Zombacylpse

Hello, hello and hello, my zombie minions. I am your all-powerful Undead Overlord. Welcome to the new age world. As you most assuredly must have realized by now, ALL of you are zombies. No, don't look so yellow. Or, I guess that's not your fault. It's not important how it happened, or why, or when. I doubt you could process such delicate information with your rotting brains. In fact, it's taking a toll on me just to maintain this ITF (Intelligent Telepathic Field). Anyway, the only thing that matters is that we are all zombies and the only thing that can satiate our hunger is the salty, and strangely sweet, flesh of the common human being.

Yes, you are dead. Yes, you are impervious to pain. Unfortunately, you are not invincible, nor are you immortal. And if you thought runny noses were annoying, wait till you get bouts of runny skin and runny limbs. The less you have to eat, the more of that it will happen. So, it's vital that you find sustenance as often as you can. The more you get, the stronger you will be. Who knows, someday your brain might even be as developed as mine. Well, actually. Never mind.

There are some things that you have to keep in mind. Some rules of thumb that you should follow.

Pack life: You better start getting used to pack life, and working as a team. Never, ever fight among yourself. Firstly, flesh of your kind is poison, so don't bother trying to go for the easy way to survival. Hunt in groups. In very, very large groups. Go alone, and you will most assuredly re-die. Go with a buddy or two, you will re-die. So when I say hunt in large groups, I mean REALLY large. Surround your target (singular, preferably. More targets = more guns on your faces), and share the meal like the good little deadbeats that you are.

Choose your location: Be wise. Be very, very wise when you're choosing your targets. That should go hand-in-hand with choosing the location of the kill. You can afford to be picky if your targets are the crippled and the bedridden, but otherwise, you need to be careful. Closed spaces will provide you with the possibility of cornering your target into a dead-end. But the advantage of your massive numbers will mean nothing when you're running through corridors and hallways. Any half-brained dolt would be able to pick you off one by one with a Smith & Wesson 500. Open spaces, like roads and what not, will favour numbers better, but be careful of targets wielding assault rifles or any burst fire guns.

Accessories: All of you have numerous accessories at your disposal. When besieged by groups of zombie hunters, use distracting tactics to split the team apart, and pick them out one by one. God knows how much of these instructions you lot will be able to retain, but I can hope for the best. Remember, getting shot does NOT stop you. Nothing stops you short of having your brains blown out. You never tire, you never sleep, and you never stop. Lost a hand, make a human lend you one. One of your legs ran away? Crawl to your prey. You are unstoppable forces of unnature, and THEY are just flesh and blood, ripe for your picking.

Forget the crappy zombie movies you've seen where those dead things are sluggish and dumb. They don’t know everything about us, and we don’t everything about them. Avoid getting shot, if possible. And remember, that infection is not your first priority. Kill, eat, and THEN infect failing the first two. You are as fast as a human being. You may be falling apart, but you still have legs, and hands, and a body. USE it! Go for the diaphragm, the hamstring, aim for the groin, the eyes, carpe jugulum! They are few, you are many. They have everything to lose, you don't. The world is your lawn. Go. Carry on, my undead sons. Bring me the world.

Note: Illustration will come in, as soon as illustration is done! =D

Zombacalypse - A mass relay to the dead world at large

Zombacalypse

Hello, hello and hello, my zombie minions. Welcome to the new age world. As you most assuredly must have realized by now, ALL of you are zombies. No, don't look so yellow. Or, I guess that's not your fault. It's not important how it happened, or why, or when. I doubt you could process such delicate information with your rotting brains. In fact, it's taking a toll on me just to maintain this ITF (Intelligent Telepathic Field). Anyway, the only thing that matters is that we are all zombies and the only thing that can satiate our hunger is the salty, and strangely sweet, flesh of the common human being.

Yes, you are dead. Yes, you are impervious to pain. Unfortunately, you are not invincible, nor are you immortal. And if you thought runny noses were annoying, wait till you get bouts of runny skin and runny limbs. The less you have to eat, the more of that it will happen. So, it's vital that you find sustenance as often as you can. The more you get, the stronger you will be. Who knows, someday your brain might even be as developed as mine. Well, actually. Never mind.

