Writer's Decahedron

So I haven't really been able to write much. Nothing seems up to my own standards, which is problematic to say the least. I think there's several things that could be affecting this. Several personal problems, strained relationships with friends, and my distance from the girl I love. Thus, which is why I have chosen a decahedron for it's 10 sides, as opposed to the conventional "block", which is usually a conventional cube/rectangular prism, and it's conventional 6 sides. But I live to break convention, bitches. But summed up, in addition to the three problems aforementioned, my mind is also concerned with my weight, lack of patio furniture, my lower back, dust, poor weather, and one more rather large one below...

I'm really unsure how to even start trying to take writing as a career. I imagine University is required, and then for that massive money is required, which in turn involves standing around some fithly establishment, with stupid people yelling at you for 8 hours until you have a brain hemorrhage. Which just plain isn't fun.

Hopefully things will change soon. For all you that have read this, I appreciate the dedication to my writing that made you brave my slight geometry throwback. Ciao.

Invasion of the orange people from.. down your street!

So, this is something unusual. I'm making a more traditional blog today because something sparked my ire in an uncommon way the other day. I was sitting at home, enjoying my usual snack of a pizza pop wrapped in bacon when my sister lets of a shriek of distress; my mother had just forbidden her to go to one of those many chemical/artificial tanning salons. This made my mind spin, recalling all the people I knew who used them, and they all had one thing in common. They were orange. Not as is they had a slight tinge; they were so orange is was a difficult matter to simply not walk up to them and say, "Why Madam, what a pleasant shade of pumpkin orange you are, perhaps you might like to join me for a malt?" Except that wasn't true at all, it just irritated me. Normal suntans, leave a person with a simply darker complexion, and that -still- isn't all that good for you, what with melanoma and all. But these artificial tanning places; what do they actually spray on you? It could be like old McDonald's grease or something. I personally would like to keep my number of arms at an even two, and avoid horrible mutations from exposure to god knows what. But even that aside, how attractive can orange possibly be? I, personally, don't even understand the attraction of tans in general. But orange; is it some form of tree-frog mating shtick? Like, the brighter-coloured you are, the more likely you'll find a mate? This is ever a mystery to me. But in any event, I explained my position to my sister, who started screaming at me as well, and then fled off to her room. At least I tried. But remember folks: friends don't let friends become orange. If mankind was meant to look like a vegitable, we'd have seeds.

I need to stop slacking. Or being confused. Or both.

So it's been a while since i've written much of anything really- save for a quick intro to a character from my friend's roleplaying game sessions. But otherwise, im generally being upset with writing. It would not be unreasonable to compare it to a fabulous emperor; only looking for the most worthy of tributes. My digital Recycling Bin is littered with the corpses and husks of failed attempts and empty stories recently, and very little seems worth keeping. I have however, with stimulation from a good friend, considered an interesting idea. How would the modern world cope with anicent evil from times bygone? Would it topple our consumeristic society without a second thought, or become buried in our world of parking tickets, taxes, and reality television? Food for thought, and something that you (my readers, as few as you are,) may look forward to, as I hammer diligently on the keys, feeding the beast. But for now, here is that introduction I am somewhat proud of. It was meant to be the beginning to a character used in a comic we may create someday. Enjoy. Or don't. See if I care.



Prologue

It was fucking hot.

That was the main thought running through the head of the figure, as it hiked across the dead, scorched earth, his boots crushing dried-out weeds, making his footsteps crackle. The keening sun seemed to encompass the entire sky, setting the very air itself on fire. Each breath burned the figures already parched throat. The figure in question, which could only belong to a man, yet hardly even that, a mere boy most would judge, was panting heavily, his breath coming in sharp, painful gasps. Bloodshot eyes darted under the broad-brimmed hat, scanning the heat mirage-ridden horizon for a sign of his salvation. The boy, at the point wondered how things had come to pass this way. His clothes looked to be a tattered uniform of the NUA, or National Union Army, which was so covered by dust and blood at this point that it hardly resembled what it truly was. Heavy knee-high boots, of the solidest Groth-hide leather raised up to his knees. He knew he must be walking in a shallow pool of his own blood and sweat, every step was a stinging, laboured effort. A once fine, but now tattered and worn coat was dropped onto the stinging sand behind him, it's weight too much to bear. A pair of the empire's heavy clockwork guns hung down to his hips in what should have been oiled skins- they were the one thing the boy had not considered abandoning. Because he was being hunted. And the hunter was catching up.


Alexander Von Barkov was good at getting thrown out of bars. He had turned a normally shameful act, into a thing of practice and awkward grace. He swore people followed him occasionally to hold up scorecards.
. He had mastered wearing clothes loose around his nape and rear so the bouncer could grip for a better throw. He knew how to twist in the air, as his semi-concious body soared into alleyway after alleyway, so he could land painlessly on his feet or stomach. He was working on a forward roll that his fans thought was very promising. This night was business as usual. The door of the Pull Yer Whistle was flung open, a thin shaft of light drifting into the dark night of Newport's twisting streets and alleyways.
"Get out!" Shouted a slurred voice, and a bottle pitched out the door, smashing against the wall of the opposite building, sending rats scurrying into the gloom. The bottle was soon followed by an Alexander-shaped silouhette, which collided with a collection of barrels.
"Awrwarg--" said Alexander, from underneath a pile of splintered wood and rubbish. "Was a good toss," he said to no-one in particular, the bouncer in question having shut the door leaving Alex at the mercy of the chilly coastal night in Newport. He tried to stand up, and found that the world of being vertical was a challenge best not undertaken, and collapsed back to the grimy cobbles. "'Uck."
"You mean "fuck"?" Said a slight voice from the doorway. Alex's usual night companion Tomas had ventured out to see what had become of his friend.
"That's tha' bunny." Said Alex, hiccuping slightly. "Fuck." He looked thoughtfully at the night sky, in which, through the rare gap in the light-glare and smog, you could see the odd star trying hard to make its debut a show to remember. "FUCK!" He screamed at no-one in particular. Then he giggled and fell over again.
"Well, at least now im positive you've had too much to drink Alex. Up you get." Said Tomas, hoisting his friend's arm over his shoulder. and swaggering off into the night, in search of somewhere warm, dry, and preferably with coffee.