Sunday, 28 August 2011

Hero Worship Part 2 of 4: Everyone Likes Monsters

P   R   E   V   I   O   U   S   L   Y      I    N 
S   P   I   D   E   R   F   I   N   G   E   R   S

    'Quit jabbering and save me!?'

    But I don't hear her reply. No, Miss World's gone, leaving me in agony, the frontal lobes of my brain subject to incessant howling. I thrash around pathetically and I spot something.

    A landmark I’ve only ever seen on T.V. 

    Fucking hell, I’m in America.


     I can’t help but notice them again, the unyielding pale monoliths that brave all elemental fury – the giant lettering that spell out HOLLYWOOD, they loom above and beyond my crater-hole acting as unnecessary surrealistic extras thrown into this, the latest scene in my horror-movie-life.

I close my eyes to well, the weight of its just too much you see – this hyper reality causes my brain to skip and play out its debut memory: Summer nineteen ninety nine. Here is where John Clay and Boleraam fuse together to become me - the demigod of chaos. This would be a fine track to keep on repeat forever. But No. Really, we're here: it’s early August, over a decade later and I’m in this breezy place, very, very, very far away from home. London Camden is a grand distance away, a transatlantic stretch from this crater that used to be the mouth of a tunnel - till Gaia filled it in with her roots and soil. Kurt’s lion roars have risen in their ferociousness - they’re downright unhealthy, and the day itself has risen up against me. 

Considering how long he’s taking to crawl into his dark cocoon, Saturn's day must surly know that I’m a killer. See, inside today’s pupa of nightfall there waits a minion willing to lion tame Kurt’s wail. So Saturday takes his sweet fucking time in delaying my inevitable salvation. Under fading Californian light, the ‘blood’ that dribbles out my nose and down my mouth and chin sparkles like the stars appearing in the darkening above. 

I’m pleading skyward for silence when I hear it - the rattle of something heavy and metal.
Thoughts can never be helped but the wrong words, they forge relationships don’t they? Rooenn hisses through gritted teeth and the word sounds like,


I’m trying to sit up a little as Earth breathes her coldness over everything; the kettle-whistle-weather mirroring the fear that boils inside me. I’m like a broken dildo, a silver rocket without the batteries, just a statue of an idiot. Useless. Ineffectual. So afraid as I slouch and stare all wide eyed at my grey servant who studies my face in silence, the creature swaying at my crater rim. You can never go too long without having to stare into an eye as glacial as Rooenn’s. So empty. So ice white.

I root my fingers into the rock beneath me, because mother always knows what’s best. And her skin offers my palms nothing - just a hard silence. She hasn’t forgiven my Kurt-hates-life-here revelation. My hair flicks wild fire orange as I curse Miss World’s memory, may humanity continue raping her.

    ‘Help chaos up.’ I ask looking up, wiping my gooey chin with my sleeve.

    I stretch my hand out to Rooenn but he ogles right through it.
    ‘Children.’ It hisses again. It hisses through choppers that only open to feast. Twisted imagination has lent Rooenn granite for skin and a whopping 7ft in height but I’ve only seen the fucker prowl; always on all fours. This near-silent menace is my saviour – its head mummified by heavy chain. I hear death in the whistling cold. Through gritted points a question escapes,

    ‘What does chaos want?’

    ‘Just stay close.’  I reply.

I look Rooenn in the left eye, that polar region, the only pupil completely visible; the other is half layered by the many binds of its metal mask, the end of which slithers down the monsters emaciated collarbone, clicking and clacking over the mountains flaky brown surface - a python of links charmed along by its grey panther master.

Miss World said minions are like vitamins and as I reach for Rooenn’s chain my strength returns dramatically. Rooenn’s awareness of my mythology grants me the mental power to muzzle Kurt’s bellowing into bearable snarls. I can hear myself think again.

Whose body has Kurt possessed? Does he wanna start a band?

