Sunday, February 24, 2013

filler post!

gonna be posting some photography tomorrow as soon as i get some sources. wants to be all legal and polite about posting other folks art!

Friday, February 22, 2013

3 days later...

no, not dead. not done blogging already either. life got a bit distracting.

real short post to say that SMUT WILL COME SOON. in the meantime, have a horse...




Tuesday, February 19, 2013

sorry sports fans!

i REALLY wanted to post some smut today, but i'm afraid it's gonna have to wait until morning, kids. just for the wait, i'll make it extra raunchy

also, gonna start an episodic lil writing thing, exclusively for this blog! i'll post other writings as well. but this idea has been with me almost all of my life, and i think this would be a fun place to share it. look forward to it!

shit i'm dealing with...

early post today, need to rant. fun, smexy stuff to be posted later...

 maybe i was raised too tough. maybe i'm not sensitive enough to the psychological disorders of others. unfortunately, i have very limited fucks that i can give.

when i had issues, problems or doubts growing up, my mom and dad shut that shit down because i had too much more important stuff to deal with. i had grades to maintain so i could graduate and go to college. these were my priorities and my parents made sure i fucking stuck with them, no matter how much i hated people at school or how (i thought) i'd never be able to do anything that i ever wanted because i wasn't good enough in some aspect. i wasn't afforded a mental crutch.

and to this day, i maintain that mentality. shit gets hard, fucked up, not fair, makes me want to quit. but i STILL FUCKING KEEP GOING. i deal with stuff appropriately and i take action. which is why i don't easily feed into the "poor baby" when someone has a few minor problems. and i sure as fuck don't believe in medicating problems away. how the fuck do you learn to truly deal with fucking reality when you spend all your fucking time disjointed from in in a drug induced daze.

it seems like the whole world around me is going mental. body image issues, depression... a sorts of shit i don't even want to list. and to me, these are petty issues. there are people with serious disorders and chemical imbalances that they can't help. they have room to be down and sensitive about that. but every other whiny, lazy shit, cheer the fuck up, buttercup. you're not fucking special because you have two bad days in a row.

that sounds so mean, but fuck, it's true. you're unhappy, well fucking find something that makes you happy, as long as it's not destructive to self or others. you had a rough childhood. well fuck, you lived, now you're an adult. run your life according to now, not back then. people don't like you. well fuck, either fix what's wrong or find people who do. am i simplifying this? yes, or course, but the bottom line, shit is fixable, but it requires work. what does not fix the problem is wallowing in pity and self doubt. this world is meant for the taking for ANYONE willing to make a fucking effort and grab it by the balls. SO GO GET YOURSELF A BIG OLE CHUNK OF FUCKING LIFE. please. Mussolini said that "inactivity is death." so if you're spending all your time moping about what you can't do, don't want to do, wish you could do, buy a shovel, find some land and start digging your grave. because you're clearly giving up on life.

i'm not saying skydiving every morning, parties every weekend, sex with breakfast, lunch and dinner. what i am saying is get a fucking grip, find your passion, and fucking follow it. fucking DO SOMETHING.

part of the problem with this modern, mental, society is that everyone is too inwardly focused. my life, my career, my income, my status, my looks. horseshit. you are not the center of the universe, because if you were, you wouldn't worry about how you look, your past, how people treat you, so on and so forth. there was a time in the world (yeah, a long time ago) when survival meant focusing on real problems, like if my crops don't grow, my family starves. if i can't protect my village, wild animals will devour us. if i don't gather some fucking wood, my ass will be homeless and freeze to death. now with our first world problems, we don't get the newest bullshit materialistic icon, we're hanging ourselves in closets.

"have you had down times or been depressed? do you even know what it's like, Kits?". of course i fucking have. and in that moment, it fucking sucks. nothing seems worth anything. but i write this now, today, on the other side of this shit because, if nothing else, i had shit to do. i had to walk the dog. i had to go by my mother's house. i had an errand to run. there is always something, even little asinine shit like that, to keep you going. it's like baby steps to getting back to the side of life where it's better. and eventually, you get there and you can say, damn, i'm glad i didn't off myself last week after i lost 100 bucks. today is really nice out! and from there, the world is your oyster. you can do anything, but it takes a little effort and little work, and you can live the life of your dreams. please try it.

please don't take this as a bashing of psychology, psychiatry or people with genuine conditions. i am a student of psychology; i kind of know what the fuck i'm talking about. what i take offense with is using psychology to treat every little minor issue so people don't have accountability. which is so pc these days, it might as well be gospel. i just would love a world where the people that truly need help can get it. and the whiners can get the fuck over themselves and own their lives.

Monday, February 18, 2013

5 years

i seem to have one silent follower so far. hello! also, extra long post (yeah, i can get verbose...), so strap in for it...

