Posts from the Deviant Journal of Kriven-Raven

These posts are from mid-to-late 2010 when I used the Journal feature on DeviantArt as my primary blog. Kind of depressing, unfortunately.

• Bubblegloop Swamped
• Fate Hates Me
• Guess What I Have
• My Heart Refuses to Heal
• Never Mind
• Slash and Burn
• So, It's Over

Bubblegloop Swamped

I am murdering myself with projects and I can't stop. It's like I'm addicted to starting things. I just recently started working on a light novel series under the title "Prism." It's a series I've been planning for several years, and it's actually suffered from two false starts in the past. Unfortunately, production on "Lost Legends" and "Immortal" have grinded to an unappreciated halt, due in large part to me getting too sick to write last week and losing my momentum. A cautionary note to any aspiring writers: never, ever lose your momentum. October's here, so hopefully I'll be able to get "the Diary of Zach Neuman" back off the ground, especially since I've been reading it a lot in Write Club and am quickly running out of entries.

I've also been actively thinking about two graphic novel scripts, both of which have a small amount of work started on them. So that brings me up to six projects. There's also a number of short stories I intend to finish, as well as two smaller projects that I had planned before I got sick. I don't know how I'll manage to keep up with it all, while keeping it at least a tolerable quality, but hopefully I'll manage. I'm determined to have at least two finished projects at the editting stage by the end of the school year. We'll see if I can even manage to get that far.

Guess What I Have

I HAZ BURGERRRRSSS! Just thought ya'll should know.

Slash and Burn

You know, there's an odd satisfaction to bleeding. It's like all of my worries disappear in little, red drops.

I'm getting so far behind in all of my work, so very far behind. I need to get to Never Forget ASAP, I am determined to finish that before Summer's end. I must also return to my pained project, as well as my editting and school responsibilities. Unfortunately life just keeps throwing curve balls, and I was never good at hitting those. Ugh, I'm tired, oh so tired. Sometimes I just want to close my eyes and not wake up.

So, It's Over

I'm done.. with everything. Feeling this way. I'm done. I don't need it. I don't need "love." I don't. We're done. Expect some writing soon. I need to work shit out, and I'm sick of hating myself.

Everything up there is pretty much all a lie, just so you know. I'm just going through the upset rebel phase.

Never Mind

Fate still hates me.

We're forgetting about the return of motivation, I won't be writing for a while.

Fate Hates Me

...Yeah, she's like, everywhere I look. She was even on the bus. She's never on the bus. What the fuck Fate? What the fuck?

In other news, I think I'm strong enough to start writing again (though Fate wants that to stop, fuck you Fate.) So I'm going to continue work on Never Forget hopefull in the next week. I've also started a more contemporary piece centered around a disturbed teenager... and I'll get back to work on my various short stories soon. I hope.

My Heart Refuses to Heal

I can't handle this for much longer, everytime I think I'm okay something happens to remind me of her, of our times. Everybody keeps telling me to "think of the happy times," but everytime I do that I'm just reminded of what I'll never have again. This, it just blows. I wasn't ready for this, for... anything this... painful I guess. My emotions were never hard, merely protected, and now they'll never be able to recover.

Can I die now please? Even my cat is rejecting me, he keeps biting me.

Die....

Deviant Journals

I just rediscovered my DeviantArt Journals, and I'll be adding those to the Post Archives section.

Young Justice #7 (Targeted by Artemis!) Review

Targeted by Artemis! by Kevin Hopps
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

"Targeted by Artemis!" is the seventh issue in the Young Justice tie-in comic, and the first one I've read. I admit to putting off on reading this for... about a year since I borrowed it from my brother. The primary reason for this is because I'm such a nut about the television series, and I didn't want the comic to soil that somehow. Mostly, it didn't.

Now there's only twenty pages here for me to talk about, so there isn't really a whole lot to review on. The writing was pretty good, I didn't feel slowed down by any of the dialogue. Which is always plus, because it's a real drag when everything is flowing and then some character opens his mouth with a bit too much to say. I find this happens more frequently with Marvel's comics, though.

The art was alright. The characters were pretty flat, which is something that's been popular in the past couple of decades, and in a lot of panels their facial features are a little squished and weird looking. So subtract points for that. The backgrounds were pretty good, nothing fetching, but nothing wrong either. It was all very easy on the eyes, with no glaring color clashes to murder your eyes with.

Overall, I liked the comic. Mostly. It kind of messes with my perception of the Young Justice continuity a bit, but it's a tie-in and they tend to do that. Grain of salt, I guess. I'll give this one three stars.

View all my reviews

The Everything I Own Challenge!

Today I will embark on a new journey! This is the journey to actually utilize everything I have purchased. I have so many games and books and movies just lying around completely untouched and unused that it's sad, and I keep buying more. Today I put a stop to that. I will not purchase any further media for myself, not one single thing, until I can experience at least some of what I already own. So starting right now I will embark on the quest to read, play, listen to, or watch everything I own. Everything. Top-to-bottom, A-to-Z. Every little thing. I'll be keeping track of the books over at GoodReads, and everything else right here and also on this Google spreadsheet, which will grow over time as I clean my room and discover new things.

This is kind of something I noticed that I'm not the only one dealing with. A lot of people have things lying around they've never actually used. So consider this also a challenge for you. Go to your bookshelf, pull out something you haven't experienced yet, and do that. Experience it. If you go for ths, you accept my challenge, post in the comments, make a blog, make your own spread and let me know. I'd love to see what other people are doing and reading and playing.