As I lead my minion by its chain down the side of Mount Lee, thankful that we haven’t set off any motion sensors or encountered security, the thoughts meander. Tour merchandising. Oh, Kurt and I would be a marketing man’s sordid wet dream, and hey, I’m black, so, I’ll claim to be the reincarnation of Jimi whilst I’m at it. I mean, why not, y’know? 

    The kind of cool breeze you own a long trench coat for, it’s billowing that red sail of mine; grants this god his oxygen – the fleeting attention of others.

A street sign says Rooenn and I are on Melrose Avenue, kind of L.A’s answer to Old Compton Street except here I struggle, I can’t point out even the one exception - no one here’s even vaguely heterosexual. 

On this street, as I trek, my eyes occasionally latch on to sleek predatory cars stalking the wrong side of the road, and through a herd of hookers a night jogger in a smog mask glides past, nearly collides with a dwarf waddling behind the overflow of his belongings - they’re reaching out of his lopsided shopping cart. By chance I walk through a wave of song hailing from a parked car’s stereo. It’s that new pop song by that toddler made good. I walk faster as my mind seeks to protect itself from Biebers’ saccharine synths and robotic harmonies. The world forgot Rock and Roll for this.

And why bust out of Aphrodisia Kurt? Why Hollywood? I wanna know and thankfully, I think I can track you. When we’re heading away from wherever you are, your growls fade to near silence. I need only stop, change direction and I can hear you again. As we close in on your location Rooenn won’t be enough of a lion tamer. Your sonic jaws will free themselves and vice my head again till it splits from the fury.

The solution to my problem is like a fart in the face and my mouth opens to command Rooenn to join me in the unthinkable,

    ‘...gimme your hand.’ 

And boom! I’m holding hands with a gimp.

Rooenn’s grey hand in mine mutes Kurt’s howling. I can only imagine how his hopping along beside me looks like to passersby.

The inherent campiness of my Superman gear becomes painfully apparent as I suspect the locals take Rooenn and I to be flamboyant lovers. My lover the gimp, he has a whisper, not a singing voice,

    'Come come, time to go below,
    Down, down into the smoke filled bowl.
    Purple planets heart chakra covered in cold,
    Grows on trespassers, will swallow you whole.’ 

My lover the poet. With its teeth locked like that, Rooenn shouldn’t be able to pronounce properly. Consonants should be hellish - but the shithead isn’t human. I can't lie to myself. See. for a few seconds my whole body fills with dread as I allow my mind to be swamped with the danger Rooenn poses to my headspace.

My options are limited and I even permit myself to contemplate arranging for old allies to come to my aid. Luckily I get a hold of myself. The depth of manipulation I'd have to sink my hands into stinks with the dried blood of relationships long slain. My team - The Discordians - they're far from here. They are simply the Buchanan's now, a family that barely survived being my clergy. And I just don't have the desperation in me to resuscitate the trust they had in me. I'll handle Rooenn alone. 

    'Purple planets heart chakra covered in cold',

    That damn singing.

    'Grows on trespassers, will swallow you whole.’ 

    Time to block him out. Time for some singing of my own. Time for Bowie,

    ’I am a D.J, I am what I play.'
    ‘I got believers, believing in me.’

I’ve many memories of John Clay using music to block out reality. There was his circumcision; why he wasn’t under anaesthetic he can’t remember. I was...he was nine.

Ha! To think, that I’ve had my whole life to grasp the idea of mosaic memory. Well, I’m not the god of order and clarity am I? No, no, there isn’t one. All the bullshit that Zeus had his Pseudologoi feed Homer and Ovid just doesn't compete with the real deal. Hmph. Such cosmic oversight, such grandiose evil...shit like that often frightens a god into more favourable imaginings, get me? A perfect time, one where your deity is relaxed. No need to constantly stand battle-ready. 

Ah, the perfect fantastical event yet to pass...

Glastonbury. Pyramid stage. We’d call ourselves Tyler Durden. After I lend Kurt Fight Club, he’d say yes, I’ll join your band. 
I need cool stories and quotes to impress Kurt. So, to match his well-documented horror, I’ll tell a tale of overdue male circumcision. I just have to find him first...
    We’re walking down the boulevard for the opening credits of SPIDERFINGERS THE MOVIE. Well, it’s some overdone teen videoing us with her phone. Its night but she’ll post a clear enough clip of me and Rooenn on YouTube.

