Production Junction:

Production Junction:

I’ve noticed that I have begun to hinge my daily self worth on how productive I am. How many chores I get done. How much writing I am able to muster. Parenting fills up most of my life. I have to consciously detour from dadding in order to get anything else done, and often I put my children first, but at the end of the day I feel utterly worthless if the house is a mess and I didn’t write at least SOMETHING.

Parenting has become a rote action in a lot of ways for me, so a full day of parenting doesn’t feel like an accomplishment anymore. It’s just another day. Not that I don’t still enjoy parenting. It has it’s ups and downs. Plenty of downs, but the ups stand out more.

I feel obligated to keep the apartment clean, as it’s part of my job as a stay at home dad, and I feel a profound sense of shame when it’s a mess. However chores are a secondary priority, so sometimes they get lost in the mix of parenting. I know, I’m terrible. It happens. And I feel like shit when it does.

Writing is something that I want to do, and find therapeutic. It makes me happy. So when I’m not able to do it for whatever reason I loose that specific sense of happiness and accomplishment for the day. I find myself lacking, almost empty, like I’m missing a little spark inside that only comes after I write.

As you can tell I think about writing a lot. In fact, if I actually wrote half as much as I think/talk about writing, I’d have a book by now. Maybe more than one. I have the want, but often not the time. And when I make the time I often snakeeyes it. Can you see my frustration?

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not the best judge of that. Still though, I can’t seem to help it. At the end of the day I require a feeling of accomplishment to sleep well at night. Guess I better get out the vacuum then. This place isn’t going to clean itself.

Trying something new:

Trying something new:

On my current work in progress I had written myself into a corner, and for a good couple weeks I didn’t know how to get out of it. I had set up a duel, but didn’t want to write the standard sword fight. I wanted something weird, and funny. Then it hit me. Rap battle! Hipster Rumpelstiltskin vs. woke mistress of the Void in a rap battle to the death! It made me giggle just thinking about it. Then I wondered how well rap would translate to book form (I.E: without music), followed by the realization that I would actually have to sit down and write it. I’ve never rapped before in my life, nor do I listen to modern rap. So who the eff am I to write this?

So I started doing research. YouTube can be a great resource for writers if you don’t mind sifting through it for those little nuggets of gold. I watched everything from home video rap battles to the professional Epic Rap Battles of History. Finding my inspiration, I started writing. Just a little bit every morning at 5am. Some days I’d manage to find my flow, some days not so much. It’s super challenging writing rap. I have a lot more respect for talented rappers now, even though I don’t always agree with the subject of their music. It’s a lot like writing poetry actually, or at least it is for me. The difference is that I have to rap out loud to be able to hear the flow. Can you imagine me sitting in my living room at 5am rapping to myself quietly so I don’t wake my kids? It’s hilarious if you know me.

It has also helped my depression immensely to get over my writers block. Some days (like today) I only manage to get a couple lines down, but that’s better than nothing. It’s an accomplishment. It’s something. I can already tell this story is going to be a slow burn, but I think the idea is funny, and worth writing. I hope I can capitalize on a manic phase soon. Get some real writing done, like a supercharge. I’m definitely excited to be trying something new. It’s neat getting out of my comfort zone as a writer. I think that’s how good art is made. I hope I can live up to that.

Following the schedule:

Following the schedule:

Surprisingly I am acclimating to the 5am writing schedule pretty well. My alarm is the Silent Hill air raid siren, so you only really need to snooze once before you’re up. My wife encourages me with elbows to the ribs too. She likes to snooze a bit longer before getting up for work.

Anyways today I managed to get 776 words into a thousand word limit article I pitched a week ago and got the green light for. I should be finished with it after tomorrow morning. I’m struggling with the idea that anyone would want to read this article, as it is a personal story rather than purely informative. Like why would you care that Buffy the Vampire Slayer & the X-Files got me through the foster care system, and my parents imprisonment when I was a boy, then growing into a teen with just my mom…

I’m just not sure that’s interesting. I mean I know that it’s not normal, but why would you, the reader, care? I know that this fear stems from my bipolar disorder. This is exactly the kind of shit my anti-muse would whisper. Sowing doubt and discord in my mind until writing becomes a useless gesture. It wants me to give up again.

Well fuck that.