One exception to my rule: if I have only part of a series, I am permitted to purchase the other parts of the series to fill in the gaps. For instance, I have the collected Runaways Volume Nine and Runaways Volume Eleven, but I do not have the tenth volume. I am permitted to purchase that volume before moving onto eleven, but since the last one I have is volume twelve, I cannot go beyond that. I may also accept gifts, as I did not buy those myself (hint hint hint hint to the people I know.)

Editing to add: I will be restarting every video game with three exceptions:

The Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks, which I am still playing.
Pokemon: Heart Gold, which I am still playing.
Animal Crossing, which is currently incomplete and because of the nature of the game will be continued.

I will also be considering the books I read last year as complete.

Immortal, Chapter One

"Oh my god! Get the fuck out of bed you worthless piece of shit!" were the first words Timothy heard as his eyes peeled open to let in a painful flood of brilliant light. He groaned as he rolled onto his side, not yet capable of forming actual words. Something rocked the side of his bed, and he felt the ground beneath him shaking as though an earthquake had struck. Another stream of curses rushed from Reggie's mouth as the shaking stopped. Mumbling, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to pull away remnants of sleep. Pain exploded in the side of his head; his ear went numb. What little vision he had gained while waking was now lost to a dizzying array of reds and white. Then it was black, but that slowly faded into blurred reality and the mess of a bedroom before him slowly came to life. He looked to the side where he thought he had felt something hit the bed after he had lost sight. Resting in a crater of ruffled blankets sat a large plastic firetruck with a ridiculous cartoon face. Its eyes spun in a circle and it giggled as the overenthusiastic voice began singing the alphabet, each corresponding letter on his side lighting up as its name was called.

"Now!"

"Yes, Mother," he said bitterly. Timothy hated calling her "mom," "mother," or anything similar, feeling that "Reggie"—the name she had been given thirty-three years ago by her own mother—would suffice for this woman who had not earned her title. She gave him an urgent glance, both eyelids slanted but one green eye popped open maniacally wide, before spinning around and stomping out of the room leaving a trail of cusses and curses behind her. He waited until the clip-clop of her heels descended the stairs and her cusses were accompanied by the names of his siblings before he moved. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, clipping the belt just a little to the side. A black t-shirt fell over his body, and despite the fact that it was a warm spring day, he pulled a heavy hooded sweatshirt over that. He never went out in only a t-shirt. They were not sufficient enough to hide the scars that crisscrossed his arms.

It came as no surprise when he found his dresser drawer to be empty except for the small family of wood mites that had taken up residence inside. Thinking little of it, he matched a pair of brown and gray socks off the floor and tugged them over his toes. The pair of black sneakers that often sat in a corner by the door were torn and shredded both inside and out, but his feet found them familiar and comfortable. He glanced at himself in the mirror and frowned disapprovingly. A tuft of his black hair was sticking up defiantly on one side of his head, and a streak of white lint coated the shoulder of his hoodie. He sighed and tried to remember why he bothered to get out of bed in the morning.

He did this every moring for as long as he could remember, and up until two months ago he'd never figured out an answer. Then, back in late February, fate came to him by the name of Melissa Spring. Timothy had never bothered searching for a girlfriend before, he figured that with his life's glorious track record he'd be left more hurt than when he started, or possibly simply rejected from the start. But there was something about Melissa that he couldn't stand to be away from, something that made him think it would be all right, she'd never hurt him. He'd spent the first week of their relationship fortifying himself against the inevitable farewell, but it never came. Reluctantly he'd crawled out of his tower into the open, feeling for the first time in his life completely safe in her arms.

A smile had found its way onto his lips as he had become lost in fantasy, but even when the dream had ended and reality returned he was determined not to let it slip from his face. It was rare that he should make such an expression and he was going to enjoy it for as long as life would allow. Unfortunately that was not a very long time at all. Timothy was hardly out into the hall when Reggie's voice crashed off the walls. He wasn't sure who she was yelling at, but he was certain that he'd wanted no part of it. Desparingly he trudged through the cluttered hall and down the stairs, the old wood screaming defiance under his feet.

"Timothy, where the fuck are you? Why aren't you here yet!" Reggie screamed, turning through the doorway, nearly colliding into him. His ears hummed painfully from the sound of her voice, but he tried not to let it show. "Watch where you're fucking going! Where's your backpack?"

"I had no homework so I left it at school," he replied. It was half true, he had left it at school.

"Hurry out to the car then. Your father will drive you in after he drops off the other two."

"Their father." Timothy rushed past her and was out the door before she could yell anythig else. He didn't understand why she insisted on calling Leonard his father, he was nine by the time Reggie'd married the man.

Outside it was warm, sunny and the air smelled of spring. Small puddles had formed in patches over the pavement and across the yard, too-deep reminders of the rain from the night before. One puddle larger than the others had reached out to engulf the front tires of the little Nissan. Timothy sighed as his shoes splashed in the water, rippling rainbows from the car's oil leak.

He pulled the door open, though it gave some resistance, and tossed himself into the passenger's seat. Isabelle, his seven-year old half-sister, sat in the back seat forcing a comb through her thick hair. She looked up and scowled at him, as though he'd done something to harm her. In the driver's seat sat Leonard, a balding man in his late forties. Smoke rose away from his cigarette in large clouds. He flicked the end out the window, watched it smolder on a blade of wet grass, then reached for the pack in his pocket and slipped another between his lips.

"That's where Mike's sitting," Leonard grumbled. "Get yourself in the back."

"Michael is six, this is the death seat. He should still be in a safety chair," Timothy said, though he reached for the door handle regardless. This was a senseless debate that could not be won.

"Don't matter, it's his seat. Get in the back."

