Friday, April 27, 2012
Darzell ducked under a lab counter, adrenaline filling his veins. The blaring siren of contamination breech made the biotech wince, the piercing noise compounding the horror of the situation.
He struggled to control his thoughts, to remember the protocol. There were always protocols in place, meant to keep everyone safe in an emergency. There were protocols for the protocols. A hundred different things to do, long lists of precautions to keep danger at bay.
So who had fucked up and let the xenomorphs out?
The chitinous black beasts were kept under triple security procedures, locked behind state-of-the-art plassteel walls. A telepath was always on hand to keep the nest calm, acting as a surrogate queen to the deadliest genetic creation in the explored universe.
Darzell heard a scream and tucked further under the counter. The lab complex was expansive, meaning the victim had to be close. Someone was being torn apart by a monster he had helped create.
The sirens wailed on and on. Shouldn't the AI have been telling the scientists what to do by now? Was it somehow damaged? Had it gone crazy and let the xenomorphs out in a fit of madness?
He broke out in a cold sweat as panic and fear continued. The biotech needed to escape, but he knew all too well how quickly the creatures hunted. Agile, they'd climb the very walls if it got them to prey quicker. Razor claws and a whip-like tail only aided their fearsome teeth.
Darzell knew there was no escape.
Why wasn't there gunfire? The guards were heavily armed and armored. It wouldn't take much for the big soldiers to mow down the escaped beasts. They were probably at a different wing of the complex, working their way here. He could surely go unnoticed for that long.
The sirens stopped, his ears ringing painfully in the sudden silence.
What did he do now? The AI hadn't declared an all clear, but why else would the alarms quit? Darzell wiped sweat from his brow, trying to steady his nerves.
A deep voice, that of the head scientist, came across the intercom. "This experiment is now concluded. Your participation is appreciated."
Gulping hard, confused, Darzell rose from his crouch to look around. His scream was brief when the xenomorphs lunged at him.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
I doubt many others are going to discuss the addictive aspect of writing.
Being a storyteller is a pressing need that nearly drives us crazy. I have to tell these tales or I'm fit to burst. The words are constantly banging around in my head, and I'm always toying with the What Ifs of my surroundings.
The addiction doesn't end there, though. It's not enough to just write it down. I need to have other people read it. I need to be validated, and know I took them somewhere special for a while.
It keeps going from there. The adulation is great, and sets me off to bobbleheaded happiness. (Bobbleheaded is a term used around my house to describe the way I act like a living bobblehead when I'm over-joyed.) The high of entertaining someone is like no other. It really makes everything else seem unimportant. I could live off hearing someone liked my story.
Yet all highs have their come-downs. The writing crash is horrid. It eats at me, and tells me silly things, and wants me to feel worthless. Oneperson liked my story, but ten others didn't even read itt. There are much better phrases I could have used, and the rhythm is horribly off. I'll never be a real storyteller.
And then it starts over. I absolutely have to write. Doesn't matter how much the last one "sucked", this one will surely be better, will be the one.
Writing is the worst addiction. At least heroin addicts can get into rehab. Storytellers are stuck chasing the literary dragon because of something internal. It will never come out, and it will never end.
Yet I wouldn't want itt any other way.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
You seriously had to know I was going to write about vampires on V day. Would you have it any other way, though? It's really just who I am.
So, yeah, sparkling vampires. I cannot even begin to describe the deep-seated loathing I feel toward sparkling vampires. Any of the non-biting, non-hunting, non-predator vampires, actually. What's the point of making a vampire not drink blood? Would it be compelling to talk about a great white shark that didn't eat seals? No.
Dear wuss vampire authors, and yes, this is me being a little spiteful, please stop diluting my genre. Pick another creature, since it doesn't matter if your main man has fangs or not. Perhaps he's an elf, or just a superhuman. Plenty of other supernaturals have cool powers, and you won't be able to ruin their dark mystique.
Some of us have the desire to be hunted and fed on, and that's why we like vampires. We need to be victims, need to hang in the mercy of our lover. We need to show how deep our passion and love run, and we do that by sustaining his life.
You don't have to stop writing. Just stop taking our thing. Leave vampires to the shadows and those who want to be in there.
Thank you for hearing me out. It's not going to change anything, but I feel better for having spoken up. If you agree, or want to see what else I have to say on the matter, stop by VampiresDontSparkle.com