There are some things that you have to keep in mind. Some rules of thumb that you should follow.

Pack life: You better start getting used to pack life, and working as a team. Never, ever fight among yourself. Firstly, flesh of your kind is poison, so don't bother trying to go for the easy way to survival. Hunt in groups. In very, very large groups. Go alone, and you will most assuredly re-die. Go with a buddy or two, you will re-die. So when I say hunt in large groups, I mean REALLY large. Surround your target (singular, preferably. More targets = more guns on your faces), and share the meal like the good little deadbeats that you are.

Choose your location: Be wise. Be very, very wise when you're choosing your targets. That should go hand-in-hand with choosing the location of the kill. You can afford to be picky if your targets are the crippled and the bedridden, but otherwise, you need to be careful. Closed spaces will provide you with the possibility of cornering your target into a dead-end. But the advantage of your massive numbers will mean nothing when you're running through corridors and hallways. Any half-brained dolt would be able to pick you off one by one with a Smith & Wesson 500. Open spaces, like roads and what not, will favour numbers better, but be careful of targets wielding assault rifles or any burst fire guns.

Accessories: All of you have numerous accessories at your disposal. When besieged by groups of zombie hunters, use distracting tactics to split the team apart, and pick them out one by one. God knows how much of these instructions you lot will be able to retain, but I can hope for the best. Remember, getting shot does NOT stop you. Nothing stops you short of having your brains blown out. You never tire, you never sleep, and you never stop. Lost a hand, make a human lend you one. One of your legs ran away? Crawl to your prey. You are unstoppable forces of unnature, and THEY are just flesh and blood, ripe for your picking.

Forget the crappy zombie movies you've seen where those dead things are sluggish and dumb. They don’t know everything about us, and we don’t everything about them. Avoid getting shot, if possible. And remember, that infection is not your first priority. Kill, eat, and THEN infect failing the first two. You are as fast as a human being. You may be falling apart, but you still have legs, and hands, and a body. USE it! Go for the diaphragm, the hamstring, aim for the groin, the eyes, carpe jugulum! They are few, you are many. They have everything to lose, you don't. The world is your lawn. Go. Carry on, my undead sons. Bring me the world.

Putting off -- About an inspiration

The year was roughly near the end of 2006. Good year. It was the year that I started reading books. Science-fiction and fantasy. Oh, sure I had read before. In the same way that you would drink water if somebody suddenly just handed it to you. But 2006 was the year that I really got into the reading habit.

I devoured book after book after book. And not just any random book off the NY Times bestseller shelf, because let's face it -- not all the books that reach that place are even worth the glance. One word - Twilight.

No. I read books that filled your head with the best kind of fudge. The kind of books that filled your head wonders, and ideas, fears and hopes, inspirations and despairs, and a wide-eyed look on your face - the kind of books that leaves you awed in its scorching wake.

That's what authors Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams and Anne Rice all left me reeling from the power of their words. The wonder festered and grew in my mind, and it met up with inspirations and ideas and it brought forth a dream.

I suddenly wanted to write. I suddenly had things I wanted to say. I had stories I wanted people to know about. I suddenly wanted to be a funny guy who wanted to write funny shit. And I tried writing funny shit. I tried to be randomly funny like Douglas Adams, and I tried to be serious, and wittily funny like Terry Pratchett. And then I wrote - or tried to write dark stuff like Anne Rice. I thought I was fairly okay at it. Until I read them six months later.

I realized that they were utter bullshit. Somewhat unique, but that didn't stop them from being utter bullshit. Sure, some had their funny moments, but I was disheartened by my storytelling abilities. I was discouraged by the lack of depth in any of attempted stories, humorous or otherwise. But, the stuff I was writing right then seemed to decent enough.

Boy, was I wrong six months later. But I realized something. I was getting better and better. Every time I wrote some crap, and saw it as it was, I improved. I stopped trying to imitate my idols, Pratchett and Adams, in my writing style. They were a league of their own, and they had reached their point through their own hardwork.

I noticed that I was beginning to mature. I had developed my own style, and found my own little niche (sort of).

