Skydekkerix

Greetings fellow blog-readers. I have been selected. I am unique. I, alone amongst all of you have been chosen, and have been given the honor of posting a guest-entry. Maybe one day (if you are as amazing as I) you will be selected also, but until that day I laugh at you. Hah.

By way of brief introduction, I am a sorry attempt at a fantasy writer, who spends more time thinking about what he would like to write than actually writing. Once upon a time I did write a great deal, but nowadays “Once upon a time” is about as far as I get. It’s due to this past experience with fantasy writing (however brief and awkward) that I’ve been asked by my good friend “Skydekkerix” to shit all over his blog-space.

My (pen)name is Akash, and I will be your under-qualified teacher today. Pay attention class. The topic of today’s lesson, as you may have already guessed, is Fantasy Writing, so sit down, pay attention, and don’t fiddle with anything (or anyone).

Fantasy writing is the most open and unrestrained genre. Those who write it need only a platform from which to throw the reader, and a general idea of direction. After this, anything can happen. Don’t confine yourself to the stereotypes or the “norm”, you have zero restrictions, so playing it by-the-book only lets the reader down. Be as creative as you can with the fantasy.

Fantasy contains within it all other Fictional genres. Romance, horror, crime, mystery, science-fiction (yes it’s on the same shelf!), western, inspirational and of-course Action-adventure. You can still slay dragons, and send a party on an epic adventure, but you can also solve the mystery of who slew the dragon, tell an inspirational story of the prisoner of a dragon, a horror of a village under the tyranny of a dragon, throw jets or spaceships against dragons, or make them fight cowboys (they made cowboys fight aliens, so why not dragons?).

Raise the integrity level. A book that re-uses the creatures, magic or places from another book is immediately less effective in holding a readers attention. Every fantasy book should be the creation of something new. You can pull it out of anywhere and it can be as crazy as you want, just make it new, and make it work. Instead of a dragon, call it a Dranakar and make it come from the sky realm where all things are woven from the chaos of the roiling cloud. Give the thing cloud-like skin instead of scales and make it breathe frost instead of fire. It’s easy, just spit out whatever your subconscious throws up and poke it till it moves.

Finally, if you’re writing a good story with material that has been used a thousand times, ignore the first half of this blog. If you are doing this, it means that you’re writing with a perspective or mood that has not yet been abused, and are therefore writing “Original Fantasy”, even if everything in your fantasy has been seen before. Continue to write that story, and it might just be a best seller. I will forever hate you.

Thank you very much Skydekkerix for allowing me to have my way with your blog, and for giving me an excuse to get some practice writing. I needed it.

Thank you to everyone else for taking the time to read this, and I hope to see some posts from all of you in the time to come…Ok, I’m kidding, I really don’t care.
-Akash

My parents wouldn’t allow me to go to schoolies because I apparently had a “Drinking Problem”. So I started drinking at fourteen? That’s not too young. It’s better to get in early and get your tolerance up so you don’t make a fool of yourself later on (lie). So I basically moved out of home so I could get my drink on in peace and totally not because my parents kicked me out so they could have a computer room.

Some of my high school friends lived up the road from me in Taringa. They were a two minute walk away and I could not find there house if you put a gun to my head. When I went there to drink I got my sister or my brother to drive me, always with a 750ml bottle of Jack in my hands. Jack was my drink. I didn’t drink beer, I didn’t know shit about Vodka and wine was for girls and homeless people. One particular night I  turned up there for what was I think one of my friend’s birthdays. The memory escapes me now and for good reason.

So I turned up at this place with my booze and sat down at a shitty peeling metal table. I placed my Jack next to the bottle of incredibly terrible tasting Bundaberg Rum. One of my friends was already stinking drunk. This guy was such a lightweight that he would be carried away with the slightest booze smelling breeze. My other friends left to get indian food. They were gone for hours. My drunk friend got way past the stage of sensibility and decided it would be funny to lock me out by myself. With all the booze.

