljibe.”
The screams and yells of welcome from the citizens of the Red Saloon was heard throughout the town, but when she entered the balcony, the people quieted. With her first step the piano began and in her third step down the tall stares she began the song. She sang and she weaved her way down the wooden steps. Each step was three beats of a heart, but to the eager audience, it seemed like ten-thousand.
She walked with confidence, but in her heart sat a stone. From her voice came her passions and songs of lust that burned in the obsessed; the crowded joint responded. In her dance was the dance of the succubus, movements brought radiance, but from around came dark desires seething with lust; one will pay later . . . so will she.
She jumped and sat on the edge of the fine oak bar, the crowds gathered around, lust filled their loins, desire in minds, and she sang to the power of melancholy delight, salacious sin, and delightful devilry. She knew the highest bidder wold take her. After the show gold would be her only delight, and she would swim in a yellow lake.
On the other side, leaning in a corner, only a reflection in the mirror from behind the bar, stood a man who did not lust. A dark man whose soul reflected pain like Ximena’s brought desire. He stared with eyes of grey steel, and for a moment, his stare made the angel voice quiver; but only the ears of the dark man heard; it made him smirk.
The song she sang continued and slowly the melody focused only on the dark stranger and he felt the sting of green eyes in the hearts of the mob. His face was stone and that stung her. In her inner most thoughts she was already in love, her conscious mind hoped he would pay this evening. Her eyes to his, and when love gets brought in, the walls will invariably fall. So dark man of the dusty planes stood like a pillar of salt, watching Ximena bring the audience to near climax . . .
Then stop.
The song of Ximena Aljibe had finished. She vanished to her room in the tobacco filled air, reading herself for the high bidder, desire against hope, for her dark man.
But them old devils are at it again; the dark man did not come, but the rancher Stevens stood at the door, his toothy and droopy smile and drool at his lips corner and glazed eyes leered.
Stevens tossed the gold too her feet.
For the first time, since her innocence was sold for the yellow metal, she cried. This angered the rancher. He fucked harder, but Ximena learned, long time past, to embrace the pain and let it fill her, listen to the hurting to drown out the cause.
The first thing she remembered, since going away, was the quiet night. Stevens was gone; left sometime in her delirium. She fixed her-self, scrubbing the filth away, removing the sickness outside. But the inner sickness was rising, and refusing to be submerged again. What had the dark man done to her. His steel eyes tore through her like hot lead through flesh.
And that’s when the shots came. From the street below her window they rang; uncountable blasts, with a scream of rage, sounding like the cumming of Stevens. She ran to the window and in her sight was the rancher, sprawled on the dusty street, above him was the dark man, his double colts smoking but still aimed at the fallen face.
And the dark man looked to Ximena Aljibe’s window, steel eyes a weapon. He looked down to dieing man, and fired the double rounds. From Stevens face rose crimson mist mixing with grey smoke.
Without looking, the one in the dark duster walk off, not a care for those that stood around. Not heeding the woman in the window.
October 29, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Western, Writing | Tags: fiction, serial, Story, Western | 3 Comments »
On this great western Wednesday we start with a haiku, yes a western Haiku, get over it . . .
Drifting in the Sun
On dry lakes in high deserts,
The dust devils spin.
Another post soon: The Song of Ximena Aljibe
October 22, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Haiku, Poetry, Western | Tags: haiku, Poetry, Western | Leave A Comment »
A Follow-up to: Three Tanka of Silent Sins
Forbidden dreams found,
Among the thunder of waves,
and the silent stars,
On a night that’s remembered
for the vices of the night.
How none remember,
but me, shining starlit eyes,
because none have seen,
the rebirth of joy and art,
In an old and lonely heart.
Fulfillment brings art,
Longing brings inspiration,
the drink brings chaos,
A theater dance Saturdays,
Eris, meet my mother Nyx.
October 18, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Tanka | Tags: Poetry, Tanka | Leave A Comment »
This is a companion piece to the Poem, Six Bullets ’till Sundown.
I’m not 100% happy with the structer and flow of this one, but I’m tired and done for now. Enjoy
The dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
never talked,
looking for fortunes,
then in the wind cries, “Die!”
The desert was lonely with sage,
dust and windblown spires,
an improbable word of rage,
no ghost inspires,
sounded in the sky.
Colts set free,
pale eyes staring,
aching to spree,
and the heat blaring,
To the sight of emptiness.
He grinned,
and in the breeze,
on the lips of the hellish wind,
hands sought the ivory, itching to appease,
the lust in the lonesomeness.
The sky stretched blue,
with pillows of white,
and as the light grew,
so did the need to fight,
but the silence only stood on the sage spotted desert.
The dark man stands,
eyes in shadow,
hilts in hands,
feet in the meadow,
It came to hurt . . .
“Die! Son of a bitch!”
with silver knife,
and startled twitch,
and drops of red life,
fall slow.
Swinging with hungers rage,
his aged scalp gray,
dancing in the sage,
hunting to slay,
the dark man from below
Pale eyes held the motions,
skill sharpened his mind,
with calloused emotions,
waiting to repay in kind,
each slice of the knife.
Crimson splashed,
on the sagebrush,
the colors clashed
in his heated rush,
lusting for the dark mans life.
A moment came,
as he faced the west,
thunder without aim,
old man went to rest.
The dark man looked to the kill,
the kill with sights on the dealer,
“Son”, he said quiet and still,
“father”, spoke the dark revealer,
winning this devils test.
Away the dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
colts cocked,
heading to the deserts dunes,
Spirit of the desert sage.
October 15, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Western | Tags: Poetry, Western | 1 Comment »
Tears long forgotten,
Dreams bring memories rebirth
On an autumn day.
October 9, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Haiku, Poetry | Tags: haiku, Poetry | Leave A Comment »
Pecos Bill: The Birth
Part #1
The story begins at his birth, the last of nineteen. The trail was hard and the desert wanted its toll. Mother screamed and cursed at the birthing pains, but let out a smile as father came into the light. Father sat and mother leaned against him. She cried with resolution as father sent us away.
Father was a pillar of hope and strength, though the only help he could offer was support and compassion and a guiding hand bringing the tequila to her lips.
“I’m ready”‘ she said, tear falling.
The knife was pulled from his belt and placed mothers sweaty hand. Another drink to calm the pain and harden the spirit . . .
A deep slice from left to right, giving light to the unborn, and from the wound came Bill, on his own, just a smiling and laughing as the happiest child could possibly be.
Never was such a child seen.
“You are born to do great things Bill”, mother said while bleeding from the heroic wound. She held him and simply looked. Love and adoration filled her eyes. Mother then died.
Bill, sat in the comfort of the dead mothers arms, chewing fathers Bowie knife; and father sat with death and new life both looking for support. He weeped for joy and sorrow looking at the desert dawn.
October 8, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Serials, Short Stories, Stories, Western | Tags: fiction, Story, Western | 1 Comment »
Burning the parched throat,
eyes down to the golden drink,
regret speaks my heart,
for those left on trails behind,
hands given lead to the lost.
October 7, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Tanka | Tags: Poetry, Tanka | Leave A Comment »
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