Kemba couldn't pinpoint the moment she had stopped pursuing and had begun fleeing. The line dividing the two seemed indistinct, the moments between action and reaction smearing together, time robbing her of the details. She had certainly entered the cave with the arrogance of a predator, her years of training bolstering her confidence. She had been convinced that should would be the one to bring an end to the night raids. When had the roles shifted? The specific moment was lost to her, but the result was obvious- she needed to get out.

Crouching, she strained her ears, listening for the sounds of movement, a rubber footpad crunching gravel or the scrape of metal against rock. The only sound that she could hear was the drip of her blood as it ran, hot and thick, down her side and onto the cavern floor; the sound of its impact was added to the symphony of plips and plops echoing around the humid enclosure. The dankness of the cave rose up to assault her nose as the thousands of tons of rock pressed down on her overhead. The space seemed to compress as she knelt there, taking stock. The earthy smell of fungus and decay and lack of daylight crawled behind her hunter's mask to tickle at her nose. She reached up to scratch at the sensation but the large mask deflected her hand. The headgear would protect her from the vengeful spirits of her dispatched prey, but at times like these she wish for nothing more than to fling the cumbersome thing into some forgotten chasm and be finished with it. And maybe she should, considering she had become the dispatched prey in question. The spear at her back, however, she would keep. Even a mouse can bite.

Her body tensed without explanation to her brain. Legs previously bent in a resting crouch swiveled smoothly into a lunge just as coiled muscles exploded into motion, carrying her towards the mouth of the cavern. She heard a thump of something heavy landing behind her, but didn't turn to look as the irregular beat of it's steps began to pursue. She was a plains rabbit fleeing the wolf, except her refuge would be escaping this forsaken, dark hole she had so willingly climbed into. The decision to come seemed increasingly suicidal as the sounds behind her increased their arrhythmic tempo and blood oozed from the wound at her side, quenching the hard stone under foot. The council had refused her entry, and her brother, Saire, had tried to stop her sneaking in- she would never get to apologize for that black eye if she didn't pick up her pace. Legs began to scissor in a fluid grace as her fear evaporated. The stampede behind her ceased and there was a moment of silence followed as vast as the sky. Kemba realized how still the air in the cave was; she could see the individual motes of dust and spores as they hung in the air, motionless as stars. Then she was pitching forward, her feet flying up behind her as a clammy synthetic noose seized her ankles. Kemba twisted as she fell and her back hit the bare rock hard, the air burst from her lungs. Her vision shattered and vignetted as she struggled against the pain of her wound to pull air back into her lungs. And then she was falling- or being lifted– the pain shrieking through her body didn't exactly allow for a distinction. Blood from her side began to drip onto the under side of her chin and her mind seized the information and used it. Other sensations rushed to her awareness: a noose biting into her hoisted ankle, the stomach acid pooling in her throat, the ground coming into focus a few feet from her head, and a broken spear shaft lying in a smear of red, they were all puzzle pieces for her bruised mind to assemble. She was upside down. As she made the realization her body started swiveling around, the rubbery vine wrapped around her ankle twisting her away from the cave's opening and towards the black she had tried to leave behind. The creature appeared like a grotesque sunrise, slowly coming into view as she was turned to face it.

ToBeCont..?

Story by: Russell Lee Nasrallah
Art by: Alex Joseba

The earth convulsed violently; it seemed to be flinching in pain at every blow of the Stoneguard’s feet. Each step the massive creature took drove the its feet dozens of meters into the soil, searching for the hard bedrock deep below on which to anchor itself. Raim flew close behind me as I gazed up the length of my arrow and loosed. I watch the arch of the shaft and its white feathers as they riffled through the air, and then it tilted towards a huge pillar of stone- the knee if I had to guess- and vanished in the eclipse. The titan did not give the barest hint of a reaction. It’s leg rose in a slow, inexorable motion, reached its apex, and came thundering down like an meteor.

BOOM.

It was absurd, of course, to expect these simple arrows to do any harm to stone and metal. I knew what I had to do, but I had sustained some hope- or delusion rather- that I would’t be forced to that final act.