All pathetic, she tries to edge herself and all that eighties ‘electric shock’ makeup into shot. This priestess, she belongs to me, me, me, a globe spanning religion of which I’m a life-long member. One of its holy-men saunters up. He has pigtails - shit I know this fuckers face from somewhere? In Camden, the face of a recent trash mag. Man’s an actor but I forget the show.

    ‘I love - I mean, I absolutely adore your style.’  says the guy with the pigtails orbiting round me, 'Superheroes will never be passé.’ 

Pigtails runs his manicured palms over my untouchable stinking chest. He massages the material feeling it as though my obvious homelessness is an interactive museum exhibit. The man’s thinner off screen but yeah, this is Mick the informer from Those Men in Blue. I disgust myself at my D-list celeb knowledge, that this fuck recently made the obscure leap from celebrity chef to American cop show sitcom. I'm so close to violence because celebrities aren't what they used to be. The process is cheap and without true cultural merit. Talent? Pah! It's about who you know. 

I wanna pop out Mick's eyes.

I wanted to when I saw his face on the cover of Last Week magazine. 

Me scrunching a good five copies of Mick’s photo shopped face into my shopping bag/pillow case because I had to replace the George Clooney Papier-mâché in there. I almost come out with it: 'Mick my man, you make sleeping rough easier', but then Rooenn looks up at my face with a pleading in his arctic stare. If I don’t feed my minion, he’ll leave my side. Kurt’ll charge back into my brain screaming.

Mick crouches down, faces Rooenn at eye level and says,

    ‘Nice chain. Actors or singers? Is this a performance? Omigod, those nails!’ Rooenn has talons, not nails. Inches long. Hard to ignore. Thanks Mick, 

    'I’ll bet my long lost virginity you’re rock stars,' His hand shoots out. 'Hi! I’m Stan!’ 

I keep my hands by my sides. I give him a little wave from the hip saying,

    ‘Nice to meet you Stan.’ 

Here I am forcing myaself not to call Stan by his character's name. I turn to leave snatching at Rooenn’s chain as he starts hissing a word.


To which Stan replies, ‘Children? Well I love cock but honey, we’re moving too fast.'

Rooenn’s a performer, so it matters that an audience has gathered to watch him launch up off the ground into Stan’s face. Holding onto Rooenn’s hand as he maims Stan is difficult. But hey, treading water for hours must be difficult, but you still fucking do it till helps arrives. Oh man, the crowd roars with rhythmic horror, every flesh swipe is their musical cue.

Stan’s career on earth: celeb chef/actor/meal/rotting corpse. 

I catch myself gawping at the wisps of smoke funneling out of the heavens. My eyes are locked upon these strands of sentient guff as they enter through the nostrils of each and every bystander. From this moment on their lives will belong to the High-Father in accordance with a rule that Gaia is keen to support. No human must ever realise my existence. And so, there are no human witnesses, no potential worshipers of Spiderfingers, nope - not today. Me pulling Rooenn away from Stan's cadaver is an event effectively torn out of history's tome.

Up I struggle, awkwardly heaving Rooenn along, crashing us through a gym door. We burn along the lavender carpet on a sparkling spill of jagged glass.

    'One rule.’ I spit, shaking glass shards out of my hair, 'You don’t kill anyone unless I say so, clear?’

Rooenn nods smiling as I pull us back on our feet, zip through the gym foyer and blast down the metal bar of the fire exit to the cool outside. I use the relative privacy of this back alley to conduct a quick splatter check and I’m lucky – not a drop of dead actor-blood on me.

Kurt’s shrieking is drawing sweat from me now as we enter a trailer park. The winds died down considerably, and I can hear the odd distant car off the main highroad, the constant choir of an invisible cricket army, crick-cricks on. 