SO! today i'm doublin' up the music for a lack of such yesterday. first is the title of this post, by bjork. so many things i love about bjork: she beautiful, she's odd, she's talented, she humble and she's a humanitarian. this particular song is one of my favorites because of the passion you can hear in her. singing a song is fine, but i love artists and music in which i can truly feel what the artist feels, and when you can really tell they perform for the love of the music.



next up, a lesser known artist that's been around for a while, but i'm almost positive you've never heard of him, antony and the johnsons. while i'm tempted to post 'hope there's some one", which is the song i fell in love with him for, i think it would be a neater to post an unusual cover of beyonce's "crazy in love". have a listen!



weird and amazing, right?
*wink*

even with all this musics, i feel the need to post some words as well. today's sampling is one that is very dear to me as it is an excerpt to the first installment of my first finished novel (that's a lot of firsts!). it's also one i share with people most often that ask (or don't) about my writing. a bit of world building: the main character you meet in this excerpt is a genetically enhanced assassin, tasked by her creator to eliminate a despot. she has entered a particular facility in a rescue attempt. hope you enjoy this snippet of her story!

It was dark in SL6, but Mo caught the flash of a camera lens as the elevator doors opened. Immediately she tumbled out of the elevator and jumped into the nearest shadow. She lay motionless for some time, always waiting to hear footsteps or guns being drawn. When she was sure there would be none, she crouched in the dim light of what appeared to be a storage room for the compound. It was a huge room, with rows and rows of high metal shelves filled with everything you might need to start a small war. Guns, armor, ammunition, the list went on. ‘Great,’ she thought. ‘I pick the floor where Anstin is least likely to be.’ Since she was there, she began searching around for anything she could use, staying as much to the shadows as possible. On a shelf, she found rucksacks, much larger than her own. She took one and transferred her things from the old pack to the new. Once she finished she sat on the floor, deciding what to do with the old bag. Finally she buried in the bottom of the pile of police packs. ‘By the time they find it, this whole mess will be over. Besides, Touk and I were careful. There’s no way they can trace it back to him or me,’ she thought confidently. Mo had a credit account that Ronan had set up with fake information. Should anyone look into her, they would think she was a wealthy widow living in the south continent on Capelle. Touk had a similar account, but the back story for his account was of a traveling salesman that frequented the Seasoned Arms on his travels.
“Which is excellent for explaining transactions both from the hotel and around different parts of the state,” Touk had explained. “But what I’ll do in this instance, is withdraw the cash from here. That way there will be no records showing a transaction at an outfitter.”
One of the Opposition Front members in Magrat worked for the State bank and created an account for an individual that never existed for Touk. All Touk had to do was make the first small deposit and he could funnel money through the account to anyone he liked as long as he had a contact on the inside.
With the pack stashed, Mo went on looking for more equipment. In a large crate near a wall, she discovered State police uniforms. She scrounged through them until she found one that would fit her and put it on, placing her own clothes in her new pack. In full police clad, she could walk around a little more freely and search the place for Anstin. As she began heading back for the elevator, she noticed something she missed before, but shouldn’t have. A large brick room painted black was built in the middle of the storage room. ‘That could be it!’ she thought. Mo went to the room and walked three of its four sides before she found the door, marked with a large red H. “H?” she wondered out loud. She tried the door handle and, to her surprise, it opened. Inside, the room was not any better lit than the storage room. It was empty except for steel barrels stacked in each of the four corners. Giant 6’s were painted in yellow on all four walls. And in the center of the floor was a target, with alternating white and black circles, surrounding a red dot. Mo’s genius failed to make the connection, but the sound of a motor starting and the sudden upward motion of the floor helped her think. “HELICOPTER!” she gasped.
The ceiling opened above her and she stumbled and crawled her way to the closest set of barrels and ducked behind them. From her hiding place, she watched the walls melt away under her to the fifth floor, the fourth, and finally coming to a stop on the third. On the other side of the barrels a clatter of boot falls and voices entered the room. “Not too close to the edges this time, alright boys,” called a voiced. There was some hushed conversation after this and helipad continued its voyage upward. The second floor gave way to the first, and finally above her the ceiling opened up to the evening desert sky and hot sand and wind flew into the shaft of the helipad as it emerged to ground level.
In the same instant, Mo saw a large black copter fly over her. “Hey!” a voiced from it shouted at her. She looked up and saw the state officers aboard the copter had seen her. It landed behind her hiding place and she stood, her mind working swiftly on possible escapes. Suddenly, they were on her. Five State police officers, all armed with M16’s, all pointed at her.
"Just what the hell do you call yourself doing, soldier?” one of the officers boomed. Mo just shook her head and looked down.
I asked you question-”
“Sergeant! Bring him to me,” shouted another man. The sergeant motioned with his gun for Mo to get moving and she was escorted to a man in a suit. He was tall, with a good athletic build, eyes the color of early morning mist and a ponytail full of hair so black and sleek, it shimmered red in the fading light of the day. Between him and the helicopter, stood another man. Much younger, he was dressed in dirty jeans and a t-shirt and appeared to be scared and confused.