It was definitely not what I had in mind when I first started. But it was not something I was unpleased with. After three years, I have to say that I have gotten pretty good at writing fiction and fantasy. I am not the best, but I like to think that I am a lot better than a lot of the writers who make the NY Times Bestseller list.

The imitation was necessary. We must ALL start somewhere. And those two geniuses, Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams, gave me the push into the world of writing. Terry Pratchett, with his chaos-ordered world, inspired me to write more than anything. Oh, sure, there were other authors who had come and left their mark - Neil Gaiman, Mike Carey, Jonathan Straud, Stephen King, Frank Herbert, and so many others. They've all come and left their mark. But no one like Terry. I still reel in awe when I reminisce about the awesomeness that is the Discworld series, and the genius behind it.

Bottom line is, I had to start somewhere, and I may have started at a relatively crappy place as far as storytelling goes, but I'm improving and I'm learning something new everyday. Reading old stories may send goosebumps up and down my arm, and make squirm at the horribly lackluster storytelling, but that just means I know better now.

An excerpt

He began his long search for the Faerie gate. It was not difficult to find one of the iron markers, which are big iron rocks acting as markers for dreamwalkers. And from there on, it was simply tedious and long. Oh, so very long! Face the black star beside the red moon. Thirteen steps to the left, twenty six steps back, thirty nine steps to the right, twenty six steps forward, thirteen steps to the right, turn to the right, twenty six steps to the left, straight on to the next iron marker. Tarus stopped counting after the fifth repetition of this pattern.

He knew that if this was the waking world, the soles of his feet would have more blisters than he had hair. But he kept on and on and on, never stopping, never wavering from his path. On the seventh repetition, he noticed that whichever way he went, he always faced the black star beside the red moon. Or did the black star beside the red moon face him? It was only at the fourteenth repetition was he greeted something besides just another iron marker. The relief spread through him in a wave and the exhilaration could not keep the smile of his face. At last.

I think I’m really serious about entering the “Writers of the future contest”, and I think I’ll use a revamped version of “The Faerie Tree” story. A little exceprt. o_O

Respect for the gods

Every time I sit down to write something, within half an hour, my respect for my idols shoot up like a hot air balloon on rocket fuel.

It only takes my writing a few lines to realize how difficult it is to write dialogue. No, scratch that. How difficult it is to write REALISTIC sounding dialogues that makes sense. Dialogue that pushes the story forward, instead of making it sound like some teen angst drama.

Terry Pratchett’s books rely heavily on dialogue, and if not that, then internal monologues, which are JUST as hard to do.

When is the right time to use dialogue, when is the right time for soliloquies, when is the right time for someone to act surprised and go mute?

A group of robbers are out hunting their mark. They find him, they corner him. They banter for a short moment. One of the robbers fall dead as their mark proves to be deadlier than they anticipated. What do the other robbers think and feel right then? Do they stand still in shock? Do they go crazy and blindly rush at their mark? What drives a man towards his action? And how do we realize those drives and depict them in the accordingly appropriate manner?

Re-test

I love writing. And reading. I love writing and reading fantasy. So what do I do about it? I do nothing. I keep on writing. I keep on writing these little short stories and flash fiction. Working for Rising Stars ( a short supplementary weekly paper for The Daily Star, this other bigshot newspaper) has bred a really bad habit in me.

Article word limits on that supplementary paper are from 600 to a maximum of 1000 words. This has made me be really short. And I can’t seem to shake this really bad habit. But, this has also taught me how to be precise with my stories – as in, not mention more bullshit than is necessary to make a story work.

But that’s beside the point. Years of writing within a limit has made me unable to do proper dialogues, and proper descriptions.

So, suppose the impossible happens. I stumble upon this agent, who has inexplicably found a great publisher. Where’s my book?

Oh, crap. Bits and pieces are still festering inside my head, gnarling at me every so often to make me write them down. I could turn this post into a analysis of the depths of my mind, but that would just be silly. So, here I am, feeling dejected thanks to my own lethargy, procrastination, etc. and in general not really taking writing ALL that seriously.