    Rooenn and I, we’re steaking out a spaceship. I mean seriously, the Winnebago looks like it has retractable wings, and could take off if need be. Bigger than a double-decker bus. Huge! Which unsuspecting rich bastard’s body have you hijacked Kurt? 

We’re hiding behind a large solitary tyre and I’m still pissed at myself and the fucker I have to hold hands with to survive. Gaia's told me enough stories about this creature and yet I've still managed to make the same mistake as so many travelling heroes and their squire's. Wrong words knight monsters and chaos shouldn’t be knighting anything. Now we’ve a relationship and all Rooenn’s relationships end in ruin. I push the hate down into my gut as we continue eavesdropping on the screaming woman who’s come out of the trailer.

    ‘...You should play bad-guys. Fucking monster!’ 

Her voice is raspy; probably a smoker, definitely drunk, I AM NOT A GROUPIE.’ she hollers. I have to put a face to the drama. I edge up and peer over my tyre and find my drunk is a blonde, about 5ft and cute. She’s pixie-like with ample hips to snuggle between and get lost in.

Strawberry lips part, ‘What’d Kurt do now, huh Lance?’

She said Kurt right? My Kurt? What’s going on here?

    ‘Don’t know, do you?’, she wails,'This movie is soooo fucked. You can spend another month in there; you’ll NEVER get Kurt Cobain right.’

A-ha. I see. This Lance guy is playing Kurt in some movie. A biopic. Universal, Paramount, whoever, some film company has bought this actor guy some state of the art recreational vehicle to stay in. I amaze myself at the speed my brain takes to comprehend the scenario and formulate a plan to get me past this woman. I pull a pair of glasses out of my pocket. What can I say? I don't need glasses worn by John Clay, but gods are inherently sentimental creatures now, aren't they? I abandon the tyre-hiding-place with Rooenn in tow – its confrontation time. When she sees me she yelps and backs away a little, half stumbles into that massive trailer.

    ‘What the fuck?’ 

She shouts this whilst staring at Rooenn’s hand in mine. If I let him go at this distance Kurt’s bellowing will kill me.

    ‘Oh, he’s what we call a tool, Lance’s emotional trigger. Lance your pal? He’s my client.’ 

I push intellects totem up the bridge of my nose and continue,

    ‘Sorry, I’m Dr. Finger from Meltdown L.A? My P.A called ahead right. Marcia?’

    ‘Marcia?’, she repeats shaking her head,

    ‘I don’t know a Marcia. Who the fuck are you guys?’ 

She spits the words as if she has armed personnel on call. Like the finger she points at me is primed with lead. She struts up, all the Dutch courage in the world. She waves her accusatory finger at me.


I bury the pride. I need information.

So I retreat, of course. A courteous back-step as I say calmly, all matter of factually,

    ‘Lance’s management got in touch. Said there was a problem?’

Let’s have some fun.
    ‘Heath Ledger cracked,’ I begin, ‘If his people’d hired my people...well...Now Lance in there, he has a problem-sorry, your name was?’

    ‘Didn’t say.’ she says this looking at Rooenn’s hand in mine.

    ‘This guy here?’, I say all this gesturing at Rooenn, 

    ‘He’s Lance’s Emo-trigger. Man, when I was doing the Stallone gig, the trig we had to use? Christ. I wheel this big fat melon onto the set of the last Rambo movie see, cos Sly won’t leave his trailer till they green-light the use of real bullets!'

I chuckle scratching my forehead in disbelief,

'Method acting taken to a whole new level of crazy! But after he sees the melon, his Emo-trigger, Sly’s outta the trailer. Cool job huh? Hey, and I get to wear costumes to work.'

    My free hand taps my chest.

    ‘The thing’ c’mon, c’mon, gimme your name. Put your faith in me.

    ‘Lissie,’ says the blonde, ‘Smoke?’ a small hand holds out an open pack.

    ‘No thanks. So yeah, the thing is Lissie, a client’s trig has to be linked to something the client’s told nobody, I mean not a soul.'

Lissie doesn’t take her eyes off Rooenn as she sparks up.

    ‘Lance chose a gimp?'

