Sworded Tales

“…foulest flagon of siren shit I ever had to put in me mouth!” he grimaced, a toothless, foul-odored act, “I dunna care what you say.”

The creak of the hull as the rigger swayed heavily was noted by each man in the room.

“Yer fuckin’ wrong I say!  I’ve stomached it n’ar a few times…and ‘ere I stand!” a burly counterpart replied.

Lightning crashed and the pounding of thunder was barely audible over the roaring of the waves on deck.

“Yeah, but you look like a bucket o’ shit!” the first man barked.  The sweaty room erupted in a cacophony of laughter and insults. Continue reading

It’s good to have goals.  Objectives of all sizes.  Big ones.  Learn telepathy from an alien race and restructure modern thought.  Little ones.  Get grandma through today without sneeze-shitting herself.  And all the myriad sizes in between.  Goal structures are beneficial and can offer guidance throughout the years.  Don’t obsess though.  No one likes a zealot.  Seriously.  When was the last time you met someone on the extremist fringe and thought, “Here’s someone I’d like to know better!”  Balance, moderation and directed purpose toward a variety of life improving tasks.  Easy.  Or, as my father used to say, slick as snot through a glass funnel.

I always enjoyed the elementary school activities which were intended to offer insight upon later reflection, stories to yourself, wish lists, time capsules and the like.  There is nothing so crystalline as the lens of youth to cut through the daily domes of horse shit we encounter.  I am fortunate enough to have a mother who stored a great many of these creative endeavors for a very long time.  In her honor, I humbly submit an excerpt from my third grade vision, and what could very well serve as an aegis of peace for all humankind.

The goals were:

Drive cars.
Drink beer.
And disco.
And love people.

What else is there, really?  I particularly enjoy how my younger self felt the critical need to add ‘love people’ onto an already comprehensive, albeit selfish, list of goals.

Dream big folks and enjoy the simple things.  I know I do…and did.  Hell, I’ve already accomplished 75% of my third grade goals.  Perhaps it’s finally time to go for it all.

THOK!  THOK!  THOK!  Hammers fall.

The ropes thrum at the rapid vibration.  Footsteps scurry by hurriedly.  The shadows of morning stretch far across the ground as a cock crows in the distance.

THOK!  THOK!  THOK!  The building continues.

The creak of grinding timber.  A dog, startled awake, barks in the distance.  The raw smacking of thrown wood bores into eardrums.  The steamy breath of the horses scents the air.

THOK!  THOK!  THOK!

The grunting of men.  “Heave!”  Doors begin to open.  The murmur of voices spreads.  The church tower sounds in the lower section of town. Continue reading

“Titicaca?”

“Titicaca.”

“That’s your password?”

“That’s the one.”

Silence ebbed between them for a few moments.

“Titicaca.”

“Yep.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Shannon said with an exasperated sigh. Continue reading

Seriously.  Ninjas.  Love ’em.  Love everything about them.  It’s what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Love the whole genre.  The bizarre, the ridiculous, the unknown.  The silence, the murdering, the mayhem.  The mystery, the discipline, the legendary mythos.  How can you not?

I don’t mean the Ninja Burger ninjas, or the Fruit Ninja ninjas, or even the Pirates vs. Ninjas ninjas (bitch, please).  I mean the ninjas you never ever see or hear about, because, you know, they’re nin-jas.  If you see what you believe to be a ninja, then either you will be very dead, very soon or you did not actually see a ninja.  More like a ninja-wannabe.  A ninjabe.

That’s the whole point of being a ninja.  That’s where the love stems from.

As evidence to the inspiration, I submit this pic of my VHS copy of Shogun’s Ninja.  As a child this movie was transforming to watch.  So much so that I sought out and purchased my own copy as an adult…and, here’s the good part.  I do not own the means to watch VHS technology.  Fortunately for us all, the film can be viewed in its entirety on the internet.

If I could bottle and sell the nostalgia which seeped from my pores upon enjoying this piece of art from 1980 as an adult, it would smell of ninja.  Which is to say it would smell of nothing.