I don’t remember much past that. I had a terrible dream during the night while sleeping on a mattress next to my drunk friends bed. I dreamt that I really needed to piss so I rushed to the toilet. In the middle of the most relieving piss I  have ever had my friends grabbed me and shook me and yelled at me. I woke up at about midnight feeling horrible. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had done something wrong. Everyone was asleep. I was the drunkest I had ever been. I had drunk all the rum and all of the jack. I tried to find my way around the house. The rooms kept rearranging themselves. I tried to find the toilet. It was occupied. I banged on the door. Somebody yelled out “IT’S DOWN THE HALLWAY”

I couldn’t find it. I decided to leave. I somehow found my wallet and phone in the dark. I walked out of the house and down the street. I got to a bridge and stood there. Well I thought I stood. A flash of headlights and a beep from a horn and I realised I was standing in the middle of the road. I stumbled back to the footpath and held onto a sign for balance. I realised I was crying.

I called my sister and she came and picked me up. She tried to ask what was wrong but all she could get out of me was a drunken slur. We got back home and I fell back into a drunken sleep. The next morning I got a call from my friend. He asked if I was alright and where I went. He told me. Apparently during the middle of the night I had got up out of bed. Walked over to his desk, pulled the draw out onto the ground and pissed in it. Then they grabbed me and yelled at me and hosed me off. He apologised. I hung up the phone. Fucking hell.

More on novels today. I know it may seem weird but it actually helps when you write a novel if you don’t have too much of the plot worked out at the start. If you go too far ahead and structure everything before you write it I find it actually hinders the creative process. It often gets you writing yourself into a hole and a big ol’ square writers block. I tend to write events based of what my characters would do in a given situation, instead of letting the plot or what I want to happen drive the story. It sounds crazy but you will actually find your characters can do things that surprise you and drive the story in a direction you hadn’t thought of. Obviously it’s not the characters doing this but not having too rigid of a structure allows your brain to be a little more creative. It also makes your characters more three dimensional. Your characters will do little things aside from the main story that you might find you can develop into whole new plot. Nobody wants to read something that doesn’t wander a little, otherwise it would make for pretty dull stories. You don’t want it to get too out of hand though or you will end up with a huge and pointless book.

The trick (at least with my writing) is to write what you want, give your characters a bit of freedom, drive them in the right direction from time to time. Once you feel that you are finished go back to it. Cut out all the crap that doesn’t really fit or that bores the hell out of the reader. If you feel you haven’t expanded on something you could have then add some stuff in. The point is to do this after you have written it, otherwise you will get too slowed down or you will write yourself into a hole.

Since this is a writing blog I might actually talk about writing a bit. This week: novels. Writing a novel is like masturbating; don’t stop halfway through or you will get really mad. I got some drunk advice from another writer which I actually used and didn’t file under rambling crap. Write a thousand words a day, every day. Just get it done. You will feel awesome.

So I started doing that. It was hard at first, I was struggling to get the word count. But after about three days it just flowed. I was spurting out words like water out of a cherub statue’s penis. I actually felt like a writer. Then I got myself about ten thousand words and I had written myself into a hole. I bit off more than I could chew with the storyline. I haven’t written in three weeks now and I feel terrible. Sleeping too late and doing nothing during the day. I’ve been really lazy just updating this. If you get to this point then I have some advice. Backtrack.

Keep deleting words until you get to a point you can write from. I know it might hurt, nobody wants to see there hard work go to waste. Just do it, writing is hard, you just have to get used to killing little bits of your imagination. Once you get back to a good point just soldier on. Write everyday if you can. If you are going to take a break make it one day max. If you are too busy at least try and knock down some words on a piece of paper on the train or before you go to bed. You have to keep the story going or you will end up like me.

I did a guest blog about drink-writing over at underthestilts.com

Check it out and check out their other stuff. It’s pretty dang good.

If you are a dude, being mugged is a terrible ordeal. Every male thinks, deep down in his heart, that if they were ever in a threatening situation like that they would rise to the occasion and generally beat down. I was one of those guys.

I live in Ipswich. It’s pretty much the ghetto of Queensland. It’s dangerous here. Not having cigarettes to hand out to any guy in a backwards cap and track pants can get you stabbed. I live next to the train station. Literally ten metres away. I was mugged on my walk  home.