I nod slowly, cos nodding is all you can do when you've nothing wholesome to pray to.

    'So, Mr some super shrink huh?’  she sucks some life out of the cigarette.

    ‘Childr-.’ I swiftly cover Rooenn’s hissing mouth with my free hand.

    ‘As I said, my name is Dr Finger, Stephen Finger, from Meltdown L.A, but hey, wanna know Richard Geres’ trig?’

    ‘Don’t tell me. Hamster right?’ she says killing the fag some more, coughs a little as I laugh correcting her, ‘Gerbil actually.’

I’m her friend now, this is like some office gossip swapped over lunch. So, imagine my surprise when Lissie blocks me as I make a move for the trailer door:

    ‘No way you n’ gimp boy here’re for real. Accents soooo bad man. English? Lance, you gotta come out and see this! You got some English stalker guy out here!’

    ‘I'm a doctor. I was raised in the U.K. Listen Lissie, be a pal to Lance and -‘

    ‘This is Hollywood asshole’, she flips a dirty pink mobile in her hand, ‘Pals don’t exist.’

Whips of my fringe blaze bloody, the lashing streaks stretching, engulfing Rooenn. They engulf my knight.

Some life insuring advice: never piss off anything that can flood a world or turn disobedient wives into salt.


    ‘Yes Rooenn, she's yours. You get to fuck her. Make her cunt catch fire,'

John hates the word cunt,

    'She won't forget what happens to those who forget their station. Give me blood.’

But I'm not John.

The correct pronunciation of ‘Rooenn’ is ‘ruin’, its most formidable weapon sways between its legs. Kettle-whistle-weather shrills the word Terrorsmith whilst I nod Rooenn's barbarism to commence. Lissie is right. There are no pals in Hollywood, only monsters.
    I look around before leaving Rooenn to his pleasure cos there must be someone watching this. I spy the boy in a trailer opposite, how he isn’t on the phone to police. He just sits and watches this slice of real life as if it’s a cut sequence from a game, at best a movie portion to muse upon.

The trail of snaking smoke sifting under the door of his trailer will keep his mouth shut forever. I ought to feel guilty about his life being hijacked because of mine, but there's no time for guilt, only curiosity. I step into the mouth of Lisse's trailer and I can’t help but feel I’m walking into a dragons lair. The chain that yanks repeatedly away from me, the one attached to Rooenn, its maybe nine feet long now, snaking away back outside, under the Winnebago I’m entering. But I must grip on to it tight. I let go of Rooenn’s chain at this distance from Lance and, well...

Kurt’s scream is making my nose bleed again. I’ve no choice but to ignore it because it’s not like Rooenn’s gonna stop raping and maiming what’s-her-name back there to come hold my hand, right?

I inch forward clutching at Rooenn’s chain tight and it suddenly occurs to me: my relationship with the Terrorsmith is mightier than physics. Oh yeah, his chain lengthens so that I may walk further into Lance's den, to near the figure on the half-made bed. He’s lying foetal and wrapped round a teal green Byzantium Fender Mustang.
I walk across magazines and junk towards the early nineties’s icon, my nose gushing out more of my phosphorous goo for blood. 

Hovering the bed, I reach down to touch my god in his motionlessness. And for my trouble I’m blasted back, my head bashing the floor, my hands virtually glued to Rooenn’s chain as the white heat that assaulted me melts the glasses off my nose. 

The face at the heart of the lightning storm above me snarls with a parody of viciousness. It appears Kurt has a dragon.

Kurt Cobain's spirit has possessed an actor called Lance, an actor playing him in a Nirvana biopic. Kurt, why?

Be sure to follow Stephanie Penny Tent's Spiderfingers on his wayward mission in 28 days.  

N   E   X   T      T   I   M   E      I    N
S   P   I   D   E   R   F   I   N   G   E   R   S
We’re sitting down after a run around, and I’ve still got his mother’s Dictaphone playing my voice back over and over and over, listening to my story.

I’m a street orator, checking and double-checking my last draft as the boy whines in the background. He’s crying now, coz I’m holding him back – stopping him from waking his mum, from rousing his Matryoshka.