“Well, well. Do we have ourselves some kind of deserter here?” he asked casually. Mo glanced up at him quickly, but in that fraction of a second, their eyes met. She said nothing, but kept her face down. The man looked at her closely, his brow furrowing in confusion, and frowned. Without another word, he raised his hand and knocked the helmet off Mo’s head. A tumble of dark red hair cascaded to her shoulders and into her face.
A collective gasp and an amazed, quasi-aroused “It’s a GIRL!” followed. With her secret revealed, Mo knew she had nothing to lose and in her mind a solution had formulated. The man in the suit eyed Mo with what was almost amazement. “Who are you and how did you get here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she answered softly, raising her head to meet his eyes.
“Doesn’t it? How do you suppose?”
“Because I’m about to leave.”
“About to-” Mo grabbed the gun out away from a soldier to her right and butted him with it, sending him stumbling backwards. Before the rest could respond, she hit the ground and tripped the soldier standing next to the gunless soldier with a leg sweep. His finger gripped the trigger as he fell, spraying bullets into a soldier opposite him and into the air. “Get her you asshole!” the sergeant yelled to the last officer. Mo turned on him, still crouched to the ground. As she stood, she took one step toward the sergeant with her left foot and brought the other foot straight up in a kick to the sergeant’s chin. His knees buckled beneath him and hit the ground, unconscious.  Mo quickly turned the gun on the last soldier standing. The tripped solider regained himself and pointed his weapon on her and shouted shakily, “That’s it! Move and I blast you!”
“Hold your fire, soldier.” Suit Man walked through the two soldiers and directly into Mo’s face. His eyes never left hers as he commanded them, “Stand down, return to the helicopter and prepare for departure. She watched as the two soldiers gathered their fallen men and shoved the other young man into the copter. In her distraction, the man snatched the gun from her and tossed it away. Mo lifted a hand to strike, but he grabbed her wrist mid-swing.
“Ah ah, that’s not very nice,” he mocked. “You’re good, very good indeed. And beautiful on top of that. I don’t know how you got here, but I’m willing to spare your life if you’d be willing to join the State. We could use someone like you. I could even offer you a place in the Alliance. All you'd need is a little re-education.”
“Let Anstin go. Or you won’t live to offer me anything!” Mo hissed back. The Suit glanced at the boy in the helicopter, then returned his gaze to Mo. But his expression had changed to disappointment.
“You’re one of his parent’s Opposition buddies. We have no use for you. How you got this close to our operations, I don’t know, but it’s too bad. You would have made one hell- OH!”  Mo cut him short with a swift blow to the sternum. “ANSTIN! I’m here to help! RUN!” she cried. Only Anstin never moved, only watched with dull fascination.
The man in the suit had never let go of Mo’s wrist, and twisted so it was pushed painfully against her back. “Quiet!” he shushed angrily. “You’ll ruin his programming.” With all her strength, Mo thrust her free elbow back at the man’s head. He leaned back to dodge, but let her wrist go in the compromise. It was all the room Mo needed to turn and drive him back with a series of kicks and punches. He blocked and avoided every one with the skill of a master and the style of a model.
From the copter a voice shouted “Sir! Fifty men are headed to the roof. We have to get the subject out of here!”
“Agreed!” he shouted back. He ducked under one more back swing of Mo’s arm before driving a hard fist into her rib cage, stopping her assault. Mo staggered back as he ran to the helicopter and bounded inside as it took off. Mo began to give chase but, beyond the rising helicopter, a trap door opened out of the helipad’s surface and State police began pouring out of it. Instead, Mo ran to the edge of the helipad. Below her was nothing but sand. Behind her, an increasing number of State police officers and a helicopter aiming to plow her down. She closed her eyes, took a breath and dove, just as bullets began to fly at her back. The copter rushed over her head and, before she was immersed in sand, she noted it was headed southwest. Mo burrowed deep into the sand until she was sure she wasn’t visible from the surface. Bullets drilled all around her, some coming quite close, but none touched her. Soon they stopped all together. She waited: three minutes passed, then another ten. She was about to complete the next twenty when her lungs ached for air. She began to dig upwards and, after 27 minutes underground, she emerged gasping and exhausted. She looked up at the helipad but there was no one there. She only gave herself a moment’s rest; she was sure soldiers were on their way to make sure she was dead. She dragged herself out of the sand and looked in the direction the helicopter had gone. She decided today was not the day to chase, but the day to flee. She climbed over the rise beyond where she had taken her dive and found herself back in the flat area just beyond where she first sighted the periscope. She ripped her bag from her back, changed back to her camouflage in mere seconds, buried the police uniform in the sand, then buried herself. The sun was already very low on the horizon. ‘If they do look for my body, they can’t look for long in this light. And flashlights would give away their location to anyone that might dare wander into the desert,’ she thought. So there she lay, nearly mummifying in the heat of the sand, well beyond sunset, beyond the rising of the moon and after. Eventually, she shifted from her sandy hiding place and headed north to find refuge in Penthara until she had a chance to contact Ronan and make her next move.
Copyright© K. Knight 2011
hope you enjoyed that, kids. thanks for reading. lastly, i feel the need to live up to my +18 warning tomorrow and post some risque art or prose. sex for the sake of sex? a lil bit. but also because human sexuality, and all it's expressions is as fascinating as any artform to me. i personally don't label my sexuality. i know what i like i know when i find it. for me, at least, it's sometimes difficult to express or define relationships with others that aren't strictly platonic or strictly antagonistic. i'm a weird, feely type person...