I got off the train, putting my earphones back into my already bulging pockets. I had my head down, staring at the ground so I wouldn’t fall over. A bunch of the biggest teenagers I had ever seen approached me and asked for money. I am poor, always have been and always will be. I said that I couldn’t give them my money because I needed it. They started to get angry. Cussing up a storm. One of them mentioned a knife. Thinking back on it I probably wasn’t in very much danger. I am a decent sized dude, I have done martial arts. These were a bunch of loud kids. I gave them what little money I had.

I walked off, feeling a sense of shame so strong I was nearly catatonic. I heard footsteps behind me. I balled my fists, this time I would be ready. I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned around with the meanest look I could muster on my face. It was a pretty young girl, she couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She handed me my money back. She apologised for her friends. She walked away. This was the fucking worst.

All men are in their nature cowards. We are warriors in our mind and our mind only. Well at least I like to think so.

Sorry about the lack of blog posts but I have been dealing with a heavy nicotine addiction and was hardly in a state to walk let alone write. Not that you actually have been waiting for this. Sorry about being arrogant.

When I was born my native tribe assigned me a spirit animal. This animal would always be there to guide me and stay by my side through all my trials. It was a frog. I have a phobia of frogs. I fear and loathe them. They plague me in my dreams and in my waking life. They are disgusting little creatures; slime given an animated form but no soul to save them from their destructive nature. Plus they’re icky.

When I was little, but not little enough for this not to be embarrasing, I was scared of the dark. This is because the dark is inhabited by creatures. If you have ever lived in queensland you will know this. The creatures I speak of are loathesome, warty, slimy, ugly demons who will eat and fuck anything. I speak, of course, about cane toads. They were always there. hanging on the edge of the darkness. Hopping about with random and unnerving movements. They are not scared of you. You can walk right up to them while armed and they will not hop away. They will grow larger. And then pods on their shoulders will burst open and spit poison at you. None of this is an exaggeration. I am a nervous wreck writing this. They are really scary.

When I was a teenager the fear of them never left me. It had only grown larger and more irrational. It spread to any amphibian. Even the green tree frogs that are described by so many as cute. Anyway, I am 17, living in brightview (you do not know where that is). I have not seen a cane toad in ages because the house we live on is raised and thankfully the horrible creatures of the night can not climb stairs. As my room is the only one without a fan I am graced with my family’s only ancient and extremely volatile air-conditioner. I run it constantly during summer because I have never had to pay a power bill. I wake one morning to the sound of croaking. It is coming from my air conditioner. I walk up to it and turn it off. the sound continues. I shine a little torch inside and can see one little beady eye staring back at me. I try to ignore it. Surely it will be gone by tomorrow right? I wake up the next morning. I yawn and stretch like a disney princess and roll over. Sitting on my pillow, facing me, is a frog. It is the colour of dust and old shit and it is sitting on my fucking pillow watching me while I fucking sleep. I flail. I’m good at that. I stand up, my blankets and pillow are on my floor. I am breathing hard. I can not find the frog. It is gone. This happens everyday for three fucking weeks.

I am still 17 (In the story not right now. Sorry for thinking you might be stupid enough to think that.). It is the day of the final english exam. They will show a documentary and we have to write a response to it. They have not revealed the details of what we will be seeing at all. They start up the video player. First thing that comes up on the television is a little girl playing with a cane toad the size of an irish wolfhound. The entire documentary is about cane toads. They are eating everything and fucking like bandits and taking over Australia from the top down. It goes for an hour. I have three panic attacks during it. The most my classmates hear from me is a little whimper. I get an A.

One thing before I go. I know this one is a little long but dang if this don’t do my nerves up wretched. I am in grade eight. I am a little weedy kid, nervous and skinny and with a lot of personality disorders. I am sitting in graphics. I am alright at it. I can’t draw very straight lines but I am way ahead of the rest of the class. The teacher generally employs me as a teachers aid. I am sitting next to one of my only friends. I need to pee really bad. I turn to her and say “I need to pee really bad.” She laughs. I put my hand up and ask the teacher if I can be excused so I can relieve myself. The heartless cunt says no. I am holding on for dear life. I get really nervous. When I get nervous I get flatulent, one of my best qualities. I am now holding on on both ends. A little gas slips out. My friend hears it. I know she heard it. I have to say something to save face. I whisper “Frogs.”