Timothy slipped out of the car, the water in the puddle soaking through his sneakers. His foot slished and sloshed in drowned socks as he made his way around the car and into the seat behind Leonard's. Isabelle glared at him as he fastened his seatbelt and leaned back in to as comfortable a position as he could, which wasn't too comfortable since his stepfather had the driver's seat all the way to the end of its track, leaving Timothy with negative leg space. He grunted at his sister, not feeling enough energy to stage a pathetic war with the girl.

Screams and shouts seeped out of the walls of the yellow house. Michael, a grimace on his small face, appeared from behind the front door. The boy stomped to the car, doing his best to look disgruntled and dangerous despite his small size, leaving a train of the curses that chased behind him. As soon as he had buckled up, Leonard twisted the key in the ignition and the foour of them slowly backed away from the house that felt very little like a home.

****************

The trip into downtown Otterston was an annoyingly trying experience, despite the relatively short amount of time it took to get there. Isabelle, still combing her raven black hair, had found it necessary to climb though the car and exit out the passenger door after Michael. She made extra sure that her foot left a very red, very muddy mark on the back of Timothy's hand.

The drive into Saugus was only slightly better. Slightly in the fact that Timothy could now ride shotgun, relieving his legs of their previously cramped and crushing cell behind his stepfather's seat. Despite the new level of physical comfort, Timothy found it rather irritating to listen to Leonard's annoying rant of gas prices, the hinderance he had caused to everyone else's schedules, and the man's own failing patience. At one point Timothy thought it would be good to mention how it wasn't his fault Otterston as too rural to afford its own high school, but he quickly pushed the urge aside.

By the time he finally reached the high school he'd completely missed his first class and half the second, which was a significant portion of the school day considering the blocked scheduling the school board had implemented the following year. At first the scheduling seemed like a good idea; more manageable schedules, and less homework, but soon Timothy learned that missing just one day of school was the equivalent tomissing two days with the old scheule, and his grades had quickly begun to decline.

Mr. Gordon, the extremely overweight egg-shaped individual who had the privilege of teaching United States History, didn't take kindly to interruptions of his lessons, especially interruptions made by a tardy student. He was leniant, however, offering Timothy the generous opportunity to choose between a few days of detention or an extremely long, handwritten essay detailing each and every fight about the Civil War.

Lunch came midway through third class, but to Timothy's dismay the cafeteria had swapped out the scheduled Hawaiian pizza for a gortesque Frankenstein macaroni monstrosity. He walked across the blue-tiled floor, past the tables of gossipping students and dirty glances. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Jackson Gray, a blond-haired boy whom had been Timothy's best friend Freshman year. They hadn't spoken in months, not because there was any kind of falling out between them two, but because Melissa wasn't particularly fond of Jackson. Instead of risking losing her love, Timothy chose to assmlate himself into Melissa's group of friends, regretfully leaving his only companion in the past.

This new group, Melissa's group, sat at a shorter table positioned against the trophy case that served as a back wall to the cafeteria. Most of the people were ether unfamiliar or unfriendly in Timothy's mind, some of them even triggered a sort of hostility alarm in the back of his mind as he glanced over them. His unease in the midst of the group often caused him to slide into Melissa, whom sat in the center of it all, for support. Despite the dangerous glares her friends shot in his direction, just sitting up beside her, perhaps resting his chin near her neck, just the warmth brought with the contact of her soft skin made him feel completely safe.

"What's the matter?" she asked softly as he rested his head into her shoulder. Her often loud voice and melancholy tone always seemed to become quieter and more soothing when she spoke to him, and the change sent unexplcably joyous shivers down his spine. He caught a whiff of her cool breath, which still retained a hint of the mint gum she'd been chewing earlier, despite the fact that she had apparently consumed most of her macaroni.

"I'm just a little tired," he whispered back, knowing it was a lie. He would never tell her of his discomforts, not about her friends anyways. Slowly his eyes closed shut and he allowed his mind to become numb to all but her light, steady breathing and the heat that reached out to envelope him.

"Long night?"

"Not without you." He smirked, but wasn't entirely sure if she would appreciate the comment. To his relief she chuckled and set his fears to rest for another moment.

His arm slid around her back, creeping over her side and pulling her closer. He felt hers wind their way around his waist and clamp tightly around his back. They stayed like that for a while, cradling each other as best they could while seated awkwardly on the lunch table bench. Then the warmth vanished, much more quickly than it had come. Timothy's eyes snapped as Melissa's shoulder disappeared out from beneath his chin and her arms flew away from him.

Alone and suddenly cold without her touch, Timothy watched as Melissa snatched the girl beside her into a tight hug. They pretended to grope each other, discussing the imaginary but raunchy sex that had occurred the night before. He said nothn though his heart ached wth jealousy. The fear that she would leave him if he spoke against her play was too great. Quickly he turned to his lunch, and numbly ate for the remainder of the perod.

****************

There had been no other opportunities for him to see Melissa before the day ended. He had stopped by her locker after the bell had rung and waited for several minutes, nearly missing the bus, but she never arrived. His already sour mood was made worse on the bus ride home, where he was pelted by spitballs and assaulted by jeers about how good his "whore" had been in bed. By the time he stepped off the muttering vehicle into an ankle deep puddle, he'd heard every possibly "your mom" and "that's what she said" joke that could be told, as well as a number of other insults. His sweatshirt hung heavily from his shoulders, soaked by a gallon of liquid he hoped was lemonade.

The sky had filled wth clouds at some point during the day, and dark spots had begun to pepper the pavement as Timothy scraped his shoes against the grooved surface. Soon the light shower became a relentless down pour, washing away the sweet scent of spring and dripping the mysterious liquid down his face and into his mouth. It wasn't lemonade.