And what happens?

I’ve recently read “Name of the Wind” – a FREAKING wonderful read about a man, or rather a myth of a man – kind of like a behind the scenes of a life of a hero, and so many more things. It’s about stories, and people telling stories, and stories telling stories, about magic, love, betrayal, loyalty, what have you not. What is it, though? One word – awesome.

So, I’m skimming through his thoroughly-entertaining blog, and I wonder if he would be willing to impart advice on little ol’ me. I laugh at my wistful thinking and say, “I’m gonna write him an e-mail. Why the fuck not?”

So, I do. Very lame, fanboy-ish e-mail.

Half an hour or less, and I’m bitching about my forlorn state of mind, and my potentially non-existent writing career. A quick gmail check (which I do periodically, almost instinctively) shows a mail from “PAT, to me”. I raise my eyebrow and dismiss it as an automated mail saying how Patrick has received my email, and will try to reply to me as soon as possible.

Is it, though? No, it’s not. It’s not an automated mail… It’s a REAL e-mail. By a REAL Patrick Rothfuss (or so I hope.)

Shahriar,

I’m sorry if this e-mail is brief, I’m in a bit of a hurry today…

From what I understand, you can get published anywhere, no matter where you live. So as long as you’re writing in English, I think it’s a good idea to try to get published in the US or the UK first.

Since you write short stories, you might want to consider the Writers of the Future contest. It’s specifically for new writers, and if you win they pay well and fly you out for a cool workshop in LA.

Best of luck,

pat

Boy, o boy. Glee of ALL glees. That was awesome on so many levels. And so I leave the post on this. I’ve gotta wake up early-ish tomorrow, and sleep now.

Oh, and I watched the Firefly episode, “Out of Gas” today. It was as brilliant as ever.

Baldr's Run

Baldr ran through the wastelands of the Nordic ice ranges. Under normal circumstances this would have been quite impossible. The snow worms would have devoured any life that travelled over those ice-ranges. But the circumstances were not normal, and Baldr, even less so.

Second Son of Odin need not fear snow worms. Baldr, lord of the shadows, need fear neither fire nor ice. Baldr, the Vigilant, however feared his father’s wrath. Always had. And he feared his father’s death curse even more.

Baldr, the vigilant no more, ran as fast as his immortal legs could take him. For all of Ragnarok were at his heel and the time for diplomacy was long gone.

Images of the past few hours flashed through his mind. Loki, with his accursed poison spearhead. That bastard traitor Tyr with his stumped hand and his blasted  wolfhound. The memories were still burnt in his mind. Truth be told, he couldn’t care much for Odin. The old god had always treated him with contempt and disrespect. Yet, the arrogance!

He still remembered the words. Odin took Baldr’s shoulder, the first time in centuries, and he had taken the young demi-god to the Tree of Life, and had told him of his task. His voice was course, rough and old, “Baldr, son to Frigg. Mark this spot in creation well. There will come a time when you must stand vigil here. At the time of my death. Nine nights and nine days you’ll stand, without relief or sustenance. And you must carry my spear with you. Nine nights and your task shall end, and only then shall I pass on.”

The words echoed in his vast memory, and he recalled the moment, the exact moment when he was indeed standing vigil at the Tree of Life. He remembered hanging upside down by his ankle, naked to the skin. He remembered the snakes and the bees and the rats. He remembered the imps throwing their sharp stones at him. And he remembered holding on to the spear for dear life.

He flinched in phantom pain and almost stumbled on the slippery ice. He remembered the spear very well. It had been stabbed through his back and out into the front, skewering his internals all over the place. Battered, bruised, utterly destroyed, Baldr had stood vigil for three days.

A wake. Purposeful sleepnessness. He told them what they could do with the spear and the wake. And now there were after him, for he had broken his promise. He had broken his promise to his father, a promise any other of Odin’s children would have given their legs and more to make. And they were after him now. All Baldr could do was run. And pray to the Old gods that his father's assassin Fenrir would not come to finish him off too.

[Note: The writer has made use of extensive creative license. If you use this anywhere, please credit me and let me know. It's under the Creative Commons License here.]