I can’t be bothered writing a post today cos I have dudes over and this don’t matter. So instead enjoy… WEREWOLF TEARS BLOOD

Werewolf Tears: Blood.

Chapter 1

The Werewolves sat on the crest of the small hill, hugely, above the tiny village filled with puny mortals. They were not welcome there. They were children of the night and the moon. Even then, Full Luna was ejaculating sweet and soothing moonlight onto their furred skins, which were tough like tanks, but also soft like a hand.

In the distance, on the other side of the village and over the mountains, they heard a wolf howl in the mountains. They felt its lonely pain, because they spoke wolf. They were werewolves because.

Blackfang Bloodmane, turned to the other Werewolves. He was the leader and also a [WEREWOLF]. The others feared him but also liked him, but he didn’t love them because werewolves are lone wolves, and he was particularly a werewolf, but he liked them like brothers.

Silverfang Moonfurs turned to the others as well. She was the main girl werewolf and was in love with Blackfant but she would never admit it because I’m so embaressed and Stacy Vanderman would probably tell everyone at school again even the teachers again. She nodded at Blagfang, who turned away and didn’t look at her and she cried a tear but then was back to normal. She knew what they had to do and.

Tonight, they would hunt the puny humans and feast on their eyes and their blood, but the humans wouldn’t become werewolves too, because they were not worthy of Luna’s sweet ejaculates.

Blackfang growled through his werewolf mouth and through his other mouth said “come on it’s time to hunt.”

The others stood up on the small hill, their fur glistening in the moonlight, their ripped human pants barely covering up their private wolf dongs and pussys. They thirsted for Stacy Vanderman’s blood, who was a vampire.

“NOT FOR LONG STACEY” they yelled and ran down into the village and into the night.

(This is not what the werewolves look like. This is a gay werewolf)

Blankfang ran ahead of the werewolf pack, which is called a wereguild. His powerful wolf hind and front legs propelled him forwards, with
each gallop his veins pumped wolf blood through his dark and cold wolf heart. A heart Silverfang Moonfurs desired so deer (werewolves hunt on deer if there are no puny human meat). Blakcgang Bloodmane halted dead in his tracks, for the smell of dead was in the air. He breathed in deep, making animalistic grunts and groars (growl roar). “Halt my wolven bretheren! Something deathly this way
lurks.” Silverfang’s wolf heart was about to explode, each word from Blackfamg’s jowls made her quiver with primal urges. The rest of the wereguild lay low to the cold dewy grass, which was wet with dew. There was the old and wise Canis Darkside, covered in scars from fighting all manner of beast looked around wisely, the wiry and powerhungry Juda Suss, who had a silver mane that reflected the moon like the moon itself. Then there was the son of Canis Darkside, Saberblood Blackmoon. Almost as new to the wereguild as Moonfurs herself, he was quiet and brooding and always opposing the wereguild. Moonfurs didn’t like his cocky attitude and neatly kept whiskers. Finally was the wereguild mystic simply titled Mensis, she had beads and herbs over her hide and was unusual and sometimes said random things.

“Stacy Vanderman must reside nearby, let us be on our toes (paw claws)” spoke Blackfang Bloodmange, he was their leader and lead he shall do.

* * *

In the tiny village, humming away in sleep, the little girl Ebony slept soundly, soundlessly, beautifully. Her mother watched her, like a hawk. Her mother, Hawk-Ebony, watched and watched, and when she had watched all she could, she turned to her husband, who was in a painting above Ebony’s bed.

“Isn’t she a beautiful sleep?” she whispered loudly, “Isn’t she so beautiful sleep, and ours too, all ours?”

The husband said nothing, because he was a tired man, and deaf as dead turnips. But then, his nostrals pricked, he smelet something pon tghe breezes, something evil and…he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something… (he put his finger on)

…WOLF…

“GaTEHR UP THE CHILDREN” Screached Ebony Hawk, wildrly, screaking at her husband to do something. “THIS ISNT WAHT AI WANTED” she screahced.