As the hours crawled by and the night consumed the day an unbelievable cold fell across Timothy's flesh and ate through him until it found his heart. He shivered as he ran through the day in his head, a warm tear forming in the corner of his eye. Through his bangs he caught a flimpse of his soiled hoody.crumpled into a heap in a corner of his room. He turned away, only to fnd the red firetruck staring at him. Rage surged through him and he smashed the toy against a wall, watching in disbelief as its eyes fell free of its face and its letters flicker once then fade out as the recorded voice gurbled as though drowning. For a moment Timothy sat their staring at the mess, then he broke down into tears, whispering an apology to the truck and hating himself for being so childish, so immature.

His head spun as he stumbled over to the dresser, hardly able to see more than colored streaks through his tears. Clumsily he fumbled about inside one of the drawers until his fingers brushed the jagged surface of something cold and metal. He traced the objecy one end to the other, firmly grasping where it felt thickest and yanking it out of the drawer. The dagger glinted in the light, the stone held in the dragon-hilt's claws reflecting a bright shade of red. The blade was ice cold, but as he pressed it firmly into himself he could feel warmth sliding over him. The first cut was slow and deliberate, a carefully dragged line across his vein. He watched almost in aw as scarlet flooded out of his arm, streaming down his snow skin and carrying the cold out with it. A small burn, a tingling sensation, radiated out from the wound like an electric blanket. Twice more he repeated this same deliberate stroke, hoping that he might slip too quickly and end it in a hurry. With each slice came with the promise of that tingling warmth, and soon he found it impossible to resist. The precision of his first few cuts was lost to a flurry of movements, several white lines appearing across his flesh before even one could begin to bleed.

In a matter of minutes hs arm had become a bleeding plaid design. Red ran from not just his wrist, but his entire arm, up past his elbows and into his shoulder. He fell back, dropping the dagger at his side and closing his eyes. He wanted to feel that warmth over the rest of him, to grow lost in it and never find the way out, but he knew that would not happen. He knew he had failed in that task and as he drifted off he despaired in knowing that his eyes would open again.

Rise of the Undead King

For more than a thousand years he'd slumbered in his tomb, undisturbed by human kind. Tucked deep within the steamy jungle of the Secret Lands, his temple stood as the final monument of an ancient time. A time when humans served The Great Ones and mortals dared not proclaim themselves kings. Mortals, that is, except for King Mrrda.

Lying in a sarcophogaus of gold, his skeletal remains slept peacefuly, dreaming of the great land they had carved when fleshed. Unable to ascend, but unbothered by this fact. Blanketed by worldly treasures and jewels, King Mrrda had all the eternal comforts a dead man could need. Then came the distant echoe of footsteps grinding in the pyramid's wet and gravelled halls.

It is at this point that man returned to this ancient place in the form of a portly grave robber named Dave Tycoon. More commonly known as "Turd," for his greed was only a shadow of the oder of his sweat, and his morals were well-known to smell no more pleasant.

Grinning with teeth yellow, but distinctly not gold, Tycoon scrambled into the King's private chambers. Sapphires and rubies, emeralds and pears, silver and quartz, and of course gold, gold, gold reflected off his eyes. Piles like none the man had ever seen, and neither had the scrawny young man that trotted up beside him, jaw slacked as the jewels lit upon his face.

"Teeheeheehee," giggled the grave thief, rubbing his meaty hands together. Thick drool dribbled into his beard.

"We shouldn't be here," the young man whispered, continuing to stare in awe.

"Of course I should," Tycoon grunted. "This was meant for me to find. Meant to be my legacy. But you're half right."

The stout man swung his jungle-knife. The young man crumpled. The gold floor became red. Tycoon sneered and spat his cigarette upon the corpse. "You shouldn't be here."

"It's mine!" He cheered, kneeling in a pile of coins. They all wore the face of King Mrrda, but of course Tycoon didn't know it. Nor did he particularly care. They disappeared into his travel bag, along with fistfuls of rubies, lazulis, and other rare stones. Not until the bag strap burned into his shoulder and gems toppled out the sides did he cease his harvest. He waddled off, giving the remaining treasures (of which there were many. Far more than he could carry in even a hundred trips.) a longing glance over his shoulder.

The sarcophagus shuttered. The coins upon which it rested avalanched down, spilling across the chamber floor. Then it spilled after them, the entire golden bed cascading down a mountain of gold. The stone slabs rushed up to meet it, and they came together with an unearthly crunch that rang through the temple, reaching the ears of the vacated Tycoon.

From the wreckage burst the undead king. No meat on his bones, nor clothes of any sort. It was he in his most stark, risen by the curse of his treasure and gold. Rage rocked around his offwhite skull, pointing the way to what was his. With a snarl he snatched a sword from the room (one he, for a moment, recalled fondly as the jeweld sabre with which he'd slain a rival king. He took a moment to admire the beautiful sapphire in its hilt.) and stomped into the jungle.

His rage lit the way as he crashed through the foliage and followed the obvious path left by the fat fiend. Lightfooted and undistracted, it took no time for he to find the now-terrified Tycoon. The man's fat feet fumble, felling him. Mud splattered up over his expensive gear and clothes. He scrambled on his back, pleading for his life. The undead king raised up his sword.

Tycoon threw the bag. Gold coins and shimmering jewels scattered at the king's feet. He lower his sword and shoved them into the bag, which he hoisted over his bony shoulder with ease. He shot a glare at Tycoon, grunted savagely.

Then he stopped.

