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!