The windows of the tiny town house blue in and Ebony baby slept while she was showered with glass and also wood. The paiting of the  husband fell down from his palce on the mantle, but all he did was lay there and was a usless pig. Ebony Hawk lept forwardand graped Ebony baby while TEN HUNDRED JETS OF PURE WOLF destroyed their way in theoug h the walls and also windows of the little house.

Ebony Hakw exploded to the side, falling out of the house and down the side of the house, rolling, rollying rollying so fast and had that she thought her shit and her bones would be different things by MORNING. In her cupped hands was her little girl, Ebony Baby, and in her backpack was her husband grabbing on this his hands but his legs weren’t there…they were BACK IN HOUSE.

“We need to go back he said. “we need to go back and get my LEGS we cant go ANYWHERE”

But in this world, EBONY made the rules of the house, and doesn’t do what she doesn’t want to. Husband’s legs would have to wait. He
nodded because he understood these rules.

They fell into a bramble and they lay there and soon they were fast asleep, safe and sound inside a thick brambles home. But Ebony didn’t
sleep. What did werewolfs want? Was she a target of them, the werefolfs? And what did this have to do with her mysterious birthmark/tattoo that she had since she woke up from amnesia with amnesia which said “VAMPYRE” just above her left tits?

And then she slept. Somewhere above her, she saw a black wolf…a black FURRED wolf. And he wasn’t going to sleep just yet (it’s black fang).

The werewolve stared her eye. Ebony Hawk was soi sleepy, the brambles so soft, so soft, but the teeth of the wolvef so sharp. Now was no time to sleep, she had Husband and Baby Ebomy to protect. Black Fage stalked around the bramble, which was kinda a big circle. The sound of his feet compacting the fresh snow. It had snowed. Crunch, crunch, crunch. His strong but well maintained wolf pads came down onto the snow. Crumch crunch crunch. Poor Eb0jy Ebony, what did she do to deserve? This? Suddenly she felt her amnesia coming on, she began to see black, everywhere black. And then… she had an amnesia attack. “Who is BABY?” she cried suddenly being amnesia. “Please please be quiet Ebony!!! There is a werewolf sulking around us!” teared Husband who could barely control his remaining two arms. Ebony Hawk lunged out of the BBramble bush, standing panting in the open. She looked around confused and lost. She looked up at a ridge that had the moon
behind it, the moon was so full and bright loud, but there, silloheited by the moon was all the powerful werewolfs, whos eyes glowed greater than the moon!~ And then she felt a hot sticky breathe on the back of her under head. “Grrrwell well grwewl! Looks likje the rabbit has come to the hawk. But in this case I am Hawk… Ebony RABBIT!” Growled the wild dog wolf. At this, all the moon dogs in the ridge howled at the moon, and a single tear rolled down Silverfang Moonfurs hairy wolf cheek. For tonight she would have blood… tears blood.

Chapter 2

Blackfang was a kid now so I guess this is before what just happened up there. Also he was not a werewolf yet. Blackdang was playing with his Germish friend Gerense in the woods.

“We are too far into the woods BLackfang, If we aren’t back for dinnaer your dads gonna be sooooOOOO pissed.” Blackfang’s friend enunciated
huskily.

“Hush you!” Gerence’s friend spat back at him quickly before he could cover his face. They were in the woods ‘cos some guy came up to Blakcifag the other day and told him about a brilliant treasure in the woods in a thatch hut.

Suddenly the two frens came up to a clearing with a tatch hut in the middle of the clearing.

“This must have been the hut I am looking for said blackfang” said blackfang.

The hut was all black and there was a blood gargoyle lightly perched on the roof. It smiled and waved.

Terence was so scared that he almost pissed his pants, “I am so scared that I almost pisssed my pants.” HE said to blacnk fang smpecifically.

“Aw heck shutup you.” Blackfang yelled back at him. He ran up and kicked the door and then turned the ornate tin handle emphatically.

Inside the hut the were some underwears hangin from a chain. But wait there was also a severed pair of hips in them!

Glarance vomited his guts up on the hips. Blakcfang was like “man why’d you do that?!”

