Posts Tagged ‘Chrysanthemum Graves

10
Nov
19

Antagonism

Chrysanthemum Graves decided it wanted to do it’s own thing. A character who wasn’t supposed to exist (except maybe as background decoration) butted in and said “Excuse me, but I believe I am the villain of this piece.”

It was supposed to be a struggle between one ex-Yakuza and the ghost of his dead fiancee. Now the father of that fiancee has gotten involved, is probably the reason she’s haunting anyone at all, and is a bigger tool than one thought possible.

Now I’m torn. Do I try to force it back to where Akane was the only villain (reluctant, cursed, or otherwise), or do I let Arai run rampant, potentially to the level of laying a smackdown on my MC when he thinks he’s safe?

I can’t decide. Thankfully, I don’t need to come back to either Akane or Arai’s POV for a little bit, so they can simmer in the back brain and argue over who’s the actual antagonist of the story.

Anyone else have this issue? Have your supposed villains stepped aside without planning to reveal someone else as the bad guy? Do your antagonists argue with each other over who’s actually the baddest of the bad? Share your stories below!

KA Spiral no signature

08
Nov
19

Snippet: Chrysanthemum Graves

Despite my previous complaints, I am still slamming my head against the wall, hoping to get as much of Chrysanthemum Graves done as I can during the month, even if I don’t hit the 50k. We’re riding in not quite at the 5k mark right now. That may be sad, but it’s also more than I’ve managed to put on a manuscript in months… maybe years. So… progress?

I’ve also managed to post something here every day for 100 days in a row. That feels reasonably accomplished. I’m trying.

To celebrate, I thought I’d share a chunk of Chrysanthemum Graves. Let me know what you think. If you want to be buddies for NaNo, I’m listed as Kaine Andrews over there, too. Or you can stalk me on Twitter. And, usual shameless plug, if you like what I do and want to help me keep doing it, you can drop by my Patreon or drop a dime in the bucket for my surgery GoFundMe. Thanks, and enjoy!

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The thirst came first. Desperate, gnawing, unbearable thirst. The entirety of existence was akin to the Mojave, with no respite in sight.
Sight. That was next. Darkness, brightening to white as though someone was toying with the options on a television remote. Then scaling back to a happy medium, where shapes and colors were recognizable, though all tinged with a blue-gray haze. Then, as though that invisible hand upon the remote was continuing to press buttons, the blue darkened to violet before brightening again to red. Everything looked as though it had been soaked in blood or seen through a rage-tainted lens.
This brought back the thirst. It was a physical thing, clawing and biting inside. For what remained unknown, but it had to be fed.
Hearing came after that. The rustling of something burrowing into the suede couch that sat directly ahead. The skittering of a spider somewhere in the wall, a violin melody of webs being spun and woven. The rush of water and hiss of air running through the pipes.
The water in the pipes stank, awakening the sense of smell. Nothing about it was appealing, even when propped against the monstrous thirst that threatened to consume everything. Cold, clear, filled with purifiers and minerals and small bits of the metal tubes through which it traveled. The taste of it was even worse, burrowing inside like a noxious worm seeking only to destroy and corrode everything it touched.
Recoiling in revulsion, the thirst caught wind of something else. A smell that matched the colors, that called to the thirst with a sweet song of relief. There. The other room.
As though the thought alone was sufficient, the bed appeared. A figure, sleeping. The smell was heavenly, ambrosia to the soul. Sweat, tinged with the salts and hormones of deep fear and deeper grief. Warm flesh, upon which hundreds of tiny hairs could be seen standing at attention. Beneath both, a glorious red smell, pushed outward with each of the figure’s sighing breaths. This is what the thirst wanted.
The figure’s throat, throbbing with the pulse that called those red rides and kept them flowing. This is what the thirst wanted most.
The thirst demanded it. Tangled itself around that fragile neck, tightening like a noose and lapping at the flesh like a timid but eager lover. Beads of blood seeped through the skin, and as the thirst drew them in the feeling was orgasmic.
The body thrashed, pulling away. The thirst, not sated but only growing, tried to tighten its grip. Whatever force animated it refused to obey. Weakness rippled through it, taste and hearing fading away, sight dimming.
The thirst cried out, still craving the life beneath it, but those words were echoes of echoes at best, unheard and useless.
Nothingness claimed it, and the thirst slept again. But this time, there were dreams… and they were red.