so what shall you look forward to in the way of adult content? not sure yet. a bit of prose, pictures and art. maybe more. nothing has struck me as post worthy, so tomorrow's offering will literally be for the sake of sex. look forward to it...
shifty eyes




Sunday, February 17, 2013

4 minutes

i got nods in Hungary and Germany on friday. Thanks guys :-D

so! my journey to a new, better visual artist is coming along swimmingly. last night, i drew a dog that was actually kind of cute! see!

you're next, brandiwyne...


now this lil doggie doodle may not mean that much to yous guys, and of course, it's not great art. but the whole first section of the site i'm learning from, drawspace.com, is about learning to see in order to draw what you see. so basically i can identify simple shapes and transform them into more complex ones. as well as follow simple instructions and make my hand move the way the lines go, more or less. small yay for me. it's my hope to be able to draw from imagination, as well as from sight. oh, that will be the day!

'so why go through all this trouble, Kits, if you're a writer first?' so glad you asked. i've been writing for a long, long time. and while i know my characters inside and out, the outside can get a lil fuzzy when you have to put a work to the side to clear your head on it. i want to be able to do character sketches, maybe important illustration of key plot moments. breath more life into my loves so they live for my audience as much as they live for me.

it's been a long time coming and taken a lot of self talks to be able to share the stories in my head with people other than very close friends. but these stories gotta be told, and i'm finally willing to tell them to the world, damn the consequences or critics. i can never get published if i can't get past the fear or rejection or negative reactions.

it's also all part of fulfilling a desire to live a more creative life. my day job pays bills, but requires ZERO initiative or creativity. eight hours a day of that is absolutely stifling. i write, craft, draw, read, sing to keep that ole right brain strong.

speaking of words, words, words, today's written sample is The Space Beneath. it's my first real attempt at a horror tale and has been met with mixed reviews. i think at the point that i wrote this, i was struggling with letting the audience know what i know, but not outright telling it. in this case, i was a little vague and it didn't come off as i had intended (since i knew what i meant, but other people weren't quite sure). but enjoy... 

     Joy Heriage had lived in her apartment nearly three years before she first saw them, the women beneath the stairs. The stairs to the second floor directly over her door had seemed odd at first, but she quickly got used to them. It wasn’t until her shift changed with her new position that life changed.
It was a breezy, warm March night. Half sleep, she slipped under the stairs and fumbled with her keys. To her left, a shadow flashed toward her. Joy reeled away from the door, expecting a mugger, or worse. Spring seedlings skittered into the bushes beyond, but nothing else moved. Joy released a huge sigh of relief and almost laughed at her foolishness. But as she turned the lock and pushed the door open, she heard a faint, yet recognizable scream to her left. She looked down and stifled a scream. The stone gray body of a woman lie sprawled beneath the stairs.
Under her open eyes thick, tacky bars of blood rouged her cheeks. Worst, her organs lay pulled out across her breasts and belly.  Joy ran inside, crawled to the nightlight inside the door and searched for her cell phone. She didn’t find and realized that in her sleep addled state that she’d left it in the car. With no house phone, she would have to go back for it. Joy steeled herself, cracked the door and peeked outside. The body had vanished.
She swung the door open in disbelief. No corpse, no blood. She slammed the door and turned on the light. Was it a waking nightmare? It must have been. Her fear of coming home in the middle of the night was causing hallucinations. Joy wanted to laugh at her delirium but her fear lingered. She checked the locks again, making sure both bolts were secure before going directly to bed.
By morning, Joy could laugh about the scare the previous night. But the horror continued the next night. Fatigued, she strolled from the car, paying no attention to the space beneath the stairs. Upon putting her key in the door, however, she heard a moan. Just at her feet lay another dead woman. An African American woman, her hands and feet had been severed, her eyes and nose were sewn shut and blood covered her lips in glossy horror. Fear and exhaustion broke her and her world went black.