I’m stronger than my diagnosis. In a way, writing is helping me trudge through my depression by bringing me joy, and confidence. The more confidence I gain, the more I am motivated to write. The more joy I feel writing, the more I want to interact with other writers on social media to share that joy. The more I interact, the more writers I see out there absolutely killing it with their kung fu. Nothing motivates me more than seeing another writer hustling hard. It makes me want to work just as hard, if not harder. But not as a fuck you, more as a high five on the playing field. I’ll never understand why people get jealous of others hard work. Maybe they don’t like how it reflects upon their own work, or lack thereof. Whatever. We should be lifting each other up, not clamoring for the front of the line. Just my two cents.

Tonight I think I will make a little offering to the Norse god Bragi, the god of poetry and song, for a little inspiration. Been a while.

Art taken off

Wake up! It’s smile time!

Well I got up at the wee hour of 5am, turned on the coffee, and got down to writing. I was going to work on one of my old short stories, but my laptop died on me and I couldn’t find the cable in the dark of my room. So rather than wake my wife up by turning on the light I decided to write on my phone instead. I switched it up, and worked on an article I’d pitched last week to an editor friend of mine. 518 words later my daughter and son woke up and it was time for me to dad again.

Overall I am tired, but extremely satisfied with this little experiment. I don’t know if I can do this every single day, but maybe a few days a week at first just to see how I do. My wife gets up for work at 5am too, so it gives me an excuse to have coffee with her before she leaves for the day. (She has today off work, so I was flying solo this morning)

All in all I am happy, I feel accomplished, and the day has only just begun. Like even if I get nothing else done today (unlikely) I’ll have written 518 words, and that’s not nothing. I feel like, at least for today, I spit in the eye of my diagnosis. I can live with that.

Swing and a miss

My thoughts are a broken record today. Depressed because I’m too tired to write at night. Literally falling asleep at the keyboard. Wife talked me out of coffee. Probably a bad idea anyways. I have to wake up early with the kids everyday, soooooooo I dunno… i could try to get up when my wife gets up, at 5am to get ready for work. Maybe I could get up, have coffee with her, and write for a few hours until my son wakes up around 7am. My daughter is in bed with us around the time my wife gets up, so she’s up anyways. She usually just chills in bed with me, playing on the tablet, until my son wakes up, or I get up to go get him. Maybe I’ll try that tomorrow. I need to find my writing nitch. My time I can devote to writing. Sporadically writting throughout the day isn’t nearly enough, nor is it supportive of any flow I might get going. I constantly have to dad. It’s not even that my parenting responsibilities are getting in the way of my writing, it’s the other way around. If I have to choose, I will always choose my children first. So my writing suffers.
Uggh! I hate this feeling. Like my demons are whispering in my ear again. Trying to silence the stories I’ve yet to tell. I hope I find my stride soon. It’s getting harder to keep my chin up about it. I’m loosing ground to exhaustion and mental illness, and the coffee just isn’t strong enough lately. Anyways, I’ve complained long enough. I’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Inspiration is fleeting

Inspiration is fleeting

Feeling listless today. I took care of the majority of mundane tasks on my list. Spent time with my kids. I just can’t seem to get comfortable though. Like I’m waiting for a phone call with terrible news, or for the other shoe to drop, or whatever you want to call it. I know it’s because I’ve missed a couple days of medication due to being out after a mix up at the pharmacy. Gotta love it. So I’ve been on edge.

Thank the gods for coffee though. My liquid knight in shining fucking armor, oh how I love you. I felt like a marionette held up by delicious threads of creamy caffeinated delight this morning. Seriously though, as a parent, and especially as an autism parent, I literally cannot function properly without coffee. It’s just asking for trouble.

The kids are watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse and I’m banging my head against the keyboard trying to feel some sort of epiphany through the haze of the doldrums. I think that’s the only reason I’m even writing this, so that at least at the end of the day I can say I wrote something.

Writing truly is my soul balm. It brings me joy unlike any hobby I’ve ever had. Even when it sucks, which is often, I effing created something that wasn’t there before. It’s like magic! And you know what? If even one person likes my writing then it was worth it. Hel, it’s worth it even if no one likes it, because at the end of the day I’m writing for me, and my own mental health.

Anyways, I hope your day has been more inspirational than mine has. Hail to the fleeting muse! May she grace us with her gifts sooner than later.

The struggle is real

I’ve been gone for a while, obviously. Dealing with mental health issues and writer’s block like a mother trucker. Over a year of just not writing. Feels strange to get back on the horse after so long, but I’ve been dipping my toes gingerly into the inky pool of inspiration. Doing a little poetry. Submitting a little thing here and there. Small stuff, but with momentum. All I have to do is stay hungry and motivated. Easier said than done, I know. I am lucky enough to have some awesome writer friends who are kicking me in the butt, and a very supportive family. Things might just be different this time.

