Category Archives: Concepts
NaNoWriMo is, without a doubt, the olympics of writing. You have some great athletes, pulling out incredible performances… but the Michael Jordans and the Tiger Woods still get all the chicks (in Tiger’s case, that’s literal).
I would love to participate in the challenge. There’s no shortage of ideas, but there is a deficit in time.
I’m working on starting a business. No, not some multi-level marketing thing where I can ‘work from home’ and makes millions in my first week, all I have to do is send this guru thirty thousand dollars and then subscribe to every belief system he’s created.
I’m writing out the business plan and working on the product line of ERRANT Studios Inc., a new digital comics and book publisher focusing on, as the name would insinuate, a ‘different’ kind of entertainment. Basically, we’re talking about a publishing company manifested into reality and controlled by and geared towards creators and writers.
It will be ran as a business, focusing on quality. But our genres aren’t going to be so horribly restricted. We’ll accept different kinds of subject matter. And all titles we publish must be able to exist in the same universe. (We will have a different line for out-of-universe stories called Erratic.)
To do so, like I said, I’ve been working on the business plan. I’ve been developing our marketing strategy and doing research on various aspects of the industry. I’ve also created write ups of our member-owned products, describing in full detail their summaries, market analogies (what popular titles are they most similar to), how they are similar to those analogies, how they differ, and what innovations the product will bring to the table. (The business plan is to find investors willing to give us money to start this company… We need quite a bit.)
On top of all that, I need to write out the scripts for the graphic novels in which I have a personal stake. Normally our numbers are balanced between the CORE Members but out of the EIGHTEEN titles we have ready to go, I own part or all of SIXTEEN.
This creates quite a predicament for me.
So I’ve come to announce that instead of taking part in NaNoWriMo, I’m going to do NaGraNoWriMo.
That’s right, National Graphic Novel Writing Month.
Not to be confused with GrannyWriMo, NanoRyhmo, NanoThighsMo, or BananaRhymo. (All of which are equally made-up.)
Of course, NaGraNoWriMo isn’t real. I made it up this morning while recovering from a headache. I don’t have the foggiest idea of where it came from.
That being the case, I might as well take part in another fake challenge. I like the sound of BananaRhymo.
So here’s my entry:
It’s not perfect. But, I have a month to perfect it.
First off, I’d like to apologize for not posting much in the last month. I’ve been busy trying to get my group moving a little more than usual.
I’ve also been diving head-first into MYTH, developing the other characters further. I’ve figured out that either I’m going to write the next lord of the rings, or I’m never going to write the fucking thing. One of the two… I’m personally pulling for the first choice.
Secondly, and related to the first, I want to introduce you to a new poster I’ve created for the first book of MYTH:
Before you ask… yes, I did make it. Yes, it was from scratch (except the background which was a stock HDRI panorama image I set as an illuminated environment). And yes, I am ridiculously excited about it!
The content depicts the gear used by Andial, the leader of the Golden Guard and chaperone to the young Priestess, Claire. He’s a regal born Aelphi given the conflicting honor and punishment of leading the most heralded group of abominations in existence.
You’d want to hide your face behind a scary golden mask too, huh?
Well, that’s not why he has the mask…
I’ll leave it at that.
(p.s. this is actually a direct scene taken from the book…)
This is Aaron’s secondary mind, reporting from the creative recesses of his psyche. We’re here with one of the main characters of Myth; of Men and Monsters. She doesn’t quite understand that she’s a character and she hasn’t gone through any of the events in the story yet, we’ve caught her the day before her first introduction.
Ms. Bo’Fauhn, it’s lovely having you here, are you comfortable?
Yes, very much so, thank you.
Wonderful. Let’s get started as I know you have things you need to accomplish. Can you tell us a little about yourself? Give us some history on you.
My name is Claire Bo’Fauhn. I’m sixteen years old, nearing the end of my Spiriling courses at the Byohar Tower Schools. I’m the daughter of a Ghirault, a nobleman from Fridinlay. Read the rest of this entry
The story continues. Why did Babette scream? What happened during the mysterious murders? Why am I speaking like an old soap opera narrator? Find out all this and less from the perspective of Gilbert Mines’ sheriff!
Nobody never saw much of me. I’d heard tell of some lawmen ‘cross the states, pride and joys of their towns. They’d patrol the streets in broad daylight, ridin’ top a great stallion, two six guns at their side and a long rifle in their pack. They was showmen. Least that’s what they’d have in the travelin’ shows. That’s what I heard was in them books people was readin’ out east. We’d have tourists comin’ in and asking for the sheriff during the day. My deputy’d have to tell them to come back after dusk.
Nothing ever happened in Gilbert Mines during the day. Even the accidents had been at night, each time under the biggest and brightest full moon you could see. I found that sleeping in spit of the son and haulin’ my tired behind in at nightfall was the only way I could keep going from dusk to dawn. I was never needed before that, or after. And, even then, the calls for my actions were few and far between. Of course, when they did come, they were dire. There’d been three or four brawls over the last month. First one ended in a young man’s death. He’d been beaten to within an inch of his life and just couldn’t climb a safe distance back. I couldn’t count the murders. They’d happened between a patrol. I heard the screams and the… whatever that other sound could have been… and I came runnin’. I grabbed my rifle first. I followed the sounds, no screamin’ then, just an animal eatin’ whatever it’d caught. Led me straight outside the inn.