*    *    *    *   

Joy woke to music playing softly. She sat upright and found herself in a strange place.
“You’re awake! Are you alright? I came out to get the paper and you were slumped at the door.”
Joy turned to the man’s voice and saw her neighbor Tony sitting at his easel. Memories of the night before flooded back to her. “The body…” she whispered and began to sob.
“Body?” Tony asked, joining her on the sofa.
“I feel like I’m losing it, Tony.  I’m seeing horrible things.”
“Like?”
“Ghosts.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Ghosts, Joy?”
She knew it sounded absurd, but Joy related the previous two nights. When she finished, he gave Joy a weak smile and went to the kitchen. “It does sound a little, you know… nutty.”
She shook her head. “I just haven’t been sleeping much.”
“Then take some time off, Joy. Get some rest.”
“I just started this shift a few weeks ago. I don’t want my boss to think I can’t cut it.”
“You should try,” Tony suggested. “But don’t tell anyone else what you told me. The men in the white coats will come and take you away. Coffee?”
“I don’t need anything else to keep me up. I’m going to bed. Thanks Tony.”
Joy cautiously opened Tony’s door and stared at the space next to hers. Only lingering doubts remained there.

*    *    *    *   

As a warm March turned into a dry April, the sightings intensified. Four women appeared to Joy sporadically. However, nine days passed without any sightings. Joy thought the nightmare was finally over, until the body of Grace appeared.
After a particularly stressful shift, Joy’s mind was elsewhere. As she neared the stairs, a voice called out, “Please…” Joy stopped and peered through the steps. A head with auburn pigtails wavered on the other side. Slowly, Joy stepped closer and saw an arm extended from the alcove. She rounded the stairs and saw a young woman kneeling.  She’d been strangled and her eyes gouged out. A wire bound to her hand to her neck as she attempted to save her life. Joy could see her fingers and throat bleed. “Please,” she croaked again. The girl beckoned blindly with her free hand before collapsing into a scatter of beads. Five of the little pastel beads spelled the dead woman’s name. Joy could only close her eyes and shuffle by to get inside. I just watched a woman die. Joy loved her apartment, but it was time move. But at the moment, she needed a long shower.
As she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced at the floor where the door jamb met the carpet. Revelation washed over her in a panic. She’d seen one of Grace’s beads before. When Joy moved in, she remembered sweeping a bead from a lifted corner of the carpet in her bedroom. The sightings weren’t related to the stairs, but to her apartment! “They were in here!” Joy gasped. She repressed the urge to vomit and ran to her office.
She rambled through a drawer for an envelope addressed to Dave Wyzek, the previous tenant.  He hadn’t left a forwarding address. Haunted by dead women, who wouldn’t leave in a hurry? She found the envelope and opened her laptop to find his phone number. An hour later, she found his new address in Jal, New Mexico, but no number. New Mexico isn’t that far… She turned back to the computer and searched directions to Dave Wyzek’s new residence.
By six am, Joy had called her office and prepared to leave. Tony emerged from his apartment to fetch the paper as she got to the car. “You’re up early,” he called to her.
Joy turned and smiled. “I’m going to New Mexico.”
“Taking that vacation? That’s good.”
“No, I’m going to see Dave Wyzek. He lived in my apartment before me. Did you know him?”
Tony’s face clouded. “In passing. Why drive all the way there to see him?”
“I think he must have been haunted by the ghosts beneath the stairs too. It may be why he left so abruptly.”
“I don’t think you should go, Joy. Take a road trip, yes, but forget about Wyzek.”
“I’m seeing these women for a reason. And Dave Wyzek may be able to help.”
“You… why don’t I go with you? You don’t know Dave. He’ll probably remember me. Then we can put all this ghosts nonsense to rest, right?”
Joy beamed. “Yeah, that’s a really good idea actually. I’m ready now, if –“
“Give me 15 minutes!” Tony answered, darting away. True to his word, he joined Joy in a matter of minutes. They got in the car and headed west.

