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 »
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 »
“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 »
Chapter #3
Damned by Divine Wisdom
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
I am a seeker on walkabout, on a journey through vast lands of beautiful groves, hidden cities, and burning furnaces, whose keepers feed the vortex fires.
I stand at the edge of a valley blanketed with high thick grass and yellow patches of mustard; everything moist with mornings dew. Scattered oak trees twisted and sublime spot the nest. At the center stands the largest and oldest of the ancient oaks; tall and grand. In its shade shimmers a still pond of pure water, fresh as if it just fell from the heavens, tall reeds at an edge.
On a bank, still but not stagnant, a log lays, half submerged in purity, twisted, sublime and wise. That twisted old log by the pure pond, resting in the shade of the king of trees sits an old woman drinking from the pool with cupped hands.
I now stand in the center of the valley, a distance of hours to walk, in a blink. A single bird sings his song, insects buzz in the distance; me and the old woman an audience. She splashes cool water on her face and with a look in my eyes and a sweet smile on her lips, a flute is raised by her liver spotted hands then she adds to natures melody. Chirp sings the bird and the insects chime in time, out of the void the womans flute begins and brings the harmony of natures voice. The old woman, in gypsy like rags, sits cross-legged on the twisted log, her eyes closed, her instrument begins an ancient tune.
“I want to see,” I say, “I want to listen to the harmony that can be between humanity and nature”. I feel the need to learn the way that may be, but is not. I want to learn from the old woman, hair of long silver strands, sitting cross-legged on the twisted log, in the shade of the king oak, by the pond of the pure water, ancient, sublime.
She smiles with glee, not loosing step with the song.
As the melody transpires, as the woman puts her breath into the song, I sit listening to the play between the musicians, the harmony of humanity and nature, nature and humanity, beast and beast, life to life and back again; to add more wonder to this magnificent setting the stage changes. The valley grows dark; filled and shaded by redwood trees growing high above low-lying ferns. Darkness consumes but not the darkness of night but a cool shade in a thick forest. The ground grassless with mulch, mud and mushrooms.
The melody never stopped but is in harmony with the metamorphosis of the habitat. The bird still sings, the bugs still buzz, the lady still plays by the pond under the old oak.
I look to the canopy, fog swims through the branches above, but no motion is felt. The leaves move, but without a breeze. They move with intention. Butterflies; ten thousand. They hold in clusters to the branches and groups; individuals flutter from bunch to bunch; ten thousand butter flies to a cluster with ten thousand clusters; truthfully uncountable.
Continuing metamorphosis: a sharp scent invades, the air dries, mud and mulch turn to dry hard dirt. Redwoods no longer; eucalyptus.
The monarch butterflies, flutter high and flutter by; a dance in the air to melody performed by flute and chirp, chirp and buzz then stop.
Silence.
A single sound interrupts, like solid wood against hollow. Another strike, then another. Three strikes and a stomp. Across the pond the woman stood still in gypsy like rags but no longer old, beautiful and lithe, mischievous appearance, mischievous smile, in a sultry stance and a naked leg stretched from beneath the colored rags, flute to her full lips.
Strike; Strike; Strike; with each strike she stepped, steppes, stepping and to the end of her stomps the strikes begin again, each faster than the last, and each step of hers becoming a hard dance on the dirt floor. Each beat faster in the rhythm of passions spirit and in step with the percussions heart. No longer the harmony of nature but passions of the wild and she plays her flute in step with her wild dace to the beat of the invisible percussionist.
The pond was still and clean; air filled with the dry stinging scent of eucalyptus; the king oak proud, watching. The beat continued, the song quickened, and she danced and shipped and the air was saturated with butterflies fluttering by and dancing in tune with the music. The woman skipped, her bare feet kicking up the dry earth into clouds that caught the rays of the hot sun as the monarchs fluttered through.
I am surrounded by fire.
All became silent.
Then a kind womans voice said, “when you awake, run to the western mountains, though the mountains wont hide you . . . Seek the cave that’s shelters the adversary”.
Butterflies flutter by and around and around and around as the voice fades into memory; bright orange and black merge into streaking flames. Hot is the dust and wind in my lungs and it consumes my being. Floating in the vortex of flame searing flesh and burning hair. For only a moment within a moment, found in the flying flames, like the burning bush, floats a face. Its eyes hot with passion and malice and pleasure for my agony. It smiles with ash and smoke and embers of the deconstructed.