The humidity hugged his bones with tender warmth. Somewhere not terribly far off chattered birds and apes, sounds he did not recognize. The smell of a rare bloom, a type of pink and purple flower, rolled in his skull. There was something pleasant about the mud squashing between his toes. He took it all in, drinking up the sun's forest-shattered rays. With a deep breath he inhaled all he had forgotten about life.

Mrrda, the once mighty king, tossed the bag of gold back at the thief.

"Keep it," he snarled. Sheathing the sabre between his ribs, the king marched off. After millenia of endless slumber, he was finally awake.

Brrda, Savage Savior of the Secret Land

• Brrda, Savage Savior of the Secret Land
• Killman the Hunter
• Brrda vs. The Undead King
• Brrda Against the Tiger
• Web of Bloom
• The Treasure Hunter
• Ladies and Savages
• The Great Richnua
• Strange Emotion
• The End

Web of Bloom

There are many mysterious things lurking among the trees. A man could live his whole life in a jungle and never stumble upon half of what exists there. Usually this is not a bad thing. Those which you cannot find are those which cannot eat you. Unless, of course, they find you first.

A web spans the length of the jungle floor, waiting patiently to trap its prey. On most days it catches stupid and unfortunate animals. Squirrels, mice, the occasional dumbstruck deer. Very rarely does it catch anything of note. Not because it can't, but because it prefers not to be seen. It blends so perfectly with the foliage that no creature has ever witnessed it.

It is aware of all beings which exist in the jungle. There is no creature which does not tickle its strings. All-seeing, and yet blind.

There are days, however, where no simple beast will do. These days are few and far between, but every century or so they do come. And when they do they bring often extiction. In the wake of these days are the rumors, the stories. Stories which Brrda, Savage Savior of the Secret Land, did not heed.

Brrda, his faithful tigress Retsis at his side, had just put an end to the charge of a quite angry Armored Rhino. The rhino, lured into crashing through a bush of bizarre pale-orange bell flowers, inhaled a puff of glittering pollen and almost at once collapsed into a deep slumber.

Retsis' gaze became hungry. She rubbed a wet nose in Brrda's hand, but he shook his head. The rhino had not earned death. Disappointed, Retsis slumped away and dozed upon a high branch.

Her nap was interrupted as an elephant's alarm trumpeted through the trees. All around there was the snapping of branches and the rustling of leaves. The forest came alive with the panic and shouts of its denizens. Squawks, chitters, chirps, roars, barks, all echoed beneath the canopy.

Confusion was not long lived. The vines sprang to life, tossing like tendrils from the trees and from the floor. They ensnared the slumbering rhinoceros, wrapping around the beast quite thoroughly and dragging its snoring bulk into the bushes. Before Brrda could understand what had happened the vines were upon him as well, coiling tight around his angers.

They yanked him to the ground. His jaw hit hard on his shoulder, bruising both. More vines roped around his body, pinning his muscular arms to his side and squeezing hard on his aching ribs. A ferocious and terrified reowr echoed off the tree above, and Brrda turned in time to see Retsis yanked down by her tail and cocooned by the vines. Her claws tore and slashed, but were ultimately trapped by the camouflaged constricors.

Branches snapped around him as Brrda was dragged at dizzying speeds across the forest floor. Through rivers and streams he had never seen. Miles and miles slipped away beneath him, for hours upon hours. Day became night and then day again, and still Brrda was being spirited away. Bleeding, bruised, and breathing badly, Brrda began to give in to the exhaustion. Weakly he flexed, but the effort only made the vines lock tighter. Retsis whimpered softly nearby.

The jungle tapered away, the trees gradually growing thinner and smaller until at last they were nothing more than shrubs. There was no forest beyond that, and no grass or field. Only the vines. A circular clearing filled to the brim writhing, wiggling vines. They slipped beneath him, slid over him. Blocked his view of the sky. But not of their master.

At the center of it all was a kind of pod. It was large, bulbous. It displayed four lips of a sort, each tinged red. They split away, fanning into large leaves and revealing a chasm of mesmerizing, dazzling purple. Yellow-tipped whiskers stood out of this maw, tasting the air for a suitable meal.

The meal was found, from all corners of the great gaping greenery. The alarmed elephant was tossed on the left while a small herd of jungle buffalo piled up on the right. Frogs, bats, and other smaller creatures filled up the space between larger morsels. When it was full the plant snapped shut, letting loose only the sickening squeals of the beasts as they boiled away in digestive juices.

In minutes the mouth was open again, being stuffed full from all sides. The vine carrying Retsis lifted into the air, and soon behind it rose Brrda. The plant breathed hot acid on his cheek, burning redness into his skin. The Armored Rhino, now awakened and panicked, thrashed in its bindings, but was soon stuffed deep into the purple throat.

The pod snapped shut. The thick vines held Brrda high for twenty minutes as the squeals of the other beasts, and the roars of the Armored Rhino, carried on steam through the blood-red lips. But when it came time for the next helping, the pod remained shut. The vines fell suddenly, collapsing to the ground like great, dead pillars. Brrda broke free, as did Retsis, together landing on a soft pile of the now limp limbs.

They stared at the plant which had gorged itself on the forest's fauna. It rumbled a sound not unlike that of a hungry and persistent belly. The leaf-mouths danced and clenched, as though fighting to keep something in. Brrda tensed, Retsis drew her claws.

The lips puckered, making an "O". Billions of tiny balls, each covered in brilliant white fluff, blasted into the air. They caught the wind and flew over the forst, settling for miles across the Secret Lands.

A yellow-brown shade came over the bulb. It coughed a few puffs too low to catch the win. They fell upon it, spilling into the browning vines. Tired, all energy spent after spewing its seed, the plant collapsed heavily to one side, where it was resigned to whither.