*   *   *   *   *  

By 12:30 that afternoon, Joy pulled into the parking lot of Wyzek’s motel, a place clearly on the verge of being condemned. Tentatively, she and Tony approached his room and knocked.
“What do you want?” a voice shouted furiously.
Joy stammered, “Mr. Wyzek? My name is Joy and I wanted to talk to you about-“
“Get the fuck out of here!” he screamed.
Joy jumped, but Tony put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, I’m here.”
“Mr. Wyzek,” Joy continued, “It’s about the women at the apartments in Dallas.”
A long silence followed. Joy became certain he had no intention to speak to her when the door jerked open. Dave Wyzek stared out wildly past the security chain. “The girls?”
“Yes, Mr. Wyzek! Can you tell me anything about them?”
His eyes darted to Tony then back to Joy. “All about them…” He faded from view and the door closed. Joy heard the chain being removed and slowly he opened the door.
It reeked of body odor and stale cigarette smoke inside the deplorable and dimly lit room. Joy cautiously took a seat on the edge of an old chair with Tony standing next to her. Wyzek plopped onto a couch crammed between the door and dresser.
“Smoke?” he offered from a crumpled pack.
“I don’t smoke,” Joy said. Tony only stared at Wyzek intently. She talked fast to get out of there quickly. “Mr. Wyzek, you saw those women, didn’t you? At your old apartment?”
“Yes,” he answered dourly. “Four beautiful girls.”
Joy frowned. “Four? Not five?”
“Not the last ‘ne…” he trailed off.
“You are talking about the women under the stairs, right?”
His face turned in confusion. “What stairs?”
Panic filled Joy’s belly something didn’t add up.
Tony suddenly spoke up “Dave, what do you know about all this?”
“I’ll tell ya…” Wyzek said absently. He leaned back and covered his face with his forearms and remained silent for several minutes.
Finally, Joy mustered the courage to ask one more question. “Mr. Wyzek, did you… know any of those women?”
Still reclined, Wyzek answered, “I knew them. Well, I killed them.”
He began naming each of them, speaking clinically of their deaths. But Joy hardly heard. She bolted up and ran for the door.
“Look out!” Tony called to her. As she reached for the chain, she heard the click of a revolver hammer. From the corner of her eye she saw the gun Wyzek had aimed at her back. She turned to face him as he raised the weapon.
“I got no reason,” he said. “They were so pretty. But he kept saying, “They’ll be so beautiful dead.’”
Suddenly, Wyzek put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. For a moment, Joy didn’t fully grasp what happened. Eerie silence filled the room. Tony recovered from the shock first, grabbed Joy by the shoulders and ushered her back to the car.  

*    *    *    *    *

By one a.m., Joy and Tony finally pulled into the complex. Cautiously, Joy rounded the stairs; tonight, no vision haunted her. Elated, Joy laughed heartily.
“What’s so funny?” Tony asked.
“Nothing, there’s nothing there! Wyzek’s death must’ve freed the spirits or something. I’m so glad! We should probably call the police in Jal, though. But I don’t have the energy to try to explain how I know he killed five women in Texas.”
“Four. He didn’t kill Grace.”
Joy looked at him in disbelief. “I just saw Grace last night. How did you--”
“Dave always was a weak sack of shit. He never could do anything right. Butchering up my beauties. Then, instead of killing you, he kills himself! But you Joy, I think you’re the stupidest bitch I’ve ever met. I told you to forget about Dave. So I’m not going feel too bad about killing you myself.”
Tony took a step forward, but Joy slammed her key in the lock and swung inside her apartment. She peered through the peephole; Tony glared at the door before going back inside his apartment. Joy started searching her purse for her cell phone, but stopped. An out of place order filled her apartment. She followed it and found it emanated from her bedroom. As she took a step inside, unseen hands grabbed her head. Joy struggled, but she couldn’t scream, like cotton lodged her throat. The smell of sweat and cigarettes sickened her and Joy panicked more. It can’t be!  Suddenly, a voice rasped in the dark, “So beautiful…”
Joy tried furiously to scream again but the only sound was the bedroom door slamming shut.

Copyright © K. Knight 2011


unfortunately no music tonight (only a song reference), as i'm past my allotted time for this post, so i'll double your pleasure tomorrow and hopefully get to show off some more of my arts. night!

Saturday, February 16, 2013

3 Kings

today's music, rick ross, jay-z and dr. dre. i missed the implosion that signaled these three giants stepping into a studio together. but the aftermath ... amazing.

so i had a good day today, despite getting up at the butt crack of dawn. spent some quality time with my sis, who introduced me to an amazing webcomic, Ava's Demon. it has an intruiging story right off the bat. Poor little Ava seems to have a unwanted companion as constant company. On top of that, she's a social outcast and the victim of a sudden freak turn of events. this leads her to put her trust in her untrustworthy lifelong companion. the story isn beautifully illustrated through single panel pages, and is one of the best looking webcomics out there, in this author's humble opinion. it updates once a week on thursdays so be sure to add it to your keeps.

speaking of art, after years of admiring the work of others, i made it my business this year to step up from "recognizable figures" to actual "good" art. 'how are you doing that, Kits?' well, i'm glad you asked. i found an absolutely groovy site with free art lessons at drawspace.com. aside from being fun, the lessons are easy to understand and practice. and they are A LOT of them of all skill levels. even with some basic drawing skill, i started at the beginning and it's been paying off. it's given me understanding of things i was doing right (and wrong). i'm excited to post my progress here as i go through all the site offers. so have a little doodle i created from on of the lessons on the site :-)

it's a cute lil gremlin!


lastly, my inspiration for the day: peter gabriel's Legends and Icons interview for pandora. his words on "interesting life" speak to my soul. they are words i have to live by...