Some nights I sit alone thinking of existence and experiencing loneliness as only pond lilies and the sages do. Other nights I go out, socialize and play with great excitement and joy, injecting myself in to the hole of the moment. Now I am an infant ant the point of birth.
Floating.
I see the chaos, the chaos takes me.
I am naked.
Bright flames, an iridescent shell. I am the fetus within; hunched over, exposed and protected. All dark and comforting, but a light is calling me.
I am born.
I am awake; naked, wet, bald and exposed. Under a glaring sun, on hot asphalt.
A frightened voice to my right, curses and the sound of feet running away.
In the sky, high above, orange and black butterflies rise.
Coyote corpses littered the ground around my nakedness. Sirens sounded in the distance. Sitting up a ghastly sight welcomed me. Crucified on the cliff-side was D. His insides piles the ground below his limp legs; vivisected.
Many running feet heading this way.
September 8, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, fiction, Prose, Serials, Slipstream, Writing | Tags: fiction, Prose, Serials, Slipstream, Story | 1 Comment »
Things have been extremely busy for me the past couple weeks and I’d like to apologize for not updating as often as I would like. This site is a dream of mine. I love sharing my work, and I love the fact that you take the time to read my words.
That being said, this site has to come second to my bill paying job and my family.
There will come times when I may not be able to post, be it a few days or a week. Occasionally my job takes one hundred percent of my time, a couple of weeks ago I was sent for training and the hotel didn’t have free wifi (paying for wifi wasn’t in my budget), so I had to settle with drinking myself into a stupor at the hotel bar (oh poor me).
This past weekend I was on vacation with my family in the Sierras and had a great time.
I want to assure you that this blog will continue to be updated and the words will continue to flow. I genually appriciate your readership and I hope you enjoy what I write.
Thanks
-Hunter C Coch
September 1, 2009 | Categories: About, Blog, Family, News, Personal | Tags: life | Leave A Comment »
As you may have seen the first chapter of my serial is up, you can find it here or download it here (PDF). I’ve put allot of work into this story and I really hope you like it, and if you do please pass it around. Also any questions or comments regarding the story are welcome and appreciated. My goal after “The Lotus and the Rose” is finished is to have it published (on my terms).
Introducing the Lotus and the Rose is extremely difficult (so I wont bother). I will say this though, it falls outside a typical genre mould (though I believe it would fall under slipstream). I feel the story and the art really speaks for itself.
Again, I hope you enjoy.
-Hunter
August 17, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, News, Prose, Serials, Stories, Writing | Leave A Comment »
Chapter 1: The Wild, Walking, and the Wakening Wisdom
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
One step, then a second and many more until the count is lost and conversation begins. It’s dusk, and the sky blends from the eastern blackish blue to a light lavender, orange, and reds, beginning with the western sun hiding behind the shadowed hills and slowly setting into the unseen horizon. A trail snakes it’s way through nature, skinned in black asphalt; calm, pretty, to be pitied; the river in parallel will consume the black snake in days, weeks, months, or years from now.
“Ware’re we going? D asked.
“To the old farmhouse,” I replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I already think that,” Stated D, “So, why are we going to the old farm house?”
“I feel I was called,” I replied self-consciously.
“Your a nut,” he said, “but it’s always an adventure when you say those things . . . you like her don’t you?”
“Last night,” I answered, “was amazing, I love her, D.”
A star lights in the sky, the first star I see, or is it Venus shining alone; we are never alone.
“How do you know?” Asked D.
Alone is all I know “I don’t know”, I answered with sadness as we walked, walk, walking, walking and dream, dreaming, dreaming and talk, talking, talking, until Nyx finished blanketing of the sky. A soft caress of of cold, the sweet perfume of the damp air, and ten thousand points of light in the sky above, as apposed to the lights below; little points on the banks of the slow moving river.
A white fox crosses the path. A path black as pitch, dry poison for an easy trek.
One, two, three and four, five, six and seven, eight, and nine lights in the sky and countless more to count and connect; making patterns in chaos that represent emotions, our ways, and heroes lost in perceived time. We idealize the stars and look to the sky when we should look within. Of all the stars and lights inside our beings, Venus alway stands out and sits alone.
“To me, she’s the only one to stand out in a sky of countless choices.”
“What makes her standout? Out of every person you’ve ever fucked, out of every one-night-stand, every person on the streets, why her?”
“She’s unperdictable; one moment a beautiful embrace, the next a hateful glare from across the room; she is chaos.”
“But others are chaos, others fuck the same, love the same, and others that have the same fire.”