What Happened to the Hammer Bros.?

It's September of 1993. A two-year-old Nathan DiYorio toddles across the floor and drops his diapered bottom to the hardwood floor. We're going to ignore that the floor is covered in delicious lead for this story, because it isn't very relevant (but boy, is it good!) He plops down, Pampers crinkling against the ground, before a mysterious gray and black box with a tiny glowing dot somewhere in the lower left corner. He flips open a tiny door on the front of the box, crams a large disk-shaped device into the box, and flips the door shut again.

His face is immediately colored with a glorious blue glow. It is a shade of blue almost as brilliant as that of his eyes. It is a blue that will color the remainder of his life.

It is the bluest of all blue screens.

It is the title screen to the world famous Super Mario Bros. for the Nintendo Entertainment System. The toddler, unaware that the Super Nintendo has existed for two solid years by then, begins his foray into the Mushroom Kingdom. His mind ignites with thoughts and questions. "Were the Goombas once Toads?" "Why is Toad named Toad? How do people know which Toad he is? What if I was named Human?" and most importantly: "Why does Bowser turn into a Goomba when I shoot him with fireballs?"

None of these were ever really answered. That's okay.

Some decades later (approximately one and three quarters) this same Nathan DiYorio, now a Pampered and toddling young adult, began remembering the old Super Mario Bros. title, and its sequels. It was then that an oddity began to puzzle him:

"Why are the Hammer Bros. called Hammer Brothers when they're obviously some kind of rank in Bowser's army? Why do they look so different from the other members of the Koopa species? It's almost like they aren't really common Koopas at all."

Then it hit him:

"Throughout the original Super Mario games, you only ever fight one pair of Hammer Bros. at a time. Same with Boomerang Bros., and Fireball Bros., and Boom-Boom, and Lakitu! Suddenly the Super Nintendo happened, and there were more of them all over the place! But wait, no. That isn't true. There was only ever two Hammer Bros. at a time during Super Mario World, too. It wasn't until Paper Mario that there were suddenly more. Could this mean... Could this mean that the Hammer Bros. were actually, literally brothers? Were there only two of them?"

The answer is yes. The Hammer Bros. were so named because they weren't just a rank in Bowser's army, but they were actually elite lieutenants with abilities above and beyond the grunt soldiers. The Hammer Bros. were only shown one or two at a time because that's all of them that existed. There wasn't a legion of bird-beaked turtle monsters waiting to chuck their magic hammers at Mario's hapless head. There were two of them. They were evil, powerful beings.

Why did this suddenly change with the N64? With Paper Mario came what appeared to be an entire race known as "Hammer Bros." Which is really weird. Why would that specific race of Koopas have an affinity for hammer throwing? Why would donning a helmet suddenly make you look completely different? This just doesn't work. And what happened to the concept that there was only one set of brothers? Why would an entire rank be called "brothers?"

This puzzled and troubled me for some time. The shift in appearance could be easily explained by the typical physical alterations caused by power-ups in the Mushroom Kingdom. I don't like that explanation, but it works. Of course, it doesn't actually fit in with the origin of the Hammer Bros., who looked different because they were different.

So the question still stands: what happened to the original Hammer Bros.?

The answer then came to me one day: Mario killed them.

Now hang on, this isn't even an off-screen, imagination-imposed death. This is literally a plot point in one of the most beloved Super Mario games of all time. You, the player, finally put the Hammer Bros. into their grave. Can anybody tell me what the last appearance of the Hammer Bros. as just two unique and specific characters was? Anybody?

It was at the very beginning of Super Mario RPG.

After this game, after this battle, the Hammer Bros. became a generic species. Mario killed the original brothers right then and there. They are dead. They are no more. In an attempt at recouping the loss of such powerful generals, Bowser has been training other Koopa members at the use of hammers, but none have quite matched up to the powers of the originals.

May they rest in pieces.

Mass Extinction: Lingual Edition

Every fourteen days a language becomes extinct. According to this article over here, anyway. Every fourteen days a language dies. Now, the language doesn't necessarily disappear—there are still plenty of people who are knowledgeable about the language, and there are programs designed to keep the knowledge and use of a language available. However, the language disappears from any kind of societal usage. Other than having the pseudo-prestige of being somewhat fluent in a dead language, they serve no purpose. Dead languages have no more cultural or societal value. They are no longer spoken in everyday situations by everyday people. A piece of human history and culture vanishes every two weeks.

That's a good thing. That's a really good thing. First of all, let me make it clear. The culture does not disappear. As long as there are documented works of that culture, it will live on. The fact that we are currently creating a library of language means that in the future those cultural works can be translated into whatever dominant language there is. So the culture doesn't disappear, it just happens to not be practised. That's two very different things.

So we keep the knowledge and beliefs of that culture alive in books and in history. And as heartless as this might seem, it's a good thing when that culture merges with the current world. One of the biggest hurdles in lasting peace is language. If human kind all spoke one language, well, it would be a hell of a lot easier to understand each other. We already have enough communicative hurdles in societies that do speak the same language, we don't all need to be clucking out different tongues. That's just a mess. It's disorganized, and disorganization breeds discontent, breeds confrontation, breeds pain and chaos and mayhem.