"If money, skill, talent, opportunity, were no object, what would you be doing right now?" ... inevitably, whatever people answer is exactly what they should be doing. And probably, they'll find a way to make money out of it, and if they don't they'll have a great journey, probably with similar minded people that have a similar sort of passion they do. And so the experiance will be really good.

so while it's always been a dream to be a published author, i'm researching and making moves to makre the dream realized. so stay with me, i'm sure the journey will be a good one...

Friday, February 15, 2013

Seconds

today's post!!!

in addition to ranting about life in general (see prev post!), I plan to use this blog as expression of my art, both visual and written. it will also feature tidbits of  other people's art, music, literature, the gambit. hopefully i can stay interesting enough to keep you along for the ride. Nah, i'm not going to be internet famous for an epic blog of excitement, intruge, drama and suspense. nor do i want to be. that is a level of dedication and lack of real life that i don't want to explore just yet.

speaking of real life. i've decided to be more active in community events around the city. I live in a major US city. there is no excuse to be bored on any given night of the week. I've started by checking out the local event calendar on Jack FM and found a few interesting things coming up next month. am i lame for going to a radio station site to find stuff to do? meh, whatevs. at least i'll be out of the house. besides, they play decent music about 90% of the time, so i almost trust their judgement.

on to the d'arts! nothing visual today, but enjoy some U2. also, partake, if you please, of my prose. today i share an assignment from an writing course i took for about two years. if you're interested, it's Long Ridge Writers' Group. Some people have decried it a scam, while others have sung it's praises. i belong to the latter because i realized early into the process that you get out of it what you put into it. i actually tried my best on all my assignments and got constructive, postitive feedback from my instructor. so i believe my experiance to have been a success story. anywho, this short story is untitled and is kind of an episode of my life in an alternate timeline (too much Homestuck, lol!). but if the opportunity ever presents itself, i wouldn't mind making this a reality. enough gab, enjoy the story...

Autumn rain fell lightly over a London afternoon. It wasn’t cold yet, but with the heat off in the flat, I could feel winter seeping in through the doors, windows and walls. I tapped my electronic cigarette absently on my lower teeth as I looked past the condensation on the window to the soggy street below. I think I developed the habit around the time I started on the new novel. X Machina, my first novel, which consumed many years of my life, had become a success almost overnight. It received beautiful reviews, numerous accolades, a spot to be envied on the best sellers list and a quickly growing following, all clamoring for the second of the series. My head swam. It was only a matter of months before I could afford to leave my apartment in the suburbs of Dallas to an impressive flat in London. It was not impromptu, however. It was promise to myself, made on “if” and kept on “when”. My mother questioned it over and over “Why? What do you need to move all the way over there for?” I had my personal reasons, but my response to her: the culture. Texas is an artistic and cultural desert; there may be some life out there, but it ain’t much and it’s hard to sustain. London is an oasis, one of the major arts centers on the planet. I needed to be surrounded in a strange place, with new experiences and people to push my creativity further. She didn’t like it, but she understood. Deep down, she knew it was in my nature; always the runner. One year and eight months after the debut of the novel, I was in my new home in London. In the time since then, I have reinvented myself. I wear my hair long, usually uncombed, but pretty nonetheless. The glasses that I’d always dreaded wearing are on me constantly. I haven’t really lost weight, but working out more regularly has given me a firmer, more curvaceous shape. I am the picture of bohemia: the single, starving artist in the big city.

Regularly I compare the two, life before and life after leaving the States. I was familiar with Texas. I got around easily and knew where things were. Here, it’s tough adjusting to the left sides of roads and following directions given to me by locals in the know. I feel like a tourist everywhere I go; I always look lost. Back home, I enjoyed a lot of space and drove to get to locations regularly. In London, all necessities are within short walking distance like the market, the movies, and restaurants. I enjoy the convenience and the exercise, but at the same time, it means I see little outside my neighborhood. I haven’t really met anyone near me, so I wander the streets, hoping inspiration will find me. But, more often than not, I just end up home alone. After it all, though, I find myself empty more and more often. Ideas don’t come as quick as they used to. I sit for hours at the computer, staring at the keys, tapping the cigarette. I don’t feel compelled to write like I did when I was a no one outside the published world. I don’t want to do anything. I have no motivation, no spark. I don’t regret the decisions I’ve made; I just wonder if they were the right ones.