Why is her fire special? To the sky my eyes wander to Venus; alone but why special? Eyes move to the seven sisters, but count only six; one hidden, the unnamed sister, “It’s unknown”, I’ll call it Sophia, “that’s the only way to explain it”.
“Better than nothing,” replies D.
Silence in the air, no sent, sound or motion; “this area is death”. One step brought us in and another took us out. A nightingale sings an excess of notes, some have said it waists its breath and song and looses its words, but how can a song be waisted and words lost when everything is the word. The song fades, distance increases, pase decreases.
Seemingly endless, narrow, and winding its way through the river valley; trail on cliff, to an small neighborhood, down a hill and up again to the edge of water. Fluid conversations in motion with the harmony of conflicts against the eroding stone and fallen trees of floods long past. Across the snaking, near waterless river, a pack of coyotes laugh at us. Hungry and slaves to that hunger.
The river is no boundary for the commands of starvation and blood lust.
“D?” I ask in near panic.
D curses, we run, and they in pursuit. Smirking with jaws frothing, a hint of euphoria in the laughter; howling and yelping and barking and running, as we run and run and run. Each step for us was three steps across the river for them. The beasts are bound to overtake our overly exhausted pace. No counting those behind, but one blocked out path ahead.
To the left a sheer sand stone cliff, high and imposable to climb. To the right the river to slow us down.
Dew is now frost, cold is the air. Hot are our bodies sweating adrenalin; I feel no pain, I am alone. D at my heels and a coyote lunging for my jugular. [Arm raised] A successful block, but the pursuit ends now with the clenching jaws tearing at my arm, however protected with a thick leather cote. The extra weight drags me to a stop.
D climbs a tree, kicking the predator while ascending.
The pack is on us; no me. Two jumping and snapping and laughing around D’s tree; many more attacked me, a shameful cry came from D, but I’m glad he’s safe. Jaws on my legs, pants torn; teeth on my arm, jacket pierced; two more pulling me down by the back of my jacket, many more circled waiting for my fall. Panic was coming to me. Mad fright of death coming.
Another coyote lunged and jumped. Everything got slower. A peaceful anger burned within and the eye inside opened. Passion was within. Thoughtless passion is the way of the body, and body is the way of the animal. I am animal. I was of the beast, but I am bigger. The purifying pain of pierced flesh. The flying coyote in perceived slow motion, knocked down to the asphalt by my free arm, crunching bone is heard over the laughing.
Grasping the neck of the dog latched on my arm, pulling him closer, while pushing with the arm he held. Skin rips, and the pain shoots, the animal squirms in panic as his jaw dislocates with a yelp of his surprise and agony. Released. He runs his jaw flapping, two follow, most likley to consume in cannibalistic need. It makes me sad.
Pain from my thigh, torn flesh and exposed bone. Fist to K-9 face, a wine with my blood flying from the wound to the black top; dead dog lying next.
Then three more on me. A whence from D’s tree. Then two more. I’m overwhelmed. I can feel the bites and the tears. Force of will depleting. But I’m still stronger. Grabbing the closest, it’s slammed against the sandstone face, his bones break, and his neck snaps, falling limp to the ground. These animals are not apart of this world, the natural coyote does not attack people.
The endless struggle continues, but for each one that falls two more take its place. Soon I’m pulled to the the ground. Blood is lost, and vertigo sends me falling. Force of will gone, the perception of time slows further.
A voice: “Do you like solitude?”
“What?” I ask of the voice.
“Do you like being alone?” Agony jets through my body like nothing before; migraine and melancholy fester as a boiling ooze.
“Who are you?” Deep inside I knew her.
“Yes,” I answer. “Now answer mine.”
“I am the hell that will save you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Why would you refuse me?” Time seemed motionless, my blood was not flowing; the coyotes latch in the morbid feast, stuck. But just as time seemed to be motionless, frozen is this fork on my path; but I have an iron will and my soul burns with the black flame.
“Leave . . . me . . . alone . . . ” I didn’t think I could refuse but I did.
Both hands grasped the closest coyote and in-caved her eyes and pushed into the brain; dead. Grabbed the ears of another and tore them off; ran away yelping. The one tearing at my thigh I crushed in a role, snapping its neck. And more and more came, an unnatural swarm. With each one dead, again two more came. No clothing was left untorn; no skin was left unstained by my blood. Another coyote dead, strangled by my hands, but more came rending and tearing. And more blood is lost. I continue to kill. The more that died the more life I felt.