Now of course I love language. Actually, I loathe it. It beats me around quite a bit. But I do love the things that can be done with language. I can write this blog with language. I can write books and stories with language. I can communicate with folks across the entire ocean with language. I can communicate almost any idea I have with language. And it would be a shame for languages to intellectually disappear. I think creating a library of language is a very good idea. It's a valuable resource for translating and for a great number of things. For artistry, for example. For expanding the current language. English—or American, as I speak—is already a big collage of languages. Of French, and German, and Spanish, and Latin. All boiled into one. That's because there isn't some heir to the Webster way sitting up there dictating language. People, average people speaking to each other, dictates language. If someone, one of these people, peruses this linguistic library and pulls from it some word that just feels pleasant rolling off their tongue and plunks it right down in the middle of a sentence, that's okay. If the word catches on, if that usage takes hold, they've resurrected part of that other language and made it part of their language. That's the simple nature of language.

In the future that the article I linked to above predicts, half of all languages will be "gone." But how gone will they really be? And, almost more importantly, how much of the "living" languages will actually be the language we know today? If, by 2100, Spanish has lost out to English how much of the English language of the year 2100 will be composed of words of Spanish origin? What are the chances that "Y" and "And" are both used in the same language. Pretty likely, I would say. And the best part of it all is that people will be able to understand one another. There will always be dialects which are different, sometimes vastly so, but in general since these come from the same root language people can overcome the dialect and learn to understand.

I think the supposed "loss" of languages is a good step in becoming a united species. Instead of fearing this inevitable loss of language, embrace it. Because it's also the inevitable gain of unity.

About the Crazy Ex-Cop Killing People in LA

This is big news for the people who care to be worldly, but I haven't seen a whole lot of buzz among my social circle in the same way I did when the Sandy Hook Shooting occurred. Maybe that's because school shootings are just more dramatic and tear-jerking and people tend to feel more saddened by the loss of innocent children than the lives of a young couple (and potentially more in the coming days), but there are people following this story almost religiously, and they seem to be largely divided into two camps. I mean, there are other camps (like the "We should look into the LAPD to verify what he claims" and the "He's a nut, ignore his complaints" camps), but there are two far more encompassing camps.

There are the sane and rational people who want Christopher Dorner's head on a platter, and there are the people who want him to actually succeed in assassinating pretty much the entire Los Angeles Police Department, their non-law enforcing families, and a few random people who happened to be in his line of vision. Because they think it will spark social change? Which it might. It genuinely could do that. Bring some notice to racism that still lingers in our society and definitely bring some attention to police brutality. But this is not the right way to go about doing it.

I honestly have to say, if your social hero is a real life version of The Punisher, you need to march yourself to the nearest psychiatric retention facility—not just an examination facility. Not just a shrink. Some place where you will be held and monitored.—and check yourself in. Murdering the daughter and her fiance of a man who defended you because you didn't get the outcome you desired? That's insanity. That's almost the same kind of brutality you (you meaning Dorner) are so fucking pissed off about. Almost, but worse.

And I'm sorry if you guys reading this don't know what the hell I'm on about. If you really want to know you should probably look at some news articles. This is mostly going to address what has become known as "Dorner's Manifesto" which can be found here but probably won't make good reading for more innocent members of the audience. In short Dorner spends far too many words bitching about being discriminated against as both a child and an adult working for the LAPD (which are fair complaints) and police brutality which he has witnessed (also a fair complaint) and the ways in which going the traditional method through the system, though internal affairs, has fucked him over and not actually addressed the issue of police brutality and racism but hid it under the rug (a fair complaint.) This is all peppered with a large number of death threats and insane rambling and personal vendettas and pure, unadulterated narcissism. If you're at all easily offended, don't go anywhere near this topic or that manifesto.

(A brief aside for those of you who read the supposedly complete manifesto: you'll notice it ended with half a sentence. I'm a little leery of doing this, but I think I might attempt to piece together the actual whole letter at some point and put it up on 2-Bit. I don't really want to, so don't hold your breath on it.)

So a lot of people, a scary lot of people, see this guy as some kind of martyr. Some hero bringing to light the injustices of our society. I don't really see that. I'm not denying that some of the things mentioned in his manifesto are legitimate societal issues which do need to be addressed and dealt with. But do I think for one freaking second that Dorner actually gives a shit about these issues? No. No and no and no, no, no. He doesn't. He is a child. This letter with all of his grievances illustrates his immaturity better than any description ever could. Dorner doesn't give a rat's ass about changing things, especially not for the betterment of society. What Dorner is, and what Dorner carries himself as, is a child who was told "No" or maybe unfairly put on the wall at recess, who then spends the rest of the school day mumbling and grumbling what he believes are excuses for vengeance. Or to justify what he did. When really all that's coming out of his mouth is incoherent, narcissistic hogwash.

He doesn't care about his excuses. He doesn't care about his justifications. These are pitiful attempts at murdering and getting off free. A lot of people think he intends to die at the end of all this. He likely will. But I don't think that's what he wants. He talks a lot about his reputation and his name and it all means so much to him. He doesn't want to die. He wants to kill as many people as he deems necessary and when this is all over he wants to return to a normal, happy life as if nothing ever happened. Except for the part where he is now some empowered ruler of his neighbourhood. The only thing this man intends to do is kill and make excuses for it. Excuses that he hopes will allow him to continue existing as a free man.

If he really gave two shits about the social progress and injustice of law enforcement he would take all those words which are so obviously tumbling in his mind over, and over, and over. He would take those words and he would do what any sane progressionist does and start a fucking blog. If the system fired you, if the system failed you, if you really wanted to actually have your story heard and be taken one little bit seriously about it, you would go to the press or you would press yourself. You would not become the biggest damn hypocrite of the century and start revenge-killing people who never wronged you.