It’s not quite writers block, I don’t think. It’s a new, weird “what now” block. Like the story has a good start, but the ending you envision doesn’t work with the plot you’ve written so far. I started my story; I got published, I moved to London, I am an author. But the ending is vague and almost daunting. I’ve become what I always wanted, my dreams are coming true, yet part of me feels there’s nothing left. But of course, I know there is so much more left. I’ve got a series to finish, deadlines to meet. I’ve got new concepts sketched out on sticky notes and scrap pieces of paper everywhere. The pressure is on to produce. My editor is expecting the draft of the sequel now.  I’ve invested in a life very far from where I’m from; failure means being homeless and stranded in a foreign land. Then, there’s the emotional wreckage of being a one hit wonder or having to start all over at the bottom. There is so much more to go, but this wall of self doubt is blocking me from the future. I’ve come too far to fall from grace now. In “A Dream Deferred,” Langston Hughes pondered what happens when the dream is not realized, left to decay or float away somehow. But I wonder if there has been any poetry written about the dream realized, beyond the rainbow, so to speak. I doubt it. As it stands, it won’t be written by me.

Night is fallen and cold officially fills the flat. I turn on the lamp on my desk and fold into my chair. The screen is black on my laptop, but its dulcet hum denotes it’s on. I stare at it for a while, inhaling from the cigarette and slowly exhaling its artificial toxins. In this light, I see myself reflected in the screen, surrounded in vapor and darkness and an idea is formulated. A woman, a witch perhaps, beautiful and ancient, is smoking a kiseru callously as a hero implores her help in his noble quest. The concept is sticky, staying put in my head and I smile slightly. I put the e-cigarette down, wake the laptop to life, and I write.

Copyright© K. Knight 2010

Thursday, February 14, 2013

what a way to start the show, right?











i'm writing to get the depression out. i do this EVERY year on this day, around this time of romantic reflection. why the fuck shouldn't this year be any different.

how does the story go? oh yeah... fat and single. whine, moan, piss about about being too weird and undesirable, die alone. the end.

abridged version.

and the commentary on this often told tale of woe? probably my own fault, don't make an effort, missed opportunities, no opportunities, blah blah blee blah.

and yet, here we are, rehashing it. between the lines, however, are two very simple truths. 1, i don't know how to romance, period. all i have is hollywood, books and porn. these piss poor sources would have me hard pressed to ever have a genuine relationship. 2, i have impossible standards. yeah, me, the fat weirdo chick has high standards. i want that hero, that hottie, that sterling stud, that prince charming who doesn't exist. hollywood and fairy tales tells me he's real, so who am i to question the universe, right? oh, wait, that was addressed one point prior to this one.

there are, i suppose, other extenuating circumstances. one being i don't attract what i want. certainly not for lack of trying! WHEN i do go out, where people go with the potential to meet other people, i do my damnedest to do it right. i try to look nice, be sociably, maybe a little flirty. but never get any bites. just, in my fun little head what i believe to be, pity politeness.
"yeah, that chick was nice, kinda cool."
"yeah, but would you fuck her?"
"fuck no dude! just... NO."
this is talk in my head. but clearly it must be taking place on some level. 'cause, i'm still single, right? what i do attract, you couldn't pay me enough to be seen in public with. 'nuff said on that topic. *see high standards, above* damn you hollywood, you fucked me again!

in addition to not getting the nods i want, ultimately i know, i'm just to weird. were i to find a guy that digs me and wants in on this world, once he learns my interests, obsessions and secrets, it won't be long before he's like 'fuck this, i can NOT deal. you're fucking crazy lady.' and he would be right. i'm not right, y'all. and while it is somewhat my claim to fame and what i most dearly identify with, it don't exactly have the men beating down the door.

which, i'm painfully ok with. i'm not shedding tears this year. i'm not heartsick and mopey. i'm just kind of... numb. that's not purely true, otherwise we wouldn't be on this little written adventure. what the fuck i am though, is more accurately... done. i am finished, complete. i can no longer give fucks. it hurts a little to say it, but i'm feeling it's true with each keystroke. i'm fucking tired if hoping, believing, dreaming for real love. it ain't finding me, i ain't looking. so i guess we're done here. there is just no connect.

please don't take this the wrong way. this is not angry bitter single girl bashing love or romance. i KNOW love is real and romance ain't quite dead yet. i have seen it in people i know and love. but for THIS fat weirdo girl, it... it's not happening. that tear ALMOST wanted to fall, lol. but it won't. i'm just dealing, and will continue to do so. certain scenarios cross my mind as grim and unhappy consequences of this death of desire for a relationship. but, it is what the fuck it is. can't be changed or helped. and that's part of the dealing too.

there it goes, that tear did manage to wriggle its way out. but only one, and its the last. i can't be bothered to care any more. i just want to live with only the hope of a new day and nothing else. this is a funeral, a chance to say goodbye, and let go.

let the Cataclysm begin...