The shaking had been growing steadily worse since the night before. The buildings in Telaru had first rattled, then trembled, then succumbed to the increasing tremors and lay in alternating heaps of rubble along the streets; the sturdiest among them: the chapels and temples, ironically, were serving as shelter for the refugees. I could hear their frenzied invocations as I left Master Artificer Eichnor’s study,  riding hard towards what I perceived to be the epicenter. The beats of Zephyr’s hoofs pounding the cobbled street in a counter point to the deep bass boom in the distance.

BOOM.

The ground shook and Zephyr struggled to remain standing. My hand instinctively reached back to grasp another arrow, but is met only with empty air. Terror drove into me as surely as those terrible feet dug for the hard stone beneath the soil. I held my breath as a panicked hand groped frantically at my quiver. My fingers bump clumsily into two shafts, one of which began to cause my arm to go eerily cold. I recoiled from the sensation and drew the other, it’s wood grain shaft feeling comfortingly familiar beneath my ungloved fingers. I fit the arrow, pull my bow, an fire. Raim following the arrow up and dangerously close to the Stoneguard’s body. I call her back but she does not respond. Somehow, through the creaking of its colossal joints, I hear the sharp plink of metal arrowhead meeting stone and see Raim diving quickly downward. Old friend. Clever friend. She is retrieving my spent shafts, a trick I had taught her on our first hunting expedition ten years prior. As she dives to intercept the falling arrow I barley have time to react. The towering leg closest to where she flies rises with an impossible speed and crashes into her leaving only a cloud of feathers drifting in wide circles to the ground.

BOOM.

The implosion of my heart or another wretched step of this disgusting automaton? I care not anymore. My hand is steady and firm as I pull the rains on Zephyr, dismounting. I stare up the length of the massive body, and for a moment I think the creature is looking down at me. I sense its stare in the same way one might feel the presence of a full moon or the great eastern ocean. There is nothing human in it, only power and implacability. I send Zephyr off back to Telaru, they will need him there after this is all over. I reach my hand back to my quiver and feel the brush of steely feathers on the end of the shaft- dragon’s feathers, I remember reverently. Master Eichorn's expert work and the cities last hope. My hand grips the shaft and withdraw it from the quiver. Immediately I feel a deadly cold crawl up my arm like snake ivy while at the same moment the tip of the arrow begins to glow, and them shine brightly. The chill diffuses through my chest and into my torso as I fit the arrow to the bow. My eyes are watering at the brightness of the arrow tip now, I look away as I draw the arrow back to its full length. The ice begins to wrap its way around my neck, like the hands of a corpse seeking to strangle me. I take aim at the cold pricks of light in the head of the monstrosity and am surprised when I can see through the radiance of my arrow and directly to my target. It is as if I am standing only feet away, yet I know I am still firmly on the ground. As I loose the shaft I shout the name of my fallen ally as mingled grief and exultation close over me,

"RAIM!"

And I feel myself leave myself, ripped from my body on the wings of a name. I am flying through the skies just like she would, but oh so much faster. I streak like a bolt of lighting upwards and see the golem's eyes, and in them I see something one would never see in the great eastern ocean, or the full moon. I see puzzlement, and then a split second before impact, I see fear.

Story by Russell Lee Nasrallah

Art by Chad Gowey 

Source http://fantasy-art-engine.tumblr.com/

The waves rose up on the river’s surface like the hair on a frightened body. The air stirred and churned the branches above which fluttered gently and whipped stingingly in turn. Moule turned to his neighbor,

"This breeze bites like winter. Only week or two away now."

His neighbor might have nodded, or it might have been the wind tousling his hair. He said nothing.

"It’s out of the east though, and that’s a wind of fortune; it cuts straight across from the other side." Moule continued smiling earnestly- hopefully. 

Again his friend did not respond. Instead he continued to stare out over the rippling, broken surface. Their boys had crossed the great blue expanse with promises of grain enough to last them through the starving time. They had promised to keep each other safe, had promised to come home. That had been a month ago, and for the last two weeks Moule had followed his friend out to the Willow’s edge.  

The wind rose to a whistling, howl. Moule could feel its nails piercing his jacket and velvety fur, he shivered convulsively. They would have to go before the dark closed in, obscuring their trail and inviting the hunters that day-dreamed of mole morsels to come out and meet them. But Moule would give his friend a few more moments. A few more glances across that stained blue ribbon. A last moment of hope to last until tomorrow evening. 