That’s all for now. I’m going to try and update this blog at least once a month from now on.

Araneae Ex Amore Vindictae

​  Rigoberto the recluse waited patiently for the giantess to pass him by. He fantasized about sinking his fangs into pudgy kankle meat, filling flesh with his necrotizing poison. Anger demanded retaliation for the destruction of his mate, and their sack of spiderlings. His entire brood slaughtered in one foul spray of bottled arachnid-death. Fury seethed behind his many eyes.

  However instinct was a fickle mistress, and his need for survival outweighed any dreams of revenge. His chitinous loins burned for another mate, another chance at procreation. Every fiber of his tiny body yearned for the shivering release that fertilizing bulging sacks of freshly laid eggs would bring. Rigo was one horny little spider. 

  He scoured the exterior of the giantess’ abode, first looking for another recluse, then lowering his standards to other less attractive spiders. He crawled, climbed and delved, but he couldn’t find one suitable mate. It was maddening, to think that the giantess had wrought such a genocidal holy war against spider kind, and left him to die alone. 

  Perhaps inside the giantess’ stone nest there were other survivors such as him, alone and afraid, and more importantly, desperate for copulation. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

 Rigo entered through an open window, hugging the shadows within until he was safely hidden beneath the hulking plateau where the giantess slept. He searched the bedroom, then ventured out into the labyrinth of the gargantuan home. 

  The home was infested with a plethora of insects, all of whom insisted that arachnids had been obliterated long ago. Rigo sampled a few of the more delicious looking prey, slurping as he interrogated their kin. They seemed unperturbed. 

   He returned to the sleeping giantess’ chamber. Thunderous snoring grated upon his spider soul, that she could slumber so soundly when his very existence dangled from a broken web, awoke a lustful rage within him. 

  Silently Rigo crept up onto the bed, pausing in caution as the giantess choked on sleep apnea. 

  “¡Espero que el estrangulador a la muerte en su saliva maloliente, Puta!” He hissed, traversing the valley of her legs.

  The foreboding cave at the valley’s end belched forth noxious gasses, a grim warning to any foolish enough to dare traverse its putrescence. Rigo entered without hesitation. 

  Deep within the slimy depths he found it, an egg delicately attached to the bloody uterine walls of his new horrific home. Procreation was inevitable. 
This story was featured over at the New Bizarro Author Series website. For more spider sex stories, and much more cool stuff, go check them out!


​  Jedediah Pinkeyeton sat deep within his labyrinth, his web of trinkets and detritus that was his obsession. His grisly features painted a haggardly bleak portrait of a man grown geriatric despite his relative youth.

  His neurosis delved deeply into the realms of full-blown kleptomania with a splash of sociopathic disconnection in human empathy. A true virtuoso of larceny, deceit, and grave robbery.

  He hunched further into his phonebook, his bulbous nose dribbling yellowish mucus upon the rows of digits, and names. Cadaverous fingers drew psychedelic swirls, like ancient hieroglyphs mingling amongst the little lives, and the putrid snot. 

 His finger stopped suddenly. The spider had chosen his fly.


  Encapsulated Swarovski crystal nails slowly clicked down in waterfall succession. The rhythm thrummed like a heartbeat mandra, explosively loud despite the drone of her metrosexually ambiguous executive assistant/yes-man. 

  Jeanine Cho scoured the wanted ads. Delighted by the perverted, and blatantly intended adultery transparently advertised in neat little bingo boxes. Delicious free-range sinners, cataloged alphabetically for her enjoyment.

  Her sycophantic secretary paused apologetically to answer an incoming call.

  “Miss Cho’s office, how may I assist you?” he intoned by rote.

  “I’m sorry, but she is currently in a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?”

  Jeanine picked up her office phone and fatally jabbed the button for line one.

  “Thrill me.” she quoted her favorite film.

  “Miss Cho, I presume?” said a cancerous voice.

  “I’ve exactly zero time for games. Get to the point.” 

  “I want you. I will have you tonight.” the man cackled. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

  A slow smirk curled Chanel lips into a haunting rictus of corporate beauty. The black widow was pleased. 


  Jedediah skulked in the shadows of the VIP booth at his favorite pretentious goth bar, Club I Bleed Black. He watched the writhing bacchanal as it rolled in and out with the tide of music, and too-expensive booze. His quarry would be here tonight, he could feel it in his bunyans.

  Jeanine entered the club as if she owned the place, which she did, so it made absolute sense. Club I Bleed Black was a sort of long standing social experiment. It was her hunting ground, her hallowed web of sin. 

