Saturday, December 24, 2016

Cold Smokes and Metaphors, Part 1


The dark enveloped me like a cold, lifeless blanket. Streetlights left stark orange holes in the fabric, casting harsh rays of visual perception on a snow-covered cityscape. Legs stiffly pumping as they seized up in the breeze, I crunched through the weighty white blanket towards the scene of the crime. I already used blanket. Shoot. Well, it fit better for snow anyway. We’ll retcon the darkness into a cardigan or something.

Turning at the corner of 5th and Simile, I came face to face with tonight’s job. It was a grizzly scene, and not the kind you see fishing for salmon. The stiff was sprawled out on the concrete behind that taught tape TP of the local PD. The chief was already there, looking down his wobbly, grim-faced lip-fur at the blood on the snow beneath him. Well, the stuff wasn’t actually on the snow. It was mostly along the curb, mixing with the filthy gutter slush for a sort of spotty dark brown color. I knew that on top of everything else, the killer had a profound disrespect for the conventions of visual symbolism.

Friday, December 9, 2016

Genericide Update: A Payload of Discontent

Words! Unlimited transmitters of information, unparalleled transportation for communication! These supremely significant symbols signify all knowledge that shall ever pass from one human brain to another. Pouring from the mouths of all who live easier than air, they infest the world with ideas equally insidious and ingenious. Thrown to the wind like flowers in the breeze, they ingrain themselves in the hearts of men. Also alternate genders of human, a small subset of clever animals, and theoretical lab experiments where cardiovascular systems gain sentience. Words are tools, to an author as a hammer and nails to a carpenter or confidence and mental insulation are to successful businessmen. But there are not a thousand hammers of varying shapes equally equipped to conquer every nail. For the humble author need not worry about mere execution, but the tools. Before he can concern himself with composition, he must select the instruments. Before he can compose a sentence, he must select the words.

Friday, December 2, 2016

Genericide Update: A Fresh Jug O’ Word Juices

Why hello there! Been a while since we’ve had a chat like this, eh imaginary friend I pretend is an active audience? A few months, as a matter of fact. Though it only spanned two different topics, I’ve spewed out a fair few words lately. Last week I slipped off the metaphorical hook due to Thenksgorbing, but now America is done reminding the world of its enjoyably unhealthy relationship with food and I’m back on said hook. That metaphorical hook has me by the metaphorical jaw, and if I don’t want to end up catch of the day I’ll have to write a blog update or something that fish do I don’t know this was actually a terrible metaphor for my situation.

Since it’s been a while, allow me to acclimate myself to the proper mindset for my uniquely endearing* brand of non-content (nontent, if you will). Ahem:

*Genericide earned a perfect score on a scale of one to endearing, by a panel of five judges that were all me in a delightful assortment of different wigs.