Story by Russell Lee Nasrallah

Art by Gelrev Ongbico- “The Wind In The Willows”  

Source: http://septagonstudios.tumblr.com/

I awoke to the smell of smoke and lilacs, my nose detecting the latter buried beneath the cloying odor of burning timbers and charred fabric. My body instinctively tried to rise and follow the familiar flowery aroma, but was thwarted by the thick cords which bound my wrists and ankles. I writhed against the bonds, my muscles straining, but the ropes remained knotted around my limbs, smugly nonchalant in their success. This shape did not have nearly the strength required to snap the thick bindings. A glance around the smoke filled room revealed no knife or shard of glass with which to cut the ropes;there was nothing but an flames dancing behind a veil of thickening gray fog. The heat crushed against me, allying with the smoke in an attempt to asphyxiate. I ignored the discomfort, trying hurriedly to piece together what had occurred. My memories, fortunately, were clearer than the room at the very least. Visions of the mob storming the house began to coalesce in my minds eye.The congregation from town whipped into a frothing sea by their ignorance and fear… they had taken her to do god knows what- and in these cases God not only knew what, but had, in fact, been the one to mandate the act. She’d burn soon if I didn't free her. Smart of them to sneak up and knock me out first. Too bad I hadn't stayed unconscious long enough to let the fire do their murder for them. As if on cue, a timber in the far corner of the room failed spectacularly, its fire gnawed length creating a firestorm of debris as it collapsed. I needed the ropes off soon and I could think of only one way of doing so, but it would be risky. Suffocation would likely be the result, but my end seemed to be destined for that end regardless of my decision. I gritted my teeth and prepared for the change.


My body began to flow. Bones swam under my skin like fish rippling the surface of a lake and muscles settled into new shapes. Skin swelled and shrank and twisted. Fur began to erupt from me, making the heat crowd in closer. Some ropes fell away, their knots meant to bind larger appendages; still others strained and snapped, falling to the floor with wet thuds, their coarse fibers streaked with blood and hair. As I changed my senses sharpened and the smell of lilacs bloomed, intensifying like the light before dawn, brighter and brighter until it eventually blinded me. I howled, the noise ragged in my chest. The cry echoed through the house, the woods, and into the village. That sound was a warning to the kidnappers- their only warning. They had taken her and that had been a mistake. The even bigger mistake, though, had been not puncturing me from head to toe with every piece of silver in the town before they took her. I shrugged off the remains of the rope, shook soot out from my fur, and bounded out of the window. Falling through the night, I thought for a moment that my nose sensed the trail splitting, one clear distinct path leading out before me, the other small and modest leading back into the house. I hesitated for only a moment, before speeding of, away from the burning house.


The smell of her drew me like an iron filing to a lodestone. The trees whispered with the velocity of my passing, a cloud of fallen autumn leaves creating a tail of fire behind me. The nearer I grew to the city the more powerfully the scent compelled me. I blew through the city like a dark squall and followed the scent to the church in empty town square. The lilac path up to the window below the steeple couldn't have been more obvious to me if it had been painted in gold. Ignoring the stairs, I bounded up from the lower roof to the second floor and in through the window, shutters banging open upon my impact, drowning out a shout of fright. I scanned the room, ready to tear the throats from any defenders that thought to bar my way. My vision fell over a form stretched upon a bed.


It was not her.

The room swam with her perfume, its source a familiar bottle spilled upon the a nearby table. My head clouded, the animal in me struggling with the obvious dichotomy. I smelled her all around me, but in the bed lay a stranger. She gripped a crucifix in one hand and was shackled to a bedpost by the other. I had been tricked, and this pathetic creature had been left as a sacrifice.




“Puh-puhlease don’t…,” she said but could not finish and was forced to averted her eyes, such dreadful sight I was to behold.



It was in this moment of rage and confusion, with the smell of lilacs- the smell of her- swimming in my head, that I heard the scream. It rent the night like a black satin curtain, coming from the direction of the house, burning now as second sunrise in the distance. As ghastly as the sound was, there was a quality about it which I recognized. A quality which drew me towards it… like iron filings to a lodestone.

Art by Jon Foster

Story by Russell Lee Nasrallah

*Edited 11/16/2014

Short stories to come!