I can feel it in my arms, life draining from the dieing dogs. Life rising into mine. Life fron animal to human. Life drawn towards life. Life slithers from the beast to mine; I don’t want it, but it forces it’s way. This was the purpose, not to kill but to bring me to a savage ectacy. I don’t want it, but it compels me.
Another coyote in my fingers , slowly strangled. His eyes are awesome, deep almost human, sad and in pain; don’t die. Too late. These creatures of night time stalking are natural, however being controlled by a malevolent force. Please son’t die. Too late.
Limp . . . empty . . . dead . . . A shell holding symbolic meaning and acting as a physical representation of the life he once held. The eyes are open, but with out depth. A reflection seeds the center of its pupal . . .
In the dead eyes, a reflection within a reflection, divine like the virgin but more like the black Madonna. A reflection now thrice fold of the remaining coyotes; they pass before the divine mirror. Each emanating anger within the hollow and glazed eyes.
I no longer have the strength or will to resist, so I close my eyes and wait for the rending of flesh.
The only sounds are the sounds of circling; it’s defining to my mind. Stars shine high above. Weeping in a tree. Venus to the right.
Temperature set to a cool comfort. and a kiss is placed on my brow [eyes open]. Four coyotes circle; one for each direction. A stunning woman, naked as the sky stands in the path. Silence in the tree. The depleted blood has taken its tole; spinning but motionless and the sky sparkles.
I hold to conciseness with a childes grip. Above, the stars shake and a voice speaks from earthly eternity, “do not sleep”. Not the voice that cane to me one day, it’s not a whisper but a projection of clarity and a lively, living calling; the stunning reflection of a naked woman.
“Help me,” I ask. In her steps the coyotes follow gracefully in a sort of unholy innocence; different than the patient stalking of hunters; more of a dance in melodic step with the one he follows, but none in the lead.
I seem to be caught in a fog, or is it a dying vision.
“What woman can walk with the coyote,” I ask.
“Living?” With a kind smile.
“What’s happening to me?”
“Shh . . . Sophia’s coming.”
“Sophia?” I mumble, “who.”
“She is merely Sophia,” The name is familiar.
“I don’t understand . . . “
August 16, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, Prose, Serials, Stories, Writing | Tags: literature, Prose, Serials, Slipstream, Story | 4 Comments »
As you can tell I just redid the blog with a new theme. I wasn’t too happy with the last. I’m not one hundred percent happy with the new theme, though I thinks it comes across more professional (I host at wordpress.com at the moment so I’m limited on choice without paying). I hope you like.
-Hunter
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August 10, 2009 | Categories: Blog, Creative Endeavors, News | Tags: site news | Leave A Comment »
Work on the serial is progressing. It’s taking a, somewhat of a lycarical form of prose. A you may notice in the following excerpt:
Stepping outside I saw no sun. A thick fog sheets the streets. Awesome is the fresh, brisk air; the river scent still hangs.
The fog lingered and waited and watched.
Shivers shook my spine. The damp cold touched my skin. Dim light shone in a glow through the ground layer clouds. I stood still feeling the uncontrolled rattle of my body; stop, stretch; my back, shoulders, and a few joints popped to my pleasure.
I am officialy seting the reliese date on the fifteenth of August two thousand and nine (15/AUG/2009). Between now & then? More poetry, and maybe some other things. If you like what you read, please pass the site allong.
Thanks
Hunter C. Coch
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August 7, 2009 | Categories: Creative Endeavors, News, Poetry, Prose, Serials, Stories, Writing | Tags: News, Prose, serial, Story | Leave A Comment »
As of tonight the site has a new header (that I’m still not happy with), however if you like my words and would like to contribute to ‘Your Predator’ I would love to see the headers you come up with.
All I ask is the headers are 920 x 180 pixels contain the words “Your Predator’ and are highly creative.
Submissions should be sent to huntercoch@yourpredator.com. If you feel so inclined, please write a short bio with any contact information you wish revealed (no information will be sold, given away or traded with out your explicit permission), along with a description and your feeling on your creation.
The best best submissions will be the header for this site for one week (maybe longer if I really like them) starting on Sundays. When the new header goes up a blog post about you and your creation will be posted.
I thank you for reading and look forward to the visual art.
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August 3, 2009 | Categories: Blog, Creative Endeavors, News, Reader Submissions & Contributions, Visual Art | Tags: Art, Visual Art, Your Header Art | Leave A Comment »
A hunter,
living symbol of what no one understands.