Yeah, I saw it. Swear to all things holy, it was a strange type a bear I’d never seen before. I got a few shots off. Hit it’s side twice, then it got outta range right quick almost as if it knew that’s where the danger lessened. It headed out to the old mines. I know I hit it twice, both bullets landing not two inches from each other. You never forget a night like that. The littlest details stick for the longest time. Read the rest of this entry
This one might spark a discussion. Just remember, never make them eat their vegetables… Seriously, just don’t do it. THIS WILL HAPPEN!
“Five days ago, in response to a video now banned in most of the world, an estimated seventy five million people brought horrible and swift violence to the streets across this nation.”
The news anchor’s sullen voice marched through the silent basement. I was lucky to have turned the volume up when I noticed the blank screen replaced with the digital signal. Keeping the TV on was an accident, more of an oversight. I didn’t care to imagine what caused the owners of the house to leave without shutting everything off. I knew why it happened. I knew what happened and I didn’t want to see it in my mind.
The sofa that had been my bed for the last three nights cast a flickering shadow against the small, high, ground-level windows. I drew their shades. Not wanting to take any more chances, I put some spare cardboard boxes against them to block the light. I did all of this to the continuing voice of the softly speaking man on the television.
“Officials have yet to confirm the supposed facts discussed in the video, which became an internet sensation, literally, overnight. But the fact seems clear that whether the entirety was true or not, Dr. Herman Teichmann’s speech effectively predicted the days following the upload. In a twist of fate, Dr. Teichmann, himself, was the first high profile victim of the phenomena when a large group of organized assailants invaded his home and that of his house keeper.” Read the rest of this entry
Is there anything more dangerous than a crazy-ass writer?
Maybe one of these… MAYBE…
“Tacos are the source of all things good and right in this world.”
Vic had a habit of speaking to himself on long hauls. It seeped into his daily life. Even today, when he was pretty much just waiting around for his next call, he’d had three conversations already.
He pulled his pickup through the small ramp and gunned the engine. He cut in front of a tiny car of high school kids. He gave a little smile. They just looked like the type that were out for no good. They looked like the type he’d hung out with when he was that age.
The nearly setting sun tried to blind him though the windshield when he turned the corner to order. He stopped and pulled down the visor.
The window took a bit to roll down. It was sticking lately and he didn’t want to force it so much that he ripped the handle. It was an older truck, without power windows and heated seats. It had a great engine, though. That’s what he cared about. Read the rest of this entry
Don’t check this one for errors. You’ll see why, soon. It’s not just Aaron’s ridiculous way of writing. There’s a point this time.
We named him Ashkii.
He’d been given to us by the Navajo tribes as they came through a couple years back. Wanted to trade for some of our crop but didn’t have much on them. They wasn’t too well off as they marched through the dirt road leading to nowhere. All they had was a few puppies from a litter they was duped into buying from a Dutch swindler a few towns over.
The kid kept saying that word, over and over, shaking the little thing in front of us so we could see he meant to send it our way. They didn’t know english. To be perfectly honest, I ain’t too keen on my own language neither but I reckon that between us, we had enough for a good college teacher. Or maybe at least a bad one. Read the rest of this entry
In honor of Friday the 12th, Aaron has decided to post a more traditional supernatural story… Wait… what? It’s Friday the 13th? What the hell? When did it change over?
Great, now this doesn’t even make sense!
I wish someone would have told him.
He’s going to look like a moron.
Anyway, this story is directly inspired by one of Aaron’s favorite authors. Comment if you can tell who it is. Read the rest of this entry
These are old characters. They were created by Aaron and a few friends when they were in highschool. The original creations have changed over the years… For instance, MAX, used to be a large cybernetic duck. Yeah… ‘What the hell?’ is right.
It wasn’t looking good.
The ramps were blocked. Lazarus could see the traffic from the corner of his eye. His short, spiked, multicolored faux hawk was being torn apart in the wind. They were speeding in one direction, he was facing the other. He blinked, holding tight to the grips in his hands.
“Uh, hey boss, thay’s a prollum, huh?”
MAX shrugged the racist dialect.
“Here’s an idea, pipsqueak, you stick to what you’re doing and I’ll worry about the shit in front of us, kay?”
MAX’s face was calm. It was immoveable.
The interconnecting metal pieces could barely articulate speech. He hadn’t shown the stress when he’d noticed the lack of an exit strategy after this surprise chase started. He saw the other cars a long time ago. He had the benefit of driving, of being positioned in a forward facing direction, of being equipped with digital visual units. He was also not currently firing two large rotary pistols at the odd silvery, slithering creature chasing them. Read the rest of this entry
For those of you acquainted with Mommy’s work, you’ll be right at home. For those of you who aren’t, don’t worry… You don’t absolutely need to be. And yes, I am still on this Mommy thing.
The pain spreads from his ear to his jaw and further down the nerves of his neck and shoulders. His fingers twitch. The small arms, covered in old dark scars, tug against the impossibly heavy restraints. He refuses to scream, forcing his mouth closed against reflex. His sharp canine teeth pierce his own tongue. The sensation is nothing to what they’re doing but it gives him some control. It lets him accept the degradation. It distracts his mind.
Jagged metal stops halfway through the cartilage. The boy tries to move his head but a solid vice restricts him. He presses against the barrier, straining the connections. It’s not enough. He’s weak. They haven’t allowed him food. Muscles in his neck grow to definition. He can hear the metal groaning. The massive forces put against it might have freed him had a jolt of new sensation not been sent through his bare chest. Two needles pierce him, jolts of radiated energy communicate with his cells. They are told they are dying. In unison, the tiny organisms release a burst of chemicals and electrical signals. The boy’s brain interprets them and he is finally forced to make a sound. A low roar speaks of the agony. The loose parts of his body, the right arm and leg that aren’t losing circulation from the restraints, seize Read the rest of this entry