I am going to start posting my excellent fiction on here at some undisclosed date in the future.
I'm excited, I hope you are too, Oh might internet consciousness that views my page.

Russ and Suzi go to Asheville!

Last night as I was driving two hours into Asheville, North Carolina, to go let strange women invade my personal space and judge me I began to wonder, why exactly do I enjoy this so much? No, no It wasn't my annual proctology appointment at the local health department! Although Dr. Shemibarugh is a doll. No, I'm talking dancing! Yes, the bane of white men everywhere! I drive all this distance, on my night off from work just to put myself in uncomfortable situations that may or may not lead to a substantially deflated ego.
This does not sound something people do on a regular basis for fun, does it?
Yet here we are (Suzi and I that is), swiftly heading towards the hippy mecca of the east coast, on the hunt for swing dancing! As Suzi gets in touch with her inner "Little engine that could" I am left to ponder what exactly motivates me to go this far to engage in an activity that, by my above description, doesn't sound very appealing. Well I came up with a few conclusions on the trip down and on the trip back.

(if you've got the time)

First and foremost, it looks absolutely fantastic. The way these people have trained their bodies to move is a feat I yearn to mimic. If you have never seen any swing dancing (aside from that one scene in The Mask) then you should definitely look up some videos because it is, inarguably, and art form. The fact that one person can be so coordinated alone astounds me, now you add another compeltely free thinking individual to the mix and, contrary to what one would expect, the dance becomes more mezmerizing. This blows my mind. Two people, often time strangers, can meet and for two or three minutes be completely in tune with each other. They feel the rhythm of the music and use their bodies as a medium of expression like an sculpter might manipulate clay or a musician might improve a melody. Even more astound is, while they are creating this beautiful art, they are learning about each other. More is "said" in a three minute dance than can related over an hour of conversation. It's speaking with your entire body, not just your mouth. I want to learn how to express myself with nothing but the dynamic movments of my body. These people can make art anywhere and with virtually anyone and that is a skill I envy. But you can't create the art with another person if you don't trust them enough to respect you.

(classic) 

This is another aspect of dancing (any partner dancing that is) that impresses me to no end. You walk into a room filled with strangers, you pick one, often at random, and you almost guarentee that, if you show then trust and respect, you will get the same reciprocated. If a lead does not respect a follow, you will not be able to created anything together. The opposite is also true. This is an aspect I had never ecountered until I started socially dancing with strangers. When one learns to dance in a small group of people like I did, one tends to fall into the bad habit of learning your partners style and forgetting about your partner all together. I understand that there is a time and a place for this sort of compatability but for the purposes of social dancing, I think it was detrimental to me. I know plenty of moves but I never learned how to truly LEAD the moves. It's like trying to get directions from Ohio to California from someone who knows all the roads, has all the maps, but speaks a different language or no language at all for that matter. I lost my ability to communicate, bodily, what I needed my follow to do. These social dances help me improve this ability to communicate which is a foundation of partnered dances and, if you really break it down, life in general. Nothing here is restricted only to dancing.
One can learn to trust, communicate, respect and create in any circumstance by learning how to dance. The skills one learns in any given activity should never be restricted that that activity alone. In fact, I think it's impossible to expect that kind of behavior. The fact that educational systems stress interdiciplinary studies is just one example of the usefullness of being able to apply learning universally.
Basically I'm saying that learning to dance has made me a better person, and after noticing this I want to do it even more, regardless of the distance Suzi and I have to drive.

(P.S.) Suzi is my car! She's a trooper!
(P.P.S.) sorry about falling into the sexist convention of implying ownership of an object by imply it's female.

I feel in love with a girl on the internet, Her name was Mis-information

Chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken

chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken     chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken   chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken ....