(N.B The comments posted below pertain to a deleted scene).


  1. Really enjoyed it. It is well-written and compelling, with a sense of organised chaos that seems to reflect the Chaos God himself. Narrative as a function of personality, or something like that? Anyway, I was left confused by the sudden change of scene and narration style. This is certainly no bad though. As I mentioned before, I don't like to be spoon-fed plot, so I'm perfectly happy being confused. If anything, it adds to my enjoyment and makes me want to read on.

    The questions that congealed in the front of my mind were as follows:
    1. Who is the narrator addressing Spiderfingers?
    2. What has been going on in this seemingly suburban setting? And how did Spiderfingers end up so badly injured?
    These questions should definitely be answered over the course of the next few episodes (don't leave me hanging, man!) but I think the fact that there is an element of dislocation in this particular scene is very effective.

    I wondered what Angel Syndrome might be, and whether having a sick kid might explain some of Steph's motivations for acting the way she does, both towards Spiderfingers and in relation to Milo.

    In terms of grammar (you know that's what I like to look at!) I think you should refer to the old couple as the D'Angelos rather than the D'Angelo's, because you're not talking about anything that belongs to them as a couple. The possessive apostrophe is redundant.

    I'd be interested to hear other members of the circle's views, and how they interpret the sudden change of pace and scene...

  2. Yes. Very good. As always enjoyable, I think this is robs my fave in awhile. You've captured the horror, the arrogance, the (rather Dr Who/Russelbrand) humour. SF's complexity really comes through here, not just a vagrant image. And we get to see a famile side to him.

    Glad yo ditched the leap in time. Nice way to work in your thoughts on the riots,and Steph as gained a lot more depth as a chara. Or not, lol. Why do I have a feeling Gideon is going to be a lot more than his mother?

    Triangles, eh?

    The cut time approach, and the content and seeming outcome is reminescent of Resevoir Dogs and Domino. Which is cool. I love these convoltued dramatic slices of time.

    Everyones dead/dying, whith no sign of the enemy dead? Noticed Zombie Boy wasnt mentioned. Just how much of a necromancer is he?

    This sentance is a bit clunky.
    "A brilliant poster to make us even stronger is ruined then; desecrated by the torn off tusks of one of your own creations."

    Leanne's 1, I was under the impression that the narrator is SF's, addressing himself. Distancing himself from the pain by talking in third, as well as his thoughts.

  3. Glad you liked the tale Leanne and don't worry, the next half of The Russian Doll Stories (yep, we're half way through) will be about tying up some loose ends and answering long forgotten questions. Remember that main theme of the story? Coming up very soon.
    The change of pace was meant to be quite cinematic. I'll probably be using this technique again, though for some characters it might not work.

    Made the changes regarding the grammar and yes, Ashley - the narrator is Spiderfingers addressing himself. This episode takes its cue from Invisible as Trust No One Under Twenty is inspired by Steph's Gold Medal.

    Any idea how to fix the clunky sentence anyone?

    STOP THE PRESS!!!! You like Steph now Ash?

  4. I'm intrigued. Is Spiderfingers dying? I agree with Leanne, the questions that arouse in her arouse in me too. Why is Spiderfingers in the suburbs? I need answers!

    I liked this style of writing, you had me hooked throughout (even if I was a little confused).
    Also just read the last bit of your comment about the narrator and that makes a lot of sense now.

    I really enjoyed the imagery of triangles, it really worked well. Keep the imagery rolling.

  5. I take it you have yet to read Dangerous Beginnings? The answer to your suburbia question lies there. In fact, I'd say you'll find the Triangles less confusing afterwards ;)

    I heard someone make the analogy of triangles in a documentary about the Nic Cage film Bad Lieutenant. I LOVE that movie.

    No you don't get it. I LOVE that movie.

    Now, is there a way to make the narration more obviously Spiderfingers, or is the balance just right?

  6. I think for me you could make it more obvious that Spiderfingers is the narrator (I am a little slow on the uptake.)

    I will read Dangerous Beginnings to get a little more insight and I remembered Vicky from before (or am I making that up).