If you are one of those psychopaths who thinks this guy is a vigilante hero, you are dirt. You are less than dirt. Dirt is a term I reserve usually for people who possess logical facilities but do bad things anyway. You, people who worship this juvenile wangst-machine with a gun, do not have logical facilities. All you have is an equal amount of hate and blood and desire to be the one out there killing. Because that's all this is. A sick murderous man committing heinous awful crimes. There is no political agenda. None. It's all about the killing and the self-satisfaction of doing so.

You really want to make a difference? You think this guy actually brought up some valid points? Start a fucking blog. Here's a link to a good place you can do that. Start a blog. And think. Don't worship this death-monger. Because he stands for nothing but rage and chaos. If you want to be taken seriously, if you want actual social change and awareness, you start a blog and you talk about social change and awareness. But don't kiss the toes of this sick fucker. And don't become one yourself.

King Bob-Omb or Big Bob-Omb?

In the days of the 1990's—while most you whippersnappers were still wearing diapers—there was an explosion of revolutionary new video games being released for the glorious console known as the Nintendo 64. Those were the days of Super Mario 64, Paper Mario, and The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. In those days we were treated to an expanding Mushroom Universe, complete with special kings to work beneath Bowser's rule.

Leading the charge was King Bob-Omb, a man of massive moustache. His debut coincided with the arrival of the whomps and their respective King Whomp. Shortly after, in the amazing first instalment of the Paper Mario series, we met the leader of the goomba tribe: King Goomba. On the Gamecube came Luigi's arch-nemesis: King Boo.

There's a pretty clear naming scheme here. Take the biggest and baddest member of a species and shove the word "King" infront of it. I'm sure some people thought this was boring and unoriginal, and to an extent that's true. However, this is all an homage to the original tyrannical baddie. The first leader of tiny minions. King Koopa. You don't really think about it because Bowser is such a developed character. Bowser, King Koopa, what more do you want? He's the epitome of all evil.

He also happens to be King of the Koopas. As in, he's a larger member of his race who goes by the typical "King of My People" trope. His name, or at least the title, is absolutely no different from the naming scheme of every other baddie royal in the franchise. King Koopa, King Goomba, King Bob-Omb. Hell, even Princess Toadstool fits this trope.

But okay, maybe it gets a little old. Or, as my brain works on it now, maybe these titles were never the actual names for these characters. Maybe they really are just titles. Bowser is King Koopa, Peach is Princess Toadstool, and the others are referred to as King so-and-so as an honorific. That's actually a cool concept. I like it.

Then the Nintendo DS came out, and with it a really awesome remake of Super Mario 64... And some really fucking stupid renames for nearly decade-old characters. King Bob-Omb was suddenly "Big Bob-Omb", King Goomba was suddenly "Goomboss." What the hell? Why do that? What is the literal difference between Big Bob-Omb and King Bob-Omb besides making the character seem less kingly, and somehow less important.

I admit, Goomboss has grown on me. Goomboss, the Goomba King. I like it. But Big Bob-Omb the Bob-Omb King? No. That. No. I would have even settled for Bomboss, but that would make Goomboss all the more generic and less unique himself. That would overplay the boss motif. Why not just leave King Bob-Omb as King Bob-Omb? Or come up with a unique name like they have for so many other characters?

I don't know, guys. It seems to me that this is another attempt by Miyamoto to downplay the characters of the Super Mario franchise who aren't the Big 8—I'd argue that we're down to a Big 5 (Mario, Yoshi, Peach, Bowser, and Luigi) and any other characters need to be generecized into oblivion. It kind of pisses me off. Sure, there were billions of characters, but they became popular because they were all good characters. I suppose this is a case of over-editing. Just totally revising something until it's so whitewashed and boring that nobody really cares anymore.

I seriously hope I don't get to that point.

Father of the Fog

In the skies of the ancient past lived the first family of clouds to have ever floated above the Earth. Born with the beginning of time, these clouds watched and watered the growing creatures beneath them. One day they noticed a new creature on the rocks below, a type of creature that wore the skins of other animals and stood tall on two legs. This creature was man.

The clouds took a particular interest to humans, observing the way they reacted to rain and drout. It pleased the clouds to have such power over these creatures that they made them dance for rain or else whither to dust. Of course most clouds were not so cruel, and were always sure to wet the humans before any real harm was done.

One cloud, however, who went by the name of Toshas, grew dark with power. It liked to watch the humans dance more than anything else, and it wanted to be the only one for whom the dance was done. In a flurry it drank all the water it could find. When there was no more around it flew across the sky and pushed away the other clouds, drinking their water as well.

"Toshas!" The Goddess of the Skies appeared before the greedy cloud, watching with horror as it soaked up more and more water and grew bigger and darker. "Do not drink more water. Leave some for your siblings. Are they not thirsty also?"

The cloud slurped a fledgling sea into its mighty girth.

"Toshas, no good can come of this greed..."

The cloud shoved the goddess aside and continued to gorge. Larger and larger it grew, growing tense and black and thick. Lightning struck when it laughed thunderously across the sky. How the humans would dance when the saw such an offering drifting on the horizon!

It laughed, reaching a bolt from pole to pole. There was no longer water anywhere that Toshas knew and it decided it was time to demand a performance. Slowly it crept towards the valleys, where it knew the tribes performed a most elaborate dance. Quickly it noticed something was wrong.

The peaks and ridges which had always been so far below it now peaked up beyond its head. Toshas was forced to crawl between their slopes, sliding solemnly along the ground. Desperately it reached up, but its great and bulging belly held firmly to the dirt and stones. At the edge of the valley village, caught in a narrow valley between two close mountains, Toshas reaached out desparingly and cried.

There were no dances that day, and no dances evermore for the poor cloud Toshas. For it was a cloud no more. Toshas was now merely the fog.