Okay, so here's the point I'm trying to make. For some reason, on certain occasions, a word will sometimes suddenly appear foreign to me. I have seen it, written it, and spoke it nearly all my life but suddenly I experience this surreal disconnect and the word no long seems... right. Sometimes this is cause by repetition, the word seems to lose it's value when it is rewritten ad nauseam. It may potentially be because the word has been removed from it's context and thereby loses much if its meaning, that the sentence is what truly gives meaning to it's individual words. However; this train of thought seems illogical considering that would mean words  would constantly rely on each other for literacy and relevance. But hey, wait a minute, that doesn't seem to illogical does it?

build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build   build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build    build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build     build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build build

Bet you never noticed that "build" was such a strange word? Me neither, one day it just slapped me in the face. I sat, staring slack jawed at it, wondering if I had actually spelled it right or, as I assumed wrongly, actually written some Finnish profanity (i.e. paska = shit).  (Continue)

Baladeo 34G Superlight Locking Knife w/ clip review... in case you were wondering (3 out of 5)

I'm currently typing this review without the use of my left index finger, the reason for this I will reveal a bit later. 
I bought this knife after seeing its 22g cousin favorably reviewed on a website I frequent. The high praise they gave to it was more than enough to convince me that it should replace my old worn out Gerber which worked great but was bulky and impossible to sharpen. When I received it in the mail the first thing I noticed was its very tasteful packaging, no vacuum sealed, steal proof plastic container here, just a very sleek black box with some silver lettering embossed on the outside. once you open the box you are again amazed by the this sleek knife, sitting in it's foam case with the same sleek beauty that you might associate with a highly tuned German automobiles. As I mustered up the courage to actual remove this gorgeous knife from its packaging, again I was awestruck, it was incredibly light and felt fantastic in my hand. 34 grams is an ethereal number, hard to really understand until you actually get the product in your hands. I became more and more excited, looking for new tasks to test drive this new tool of mine on! But as the days went by, my love for it began to wane. It's beauty was still unphased but I began to notice a major design flaw. The Locking Mechanism. 
This being the single piece of metal that keeps the knife cutting whatever you want it to be cutting, not yourself, it was vitally important that it work without any error. First thing I noticed wrong is that when you over extend the knife but putting to much pressure on the blade you end up releasing the locking mechanism all together and leaving the knife free to swing open or closed on its hinge like a smooth silver guillotine. 
The second flaw I encountered was that if you grip the knife to tight you actually pinch the locking mechanism closed, thereby closing the knife. Generally, you only grip the knife to tightly if you are applying a reasonable amount of force onto something and when the mechanism fails that same force slams the knife shut onto your fingers. This is why I am typing without my beloved index finger today. I mistook its beauty for perfection of form AND function and was taught a lesson very quickly. 
It still earns three stars from me because of the great craftsmanship (other than the lock) that went into it. My suggestion is that if you are actually looking to put this knife to some moderate/serious work, think about looking else where, because like most things this pretty, it's just meant for looks.

Where the dermis meets the road

Ever since I discovered, as a small child, that there was a means of transportation where in people assimilated the power of a car and the design of a bicycle, I have been in love. Envy gripped me every time I would catch a fleeting glimpse of those beautiful machines and the ease with which they navigated the roads, less riding on top of the pavement and more gliding just above it. They always appeared, to me, to be pulled in tow by some invisible thread, all of their movements seeming  to lead inexorably into one and other, almost as if it were riding on a smoothly oiled track of it's own devising.
The often grungy and portly fellows with their leathery women, almost always the norm, riding on my most envied machines, always left a pretty awful taste mouth. They coveted their bikes as trophies, which isn't wrong in the least, but I did not view them in the same fashion. To me the motorcycles were a companion, much more personable than a car or truck,  often four to five times your own size, and much more versatile than a wimpy bicycle... who want's to have to expend their own effort to locomote? To see these old washed up alcoholics riding on their earth-rendingly loud noise machines just kind of irritated me. It's like Chihuahuas... you've taken one of the most humble and lasting bonds an human can make with something other than another human, and bastardized it, Adorned it to the point of gaudiness. There's a simply connection, that when made, proves all the more satisfying than they and their 15,000$ two wheeled land boat, equip with mobile cappuccino maker and a comfy fireplace, can understand.
It's the truly one on one experience that the motorcycle allows you to have with your travel that really appeals to me. The handlebars acting as a secondary steering device to that of your own body weight, each movement of your hands and feet directly effecting brakes and clutch, and the subtle differences in the texture of the road , all combining to make it an immersive and visceral experience for the rider. Or... at least, that's what I assume it's like, I've never ridden one! Soon enough though!
I have taken this bull by its goddamn horns and already gotten my Motorcycle learners permit, now the last piece of the cog (and arguably the biggest) just needs to fall into place... I need to get a bike.

