Who Wants A (Thankless, Payless) Job?

I've done a lot of reading lately, and not much of anything else. Its like hanging in stasis. Suspended, unmoving, trapped. I'm not running in place because that would require effort. I'm not stuck in a rut. My mind churns on and on, hurling thought at me from whatever nebulous place it originates until I'm filled with it, choking on it. I swallow, force it down, and keep hanging there. Swinging gently back and forth in the midday sun. Strung up for crimes against humanity or crimes against creativity. I'm not dead. Something like me can't really die this way, but I am decaying. I'm rotting and the things I used to enjoy are consuming me just as they wither away from malnourishment.

I'm wasting away here, and I fucking hate it.

Maybe this is that place I needed to find before I could not sink any lower. I spend my hours leaping back and forth between wondering about women and whether I'll ever settle down and stop being this lonesome, loathesome thing that just wanders into people's lives and quietly vanishes. Or worrying about a job that, honestly, doesn't mean anything to me. What do I care? Let the store burn down. I'm not seeing any benefit of all my work. I'm not heaped with praise for the way I do my job. Its a bullshit, dead-end fucking nightmare day-in and day-out. Nothing changes, nothing improves, and I'm getting sick of wasting my time. I spend my time on these things, or wondering if I will ever actually lose all that weight I keep talking about.

But mostly, I wonder about writing. See, I've done all this reading lately and I've come to realize that I need a hand. No novel, no poetry collection, no cohesive piece of work is ever solely the creation of a single person. I have a completed draft of a novel that's simply sitting. I haven't touched it in over a year. I finished it, set it aside, and started working on something else. I figured in a few months I'd go back to it, do some re-reading and editing, take more notes, and build something concrete to send out. I know where it needs work, more or less, but I need help with it. I've got a short story I need a few pointers on. I've got heaps of poetry in a vague collection that I have no idea what to do with.

In short, I need a hand here.

See, I've decided to cut this rope and stand on my own again. To feel the earth breathing beneath the soles of my feet. I'm going to run. I'm going to fight. I'm going to beat my chest and thrash and scream if I have to, because fuck just hanging here. Fuck stasis. I will not be old and broken, still talking about what could have been. I've never been that kind of man. I've always hurled myself against the wall headfirst and damn the consequences. Somewhere, I stopped doing that. Somewhere, I just stopped. Well now I've got a bit of bone, just sawing away. I could really use a knife.

If you'd like to help (and therefore be lauded in Aknowledgements pages for all the world to see when I'm incredibly famous as a smithy of words) get in touch with me. I know, as human beings go, people have busy schedules and I'm not aiming for this to be a quick process. As I said, some of these things require a good deal of work. But your contributuions would be vastly appreciated.

Keep in mind that I'm mostly looking for help with the fiction. I would like some aid in arranging poems and cutting out those that aren't working, and help with that will not be underappreciated because its difficult work, but the fiction is always my passion. And keep in mind that I write fantasy. I will provide glossaries and notes and I'm available to answer any questions that come up, but its still fantasy and that can get a little bit...confusing for people the first time they attempt it. Unfortunately, I don't actually know many people who make a regular habit of reading my beloved genre but I think that's a minor drawback. Fantasy is really a wonderful thing. More people should get into it. And not simply so I'll sell more books.

One last thought, if anyone has a good eye for cartography or really any sort of artwork get in touch with me. I think visualizing things is always the best way to write about them and it would be very nice to have some character sketches or pictures of places. See how close I've come in my descriptions. And maps, obviously, would be of unlimited help.

I realize I may have swayed you by steeping you in my personal despair before I plead for help, but don't offer just to make me happy. I want help here, but I need dedicated help. If you can spare an hour a week, that's perfect, but I need that hour. I'll devote all my time and energy to making it easier on you, as a show of thanks for all your help, but I'll need that help to be consistent and willingly given. Otherwise, don't worry yourself about it.

Gratefully Yours,
-S.R.

May Your Death Come Quickly

I put nails in my hands to keep them from shaking, and grind my teeth to keep my tongue in check. I could destroy you with a single errant flick of the wrist, and cut your fucking eyes out with the sharp edge of a careless word. Human beings are fragile things, despite their bluster, despite the way they carry on about their strength. To be so easily killed is shameful. To say the least, you are beneath me. Writhing, roiling, pitiful things that dare not raise their heads for fear of having them taken off.

I prey upon the weak and sate my hunger with their flesh. I tear the limbs from children to amuse myself. I am not a monster any more than you're a god. I'm am what you've made of me. I am hatred, darkness, and despair. Violence incarnate. I am death come reaping, and if you cross my path there won't be enough left of you for mourning. The gods will scorn your foolishness. Hel herself will disdain you.

My shadow spreads over the world, over these insectile scurrying lives, dark as moonless midnight. There is no more savior in me. No more mercy. I am all of malice and massacres. Wholesale slaughter to slake the thirst. I have ever been a thing of desires, and for all my lust of sweat and lace and silken skin I have always preferred to burn, level, devour. The feel of pleasure under my fingertips is nothing beside crushing bones in my hands. Beside wielding fire as a painter wields his brushes.

My flesh bristles with poisoned tips, shards of bone that jut at odd angles from joints, fingertips, knuckles, shoulders. An array of jagged, ivory blades. Touching me will shear off hands. Embracing me will impale you on a hundred barbs, skewer your body like a pincushion. Nearing me is dangerous. One false step is fatal.

Ragged black wings fall around me like a cloak. Smoke wreathes my face like a burial shroud. Nothing lives under my gaze. Even those who exult at the whisper of my lips find themselves dessicated, dying of thirst. Dawn will not bring solace for them. They will never see the sun rise again.

My power is nearly limitless. My wrath is infinite. The cities of man will burn, this world will die with humanity's last, great purge. The size of your arrogance is astounding. The stench of you is loathesome. The lucky will perish in the first wave.

For the rest, there awaits only suffering.

Malevolently Yours,
-S.R.

Sadism and Sensuality

I will wrap you around my finger, while I push my fingers inside. Gently, surely, I will never hurt you until you ask me to. I'll snatch the air from your lungs with a kiss like a punch to the solar plexus, and give it back to you in short, dizzying gasps that set stars bursting in your eyes. I'll be lightning on your nerves until they stretch toward me, magnetically, each of its own volition seeking to touch me. I'll be fire blooming along the contours of your body until sweat pools at your clavicle and the faint hint of blood rising to the surface colors you from hairline to toenails.

I'll wrap my fingers around your neck and clench my fists until your vertebrae groan from the pressure. I will leash you about the throat and make you heel for my amusement. I'll whip you with cord or rope or belts until your smooth, ivory skin stands red with angry welts, like a man beaten in a town square. I'll bind your wrists and ankles until they're rubbed red and raw from struggling. I'll take you again and again, pausing only long enough between to see that you're still safely in my power. I will scar you until your worship me.

I will trace you with my fingertips, like a blind man reading your flesh. I will savor you and covet you, something precious to delight in. I will memorize the way you taste, the way light clings to your skin. I will find the deepest parts of you and linger there, teasing playfully and darting away, spreading bits of pleasure here and laughter there. I will be confidence and sweetness on your lips.

I will tear holes in your flesh and burrow in your veins. I will plant seeds in your guts. I will sink my teeth into your softest parts and rend you just to drink you in. I'll find myself insatiable, I'll find you fit to devour.

There is a maelstrom in me.

Lasciviously Yours,
-S.R.