Almost suddenly from behind them there was a noise  and a black shape loomed over them.

Blackfang woke up with a startle. Some girlwolve was startled, I think her name was silvermoon. Anyway they were in the werewolf castle that they got when they killed all the vampires, all but one.

“That was how I became a werewolf.” Blackfang said, he was talking about the dream.

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” whispered moonfurs heartily. She tried to mouth the words “I love you” to black fangh but she had a wolf muzzle so it was relay hard to understand. Sabreblod wasn’t asleep either. He was up and punching a wall angrily. He was really angry!

“He is angry cos the little girl escaped.” Explained moorfur.

“Don’t worry Little guy, we got her family so she wont be born again.” Comforted blackfanig.

“Thanks for making my feelings better, we werewolves are not so bad after all.” Sighed Sabrebloud.

At that exact moment Canis darkside (Sabreblood’s dad if you forgot, I did) walked in.

“We ARE so bad after all and don’t you forget it!” He grizzled and hit his son like a bad parent.

“What’s the news daddy-o?” Blakc fangs asked Cansi. HE was pretty cool when that happened. Moonsfruit mentally jumped his bones.

“The girl was seen flyin as a bat onto a boat headed for geramny, we’ll probably find her there.” Canis replied.

The hunt was on motherFUCKers!

(Copying from word didn’t work too well. But it still works.)

Ok no more erotic fiction I’m going to talk about one of the myths of writing. That is you have to have weird and unique objects around you.

A friend of mine wanted to be a writer so they went and got themselves a “Writers Hat”. This pisses me off more than a little. Writers do not need specific hats. Rarely do they need hats at all. If you’re spending most of your time out in the sun then usually you are writing in the wrong place. I have a hat that could be considered a writers hat. It is an old english style cap. I did not buy this because I thought I needed it to be a better writer. I bought it because the experiences I’ve had with people who wear baseball caps or akubras have turned me off them completely. Style does not come in to writing. What you wear will not make you better at it. If you like baseball caps then go ahead and wear one. If you wear a bowler cap because you think it makes you look like a writer…well it doesn’t. You look like an idiot.

Pipes. There is a myth that writers smoke a lot. This is stupid. Every profession has people who smoke a lot. This is because there are a lot of people who smoke a lot. Writing doesn’t come into it. I smoke a pipe. This is because cigarettes taste like dirt. If I thought for one second that you needed to smoke a pipe to be a proper writer then I would choose a new career. I have plenty of friends who are much better writers than me who do not smoke at all. No matter how much I destroy my lungs it will not make me better than them. It will just make my life shorter.

The writers desk. Think of a scene. In it a tortured but handsome writer sits at an ornate wooden desk, huddled over a typewriter in a dark room. There are probably some people who write like this, but not many. The desk at which you sit does not affect your writing. Most writers will sit at a laptop in a normally lit room. Once you start writing your environment doesn’t really come into it. I am building myself a writers desk. A big heavy wooden one. I do not need it. I am building it because I enjoy the building process. Sure I’ll write at it, but not in a dark room and not with a type-writer.

So, to sum it all up, the only thing you need to write is a brain and hands. If you like to collect cool things then do it, just don’t think it makes you a better writer.

So this post is supposed to be erotic monster fiction, but I looked at the blogs of some of my creative writing buddies and they use it to showcase their poetry. So I thought I would kill two birds with one stone and then apologise to their children.

It’s called Mike.

I lay in my dark bed in the dark room,

Making secret touches,

Something about cadence or rhythm or some shit,

Beauty, yeah I’ll use that,

Making beautiful secret touches,

Sex is beauty so masturbation is half of beauty,

Anyway the closet door opens,

It is beautiful Mike,

Short and round and green in a hot way,

Single eyelid half closed,

His mouth in a suggestive smile thing,

He saunters across the room,

Like an alley cat going to rape an aristocat,

He climbs in bed,

We kiss and shit like that,

He says,

“STOP!”,

Something is not right,

Something is missing,

He climbs out of bed,

And stands on my computer stool,

He whispers something pretty cool or meaningful or some shit,

He lifts his legs and descends,

He crushes his nuts on the stool,

Hot