Alive, dead, living an existence without hate.
A timeless being.
Asking for passion from the feared.
Why do I take so greatly.
I live in the night.
For some, a symbol of hate & death;
For others a high spirit and master of the wild;
romance.
Living with death and alive with hope,
everything seen,
Nirvana sought.
A hunter, by the sea, alive.
Technorati : Poetry
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August 2, 2009 | Categories: About, Creative Endeavors, Poetry, Twenties, Writing | Tags: Poetry | 2 Comments »
Hello,
Well I’m a little ahead of schedule; domain up but I still haven’t posted the first part of the serial yet. Well, a small change of plans. The first part of the serial will still be out in mid august, however between now and then I’m going to try and expand readership a bit.
Also, i am not happy with the way the site currently looks so you will see some, off and on, changes. Along with the changes comes a change of header and if you have any ideas please feel free to let me know by comment or e-mail ( huntercoch@yourpredator.com). If you wish to make submissions, by all means please, and full credit will be given.
In the meantime I ask, if you like what you read please pass it along. Now I leave you with a excerpt of the serial (Still unnamed):
EDIT: Forgive me, I’m still getting used to this whole, building a site from scratch and with limited help thing. I changed the layout in the quoted text below as I wasn’t happy with how it posted.
Melancholy joy,
Patrons within green forest,
Sipping liquid life;
In flows from future memories, a kiss, soft on the lips and smooth, open mouth, two tongs delicately game, our eyes are shut and our hearts open. Her breath is mine. Continue; open then shut, but lips always in lock, end; just a tease. The business persists passionately, not sexually, and into each others heart emotions flow freely. Continue; playing [hands petting her hair], I know her love, she knows mine, our auras lock and merge in rhythm with the shared breath. With her inhalations comes my exhalation and in reverse repeated. Harmony, as a dance of air, like water, but free and unbound; cool but comforting.
Color swings from my lips to hers.
Patrons privately,
Some woeful, others with joy,
Chat of unheard things;
Technorati : Poetry, Serials, Slipstream, Story
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August 1, 2009 | Categories: About, Blog, Poetry, Prose, Serials, Stories, Writing | Tags: Poetry, Serials, Slipstream, Story | Leave A Comment »
With a drink at my desk and a slight buzz this humble writer is here to inform you of my latest endeavor; the first serial on this site. The day this site gets it’s domain name is the day the first installment of the serial is released (sometime early to mid August). I also invite anyone reading this to be my mini-editors; typos & misspellings, feel free to point them out; constructive criticisms, great; praise, oh god please; hate, only if you feel like waisting your time as the more I’m hated the greater impact I’m leaving.
To describe this story would be imposable, though if your looking for a genre slipstream would fit it best. I hope it’s like nothing you’ve ever read, & if it is please point me to this author.
Also if you want the latest updates to this site along with all the other mundane ramblings, remember to follow me on twitter (@esahc).
Technorati : Poetry, Serials, Slipstream, Story
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July 29, 2009 | Categories: About, Blog, Creative Endeavors, Writing | Tags: Poetry, Serials, Slipstream, Story | Leave A Comment »
Next month (when money becomes available) a domain name will be registered for this site; regular posting will commence shortly.
July 24, 2009 | Categories: About, Blog | Tags: About | Leave A Comment »
After allot of thought on how to move forward regarding the content of this site, I have decided to release all my works under the creative commons share & share alike license:
All Writings & Images created by Hunter Coch are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.
Based on works found at huntercoch.wordpress.com.
I think the reasoning behind this is self evident; but for those who don’t understand: I want what I have to say spread and since the public domain in this country has been trampled into near non-existence then I offer what I believe to be the next best thing thing.
Writing & literature (arguably, everything else) in the world & throughout history is all about plagiarism. We would not have many of the great writers in history if today’s draconian copyright law existed back then. William Shakespeare was known to use other authors words verbatim. James Joyce’s Ulysses, in no short order, is a retelling of the Odyssey. I do not compare myself to these great men but offer them as reasons why I make the choices I do.
July 4, 2009 | Categories: About, Creative Endeavors, News | Leave A Comment »
I am writing to say hello to the multitudes of zero on this first post of my first blog, which I hope will gain a modest following in time. I’ve, way to long, neglected my writing, and on this day, July the fourth two thousand nine, I vow this will change.
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, poetry, prose, stories and things yet to be categorized.
I hope you enjoy.
July 4, 2009 | Categories: About, Blog, Creative Endeavors | 2 Comments »
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