Pardon me, while I go create my new fragrance line, Liquid Ninja.

Two points about language:

1.  I cuss.

There’s not much more to it than that.  I’ve said it before.  I wanted to reiterate it.  That’s one of the reasons I sallied forth with a website instead of using one of the myriad free platforms.  I respect the language and the array of opportunities presented from choosing the right word to convey the desired meaning.  I don’t use vulgar language gratuitously, but if the tale calls for an f-bomb or a solid assmaster, then so be it.  As for character dialogue, they have minds of their own, and I cannot be held responsible.

I just wanted to address that relatively up front.  I have no interest in debating the semantics of morality in the written form.  If language doesn’t offend you, read on and enjoy.  If it does, the rest of the internet awaits and enjoy!

2.  I make shit up.

Words…if they sound right, I use them.  They may or may not be in the currently accepted ‘dictionary’.  If someone is vomiting hard enough to witness their liver, I might call it hurking.  Fake word.  Meaning conveyed.  I call that a win.

The essence of language, of communication, is so much more nuanced than what classical grammar and literature would allow.  Yeah, I’ve never really fit inside the standard box and have no real desire to do so.  Be unique.  Be yourself.  Speak your own language.

Anyone who says you can’t is a mind-controlling shit, and you should kick them in the jubilees.

Enlightened by darkness. Feel the lost souls circling, circling, vultures of the spirit. Where is the one? The tracker of souls? When will he come?

Then the madness, the hysterical gibbering, can cease.

When the lost, forgotten and trapped are neutralized. Please, oh please, Christ please! Stop the screams!

Hurry my savior! Put the dead to rest. Just shut them up. Shut them the fuck up! Please dear God, JUST MAKE IT STOP!!

The crack of the whip was still bouncing around the rotten barn walls as the blood trickled down the fresh slash of flesh. Carl saw the flash. He knew he didn’t have long. A minute? Maybe. He stumbled blindly toward the large double doors of the mausoleum. Continue reading

You’d say I was lying unless you actually saw the little green pig-fucker for yourself.  I swear to you, that is the toughest son of a bitch I have ever laid teeth on.  And I don’t care to do it again thank you very much.

I don’t know what it was about him.  He just stood there taking our best shots and hardly even flinching.  To tell you the truth, I think he might have been trying not to laugh.  Jackass.  That sounds like we’re a pretty sorry bunch, but let me tell you, I have seen my teammates fuck some people up on more than one occasion.  And come on, you know me.  For ME to say someone is a tough nugget?  Now that should be proof enough. Continue reading

Dante’s Inferno was nothing compared to this.  I rushed in through the front door, yes through, splintering it.  The smoke engulfed me, and the heat was beginning to sear the hair off of my flesh.

A cry from upstairs lead me to my prey.  The smell was thankfully muffled by the burning hell around me as I leapt up to the first landing.  It was still solid.  I sprung up to the second floor hallway, landing crouched on all fours.  Glancing down the corridor to my left, I noticed a telltale shifting blackness.  The blade was in my palm before I actually thought about it.  The pincers were the first thing to emerge from the inky hole.  Hairy and dripping with something that reeked of acid, I winced at what that was going to do to my claws.  But hey, someone’s got to put these filthy bastards in their place. Continue reading

Lt. Douglas Heller was listed as missing in action during his second tour of the Vietnam War in 1968.  Elizabeth Heller never quite tackled the adverse loss of her beloved and developed a drinking problem which lead to her spiraling downfall.  Raising two children while her husband disappeared in a dense jungle in some foreign country had not been her idea of the perfect family.  Her alcoholism led to dancing at a local bar that catered to the more carnal side of the Salt Lake City populace.  Prostitution followed shortly thereafter in an effort to maintain some financial stability for her children and to fuel her vices.  A faulty method of birth control left her pregnant with a son in the spring of 1973 to an unknown father.

Joshua Malcolm Heller was born February 3, 1974, five weeks premature, following a devastating car accident which hospitalized his mother for two weeks.  His older half-sister of six years was psychologically traumatized, and his older half-brother of eight years perished. Continue reading