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KA Spiral no signature

03
Nov
19

Already Over?

So, according to the standard, I should have somewhere around or just shy of 5k words written on Chrysanthemum Graves.

Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m at about 2,400. So… yeah. Somehow being at less than half of target only three days in does not give me hope, especially when there are people already claiming to have their full 50k done. Cool trick.

We’ll see. I’m going to try to keep at it, assuming I survive the plague that continues to ail me (I will never eat at Red Robin again, I assure you), but don’t know if I’ll come anywhere close to hitting the goal, let alone finishing the story.

Hope the rest of you folks are having better luck out there, whether your projects are part of NaNoWriMo or not. Good luck, folks.

01
Nov
19

It’s On!

NaNoWriMo has officially started, and apparently, I’m officially participating. If you want to be my buddy, I’m listed as Kaine Andrews on there, too. If not, that’s okay.

Theoretically, you’re supposed to drop around 1,667 words per day to hit the 50k target for the month. I don’t think I’m going to manage that today. Still feel like crap, suffering from strep, food poisoning and at least three pulled muscles. But I did manage about 1,400 words, which is… something, at least.

Anyone else out there on the NaNoWriMo train? How goes it so far? Tell us about your project below, if you like!NaNoWriMo

21
Oct
19

Chrysanthemum Graves

Being unable to hold it in anymore, I scribbled the first few paragraphs of my NaNoWriMo project. I thought I’d share. Let me know what you think!

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“What the fuck are you doing? Where the hell are your shoes?”

The voice came from somewhere further inside the house, the heavy walls and their tapestries deadening it, killing any echoes and making it hard to tell where it had come from. Still, Danny knew it well enough. Calm, despite the words it chose. Deep, rumbling like a subterranean landslide. Faint traces of an accent, but one that was almost impossible to define.

“Taking care of the floor, man! Isn’t that some shit you’re into? Don’t wanna track all over the place.”

Danny’s voice was shrill, nasal, almost the human equivalent of nails on chalkboard. He hated the sound of it himself, and would complain about it to anyone who even vaguely touched the subject, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Puberty and its mysterious ways had been unkind to him in that regard.

The owner of the other voice had appeared at the end of the hall leading from the entryway. Contrary to his irritation at Danny’s lack of footwear, he was barefoot. A pair of gray sweats were the only clothing he wore. His chest was bare, shiny with sweat. Danny assumed the other man had been in the middle of one of his routines when he’d heard the bell.

“I like to keep my floor clean, yeah. That’s why I don’t want your nasty feet dragging on it. I mean, couldn’t you at least wear some socks? Go put your shoes back on. Then meet me in the kitchen.”

The man turned to his left, slipping through a beaded curtain that blended so well into the wall that it would have been invisible if you didn’t know to look for it. He was silent as he did so, and despite the rattling Danny knew he’d provoke by walking through it, the beads barely moved, as though they refused to defy the master of the house.

“Uh… right. Whatever you say, Ichi.”

His voice shook more than usual, and Danny cursed himself for it. Ichiro had never done anything to make him feel the pulse of fear that always quaked through him in the other man’s presence. Nothing to him, anyway. But Danny still always had to wonder if one day that would change.

He slunk back up the two short steps that separated the main room from the entrance, slipping his feet into the battered sneakers that had last been replaced sometime during Obama’s first term, before moving to follow Ichiro through the curtain.




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