My new mattress is filled with sin

I can't move, or, to be more honest with you, I don't want to move. I've been paralyzed and in no localized manner, my friends. This paralysis is encompasses both body and mind, extends from the tallest hair on my head to the very tip of my big toe nail. It is due to no poisonous plant nor any venomous insect or lizard. I have not suffered an ill fated fall or a cataclysmic car crash, no trauma or illness has occurred, I have simply bought a new mattress and it is possibly the best decision I've ever made.
 I cannot sustain my motivations anymore, all I long to do, day in, day out, is relax on this glorious slice of heaven. If Zeus had a bed, this would be it, and all the other gods of mount Olympus would conspire to kill him and steal away his glorious bed. They would all obviously fail though, Zeus would be far to well rested after a night of uninterrupted, restive, recuperative sleep, to be overwhelmed by such minor deities.
 Like Rip Van Winkle, I rise every day, feeling as if I've just slept the century away! I peek cautiously out of my window each morning, wondering if i'll catch my first glimpse of a smooth, egg-shaped hover car climbing into the air past one of the thousands of glittering towers of metal, or maybe be horrified by an arid landscape, scarred and torn by years of warfare which I apparently slept soundly through. No prophetic vision of the future ever greets me. I, contrary to this impossibly rejuvenated feeling, only slept my standard six to eight hours.
These last few nights of glorious slumber have opened my eyes to the importance of quality relaxation and rest. It is not something that can be properly explained unless you have experienced the difference between the two. This extends past the just having a good mattress and into all aspects of life. "Don't act so taxed, slow down, relax, don't be wound up so tight" good words to keep in mind, because no situation has ever been improved by stress and worry and no person is ever at their optimal when worn thin by either of these forces. So join me, my friends, and kick of your tightly laced shoes, remove those old worn socks, and feel the air caress your bare feet. Focus on the present, removing yourself from past guilts and future obligations.
My body has needed this, now Ill just have to let my mind learn to follow.

Dogs V.s. Robots: Rise of the Obedient

Suggestions welcome!



Pounding through the undergrowth towards the first slice of sun plateauing over the hills in the distance, trying desperately to make up ground. The fiery sliver of light marked the dawn, one that would find the those retched machines simulated fury once they found out what Deogie had managed to pilfer while they slept their electric sleep. No time though, for him to pause and revel in his success, in his spirited escape from that menacing compound he had tripped an alarm and it  wouldn't be long before they were trailing him. Robots, androids, cyborgs, machines... just gears and metal for all he cared. His mission only required that he transport this unwieldy grail, then he'd be off the list till the next full moon. That damn list cast a indomitable shadow over what was left of his meager life since the Masters disappeared. Glancing ahead on the trail he spotted his carefully camouflaged escape root further up, "Lets see the bastards try and follow me through here" he spat, turning  into the ferocious looking thorn bramble to his left. The briers immediately tearing through the soft skin on his muzzle as he plunged into the thicket.  Beads of hot, sticky blood began to slide into the cracks of his lips, the iron tang quickly diffusing through his entire mouth, the taste arousing his senses. Just a mile or two more of this hell and he'd be safely out of their range. That was one advantage that his kin had over those monsters, they were free to roam over whatever land they could put under their roaming paws, their four legs beating out the rhythm of the pack. Leashes were no longer for his kind to bear. An abrupt jerk reminded him of the burden bound behind him that had been slowing his pace. Now the twisted knots of thorns were tightening around him and proving to be a bigger barrier than he had thought, progress would be slow, but this route would allow him to bypass the trees. A tendril of terror began creeping from his tail slowly up his spine just at the thought of those horrors, Dog knows you didn't want to venture into the bots twisted versions of a forests.
They claim to be recreating utopia for when the humans return, and I'm sure in their minds they were succeeding, but those horrid pillars only stood to mock the beauty of those they are modeled after. A trunk, if you can call it that, perfectly smooth accept for the wart-like sensory nodes placed at distance, from top to bottom. The monolith rises up from the barren earth about 10 danes high to intersect, at its peak, a flurry of florescent green leaves, lacking in any sort of organic design. Instead they were the shape of those metal demons teeth, angular razors made for slicing and cutting. Venture to close to one of its hundreds of electric eyes and be ready to run, or part with your hide. Deogie had learned this lesson all to well on his last suicide run, the scars running from scalp to hind flank were the signatures of those unflinching wards. In a way though, it was almost endearing to see their painstaking effort in melding these "Trees" to be both a garden for their masters and sentry against their foes, but there was a intangible subtlety the mighty old ones held that these monsters can't even begin to imitate.
Shaking the thoughts of those deadly synthetic pylons from his mind, Deogie began the last few meters through the brier thicket. Once on the other side it was only a short dash to the perimeter where those bastards wouldn't venture, unless they dare to risk breaking the invisible thread that ties them umbilicaly to their hive mind. the king of the demons. A glimmer of blazing sunlight cut like a machete through the gloomy thicket, urging Deogie on, with one explosive push of his back legs he found himself suddenly released from the clawing grip of the bramble. A sense of relief washed over him as struggled free, he laid for a short while, covered in blood and bits of stubborn brier tangled in his coat, panting in an effort to regain his breath. "Just a throw of a bone from here" he uttered reassuringly to himself, and as he stood to walk away he realized that the evil mess of cruel vegetation behind him has yet to relinquish its grip on his bulky, cumbersome, plunder. What his alphas of the clan wanted with this glorified, glittering dog bowl, he could only guess, tradition had become so very important to them as their situation deteriorated. Wrenching at the lashings that bound the trophy to himself, Deogie tried desperately to free the troublesome object. After several fruitless minutes, feeling overwhelmed fatigue, he sat to rest, cursing the damned anchor that was going to end up being his tombstone. He aimed a swift kick at the nuisance out of frustration and it responded by sounding a high-pitched ring peeling out of it's dome shaped top, racing through the forest, followed immediately, like the bells eerie echo by the smooth, oiled sounds of mechanical limbs coming to life.

