I am considering making it a collection of short comic strips instead/as well. I think it would be cute. I just don't know what the stories are like yet.
In other news...
Keres -- I've made a little progress on this lately. It was a nice day, so I went outside and just started writing some of it. The first go was in first person, even though I know that it will end up in third person. I started over, changed the scene, and switched to third person. Neither chapter will end up in the final, I'm sure, but I'm working through characters and ending up with a few golden lines here and there. Still trying to fight the urge to be witty. It's a horror book. I can't let it be funny.
Calendar -- I've finished January through April now.
Free-write:
Like shadows of giant birds, the inhabitants of the house flickered in and out of their dinner table seats with the unsteady light of the candle at the center of the room. The candle, in actuality, was not lit by flame, but despair—a sort of black tar that wisped through the room on the breeze, causing creatures to fade in and out of reality. The breeze, in actuality, was not the gentle gale of the morning, but the motion of sadness, lapping up remnants of souls with uneven waves.
Such was the never ending state of the gloom.
Outside, someone had stapled a sign, which read “Welcometohell” in tacky orange marker, to a shrubbery. The shrubbery had no leaves, but grew little buds of melancholy, which could be mistaken for decaying bird feet, talons and all. The building itself was nothing pleasant to look at unless it was pleasing to stare at a hut made of fecal matter whilst getting your eyes probed through with an ice pick.
A chimpanzee-like thing guarded the entrance. If one could get close enough, they would see that it was not an ape of any kind, but a demonic gargoyle covered in mossy flesh that grew hair perhaps as a result of poor hygiene. If one could get close enough to tell that the moss-covered gargoyle was no ape, they would see why no one had ever returned with a description. In the creature’s left hand, it clutched a truncheon with a large spike rammed through one end. The creature had yet to utilize its stick – tree limb – for the rippling muscle beneath that moss-covered surface always provided enough force to crack stony knuckles against squishy faces.
Dark forest surrounded the hut. The canopy covered the sky so densely, night remained the local constant. Misty apparitions lurked between trees, never daring to venture near the guarded abode of the abandoned. If the inhabitants of Welcometohell ever had a family, they’d been long since forgotten, for hope no longer remained, as the candle had snuffed it out.
Eirie. Five feet tall. Would they have called him a hero then?
Eirie with six toes on each foot. Would they have feared him if they knew what was to come?
Eirie, taste buds in all his ears. Would the ape still have torn him apart?
Death is not so limiting in the gloom. In fact, it is practically a requirement. The average inhabitant of the hut had squandered four point three lives by the time Eirie showed his fleshy self up on the doorstep.
Eirie’s nose hurt. It was so small, he couldn’t quite scratch at it with his clunky fingers. He tucked whatever excess chin he had up into his neck to preserve the strong-jawed hero appearance. Death’s Cake, he’d been told, sat on the dining table inside the hut, and he was to have a piece. Eirie was not a boy of sugary indulgences and didn’t know why he must eat any of Death’s Cake, but he was a firm believer in prophecy. If the parchment lying at the bottom of the creek whispered his fate, as it had, then he’d be damned before he’d let opportunity slip him by.
Eirie ripped a twig from a tree with a loud snap, the wick gone. He pressed it against the side of his smooth nostril and scraped it up and down until the pain subsided. He gave the stick a flick away and continued his march through the forest. He let out a gentle belch, causing the smell of boiled dandelion to hang in the air. Eirie couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten, but judging by the ever fading scent of his own breath, he was due one soon. Cake should quench is craving.
Oh, that pain in his stomach, though. Was it the hunger or something else? The constipation, probably. Every full breath in, his belt buckle threatened to give way, and that jab below his navel stirred his guts into a frenzy, catalyzing a tingle through the rest of his body. He was almost there, he knew. Once he’d fulfilled the prophecy, he could go home and change into looser pants.
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