  Jedediah glanced up from his cranberry juice and froze at the picturesque widow standing defiantly before him. Eyes met and sparked a deep seeded cognition that they were kindred. They both felt it immediately, and neither could deny it.

  The gibbering gentleman standing just behind Jeanine begged to differ. His straight razor cast a gleaming arch, thirsting for sanguine arterial kisses.

  Jedediah launched himself at his query. 

  Jeanine desperately dodged the two men, reaching for her .357 derringer.

  The muzzle flash was blinding in the candlelight, burning the erotic moment into memory. Jedediah strangled the life from the cock shot fiend, grinning madly as he did. Jeanine leaning down to finish him with a kiss.

  Together they consumed the man’s soul, and at last they knew love.

Published on the New Bizarro Author Series website. For more spider sex mini-fiction, go check them out!

Chain Smoking At Bus Stops

​  Garry lit a cigarette.

  The man standing next to Garry wrinkled his nose and gave him a sideways glance.

  Garry lit another cigarette. Now holding two in one hand, he took a slow drag from the cancerous twins. The smoke executed a tactical/surgical/preemptive strike deep within the nasal passage of the stranger, engorging his ire. This was war.

  The stranger’s hand ascended, as if in slow motion or some inebriated gypsy’s wild premonition. The hand shook, nearly vibrating with the telltale sign of incipient alcoholism. Withdrawal tremors masquerading as adrenaline shakes. 

  Garry lit two cigarettes and added them to the party. The four coffin nails dangled from his moistened lips, taunting the stranger.

  Spider-like, the hand climbed until it reached the razor-burned jowls of the stranger’s horrifyingly mundane face. The face attached itself to the head, that in turn attached itself to the neck, that attached to the body, that attached to the arm, that attached to that quaking fucking hand, that attached to five dainty little digits. Fat digits. Like a big baby. 

  The baby digits cup the mouth, and so began the great spiral of hand to mouth to hand again. Forever into infinity. One could become lost in that spiral. One could go mad.

  Then came the cough. That annoyingly rude “I don’t really need to cough, but I’m going to anyways to teach you that smoking is bad for you, because you obviously must not be in on this ubiquitous little factoid, are you? Are you, Billy? Huh? Well are you??” -kind of cough. You know the one. That fucking judgmental non-smoker cough.

  Garry lit up three more cigarettes. Now seven little cherries burned brightly from between long piano fingers. Bluish smoke hung in the air between the two men, thick enough to cut with a knife. Thick like marmalade. 

  The stranger turned a frowning, pinkish face to stare directly at Garry. Garry and his seven repugnant cigarettes. 

  Garry lit up another five cigarettes. Now he had to use both hands to smoke them all, like some kind of burning pan flute out of  a meth-induced feverdream. 

  The stranger quirked a caterpillar eyebrow at Garry. He was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted!

  Garry watched the stranger take a picture and post it to instagram without even looking at his iPhone. It was an action of habit. A rote gesture of the self delusion that people actually gave a shit. It was a lie.

 Garry zealously supported artistic expression, so he struck an interpretive pose just in time for the flash. The stranger didn’t seem to notice, too busy aggressively hash-tagging his disapproval all over the interweb.

  Garry lit up another eight cigarettes. His manly fists looked like birthday cakes made of meat and knuckles. 

  Understanding dawned on the stranger’s face. Epiphany made flesh.

  “Are you..” The stranger hesitated.

  “Are you smoking the Fibonacci sequence?” The stranger asked.

  Garry turned once more to the stranger and their eyes met. Tears of joy shimmered in the stranger’s eyes. Tears of love. 

  The stranger reached slowly into his trendy 90’s messenger bag and pulled a worn copy of the latest Fibonacci Quarterly, a mathematical journal of some prestige. The stranger’s face stared back at Garry from the cover art.

  The resemblance was uncanny. It was too good to be true. It was the ghost of the great Leonardo of Pisa!

  Before either of them had a chance to consider the repercussions to the space/time continuum, they were wrapped tightly in each others arms. Cigarettes tumbled to the ground beneath their feet, like smoldering confetti. It was an embrace written in the spiraling cosmos above and below.

  Garry awoke in a cold sweat. The uncomfortable erection-tent in his lap would have been embarrassing if he hadn’t been alone. Always alone.

  Garry cried himself back to sleep, the plushy Funko Pop Fibonacci doll clutched tightly between his muscular thighs. 

  Garry dreamt of spirals.
Previously published on Three Minute Plastic.