Option Paralysis

I was reading an article earlier about how our ability to make choices directly affects the amount of pleasure we derive from our subsequent decision. This idea, although in need of some personal tweaking, made a lot of sense to me. As I peruse the endless libraries of books and music in search of perfection, I assign to certain authors and genres meaningless negatives. "Country sucks ass", "Stephen King is a cook", or "Anything on the radio isn't worth my time".This is how, I, the evolutionarily hardwired survivor, have to find a way to cope in this world of over abundance where starvation of product has ceased to exist (not speaking globally here people). The meaningless consignment of vast quantities of potential choices to the garbage bin is simply how I manage keep from becoming mired in the never ending torrent of options. It's a tragic consequence of being part of the 21st century generation. I can only imagine how many times the wide swath of my oblivious and often unguided fancy has cleaved through some rare  species of musician or overlooked some hidden alcove of a short story. All this in the sake of progress, I exclude irrationally if only to spare my sanity.
I 'm left to wonder if I will ever regret my reckless disregard of variety. Will I one day look back and see the trampled corpse of a beautiful piece of art, the boot print of my progress outlined against its back, mocking my frenzied rush towards the seclusion of scarcity... I'm inclined to believe that I won't. It's a battle of attrition It seems. I seriously doubt that I'll ever have the leisure to steal a glance backwards and even if I did, the trail would have long over grown and carpeted any trace of the abused or ignored beauty that I let slip. Therefore, I am left with two obvious choices: Become overwhelmed by the infinitely growing set of choices or create mental filters which weed out the parameters without discretion. I choose the later, and I will continue to try and tweak and manipulate the filter through which I view my world to try and find the optimal setting which allows the majority of useless detritus to be filtered out of the mixture. This will leave me with a concentrated, untainted, and reduced concoction, one which will be much more manageable and profitable, in regards to happiness that is.

At least that's the theory

Hello blog!

This, the day of your birth, is a special occasion for all of mankind. You shall be looked on by future generations as a fountain of knowledge, from which many epiphanies and revelations will flow. Not to mention bad metaphors. From the mind of your father and creator, you will run, and with each letter of senseless drivel I place upon your page, you will grow.
So, prepare yourself for the world my child, for it is a brutal and unforgiving place filled with dangerous and hungry monsters of all varieties! As many as there are candies, but much much more frightening. Unless you count the Cavity Creeps, they were some H.G. Wells shit. Take heart though, we shall be comrades through this journey, you and I, and will weather the fury of the Internet and it's horrors together. You will be my body, and I, your soul.