  7. Suggestions as to how to make it more obvious guys? Vicky was in The Killing Moon and Dangerous Beginnings. Maybe You've read The Killing Moon? I look forward to your thoughts on all of the above ;)

  8. Er....NO! Just that she is now a consistant chara...She seems more whole, her thoughts and actions match up and make sense now. Before she still seemed a little ambiguous.

    She's consistant, it doesnt mean I like her. you write reviews of yourself and reread them wehn ur ego needs a boost? :P

    And you dont need to make it any clearer...but if you want to perhaps mae a satirical comment on how his own narration is making his stump gush more vigerously.

  9. By the way my last yes-i-am-human word was MINGS

    Thought i would share...

  10. You don't like her as in she's not entertaining or that you don't like her because she seems self centred? Both maybe? Discuss please :)

    Me write reviews of myself? Ha! Don't get me confused with god dude!

    Didn't think I had to make it clearer but if a cool idea floats on in...

    I have no idea what you mean by your last comment. Explain yourself.

  11. "‘Call me Spiderfingers,’ say you tapping your chest..." is where I figured out it was Spiderfingers talking. But I figured he was talking to the reader in the sense of 'you're me now, you're spiderfingers/chaos, this is how this shit goes down.' No? :S But I have no ideas atm on how to make it more obvious from the beginning. (Helpful Carla is always helpful!)

    Self-centred ... I'm not a fan of Steph (sorry!), although I agree that she seems more 'whole'... it's an odd thing cause I like Spiderfingers as a character and he's obviously quite self-centred, but Steph... she grates.

  12. HAHAHAHA! Thanks Carla ;)
    I'm alright with the clarity issue and I'm looking forward to what Sim has to say about this narrative device/literary trickery I gravitate to every other story. I do it of course as a way of practicing and digging out novel ways to tell this epic about narratives, crazy gods and the people that rely on them. Mainly, I write this way to keep you all in the dark. I'm just wizard of OZ like that.

    Spiderfingers is an arsehole isn't he? Why won't he just go away and leave things well alone? I like order and everything! Maybe there is a merit to him being about but i dunno - the fuckers always about and it helps that we don't know his end game. That would be much too orderly.

    Steph is quite souless and you don't have to apologise for not liking her but I do wonder if you mean the way she is written or are in faxct commenting on the morality of her character?

    Answering that question would make me a better writer.

    I swear it on my Superman.

  13. Oh man, why do you always make my head hurt like this. I'm so desperate to pin you down to some kind of normal narrative structure and then you pull this stream of insanity? I feel like I'm inside the mind of the Jabberwocky, reading a write your own adventure novel, turning the page when I hear the unnatural tone on my casio cassette player. WHAT THE FUCK MAN? JUST TELL THE GODDAMN STORY!!!!!!

    Anyway, all intriguing. I like your dysfunctional Avengers idea you have going on here. Once again I feel like I've missed half a dozen chapters of story, only being kinda aware of Object Girl and the Zombie guy from the supermarket. But man, you make me cry with your introduction of characters. They've either been there all the time, by the way, didn't you notice? Or they're left so mysteriously blank I have no fucking clue what's happening.

    I see what you're doing with Steph, but I think I'm gonna have to echo some comments on previous posts - I don't like her. She has no redeeming features to me. She's tortured by her proxy-like writing, but I don't care, I have no frame of reference or tangible mote of empathy in her character. I want to resent her, or pity her, but I have no strong inclination either way. Steph can't just be a narrator, or an existential meme, she needs some depth and a story of her own.

    Principally I want Spiderfingers back, I miss him and I feel I haven't heard enough of him in a long while. I also want the Discordians to kick some ass or have an adventure, and point me towards a story where they do as they sound interesting, but I think in the addition of these extra characters AND your step-out-of-the-story author character Spiderfinger's himself has become lost. I don't know if you're bored of writing him and want some variety, and that's fine, but you need to give your readers what they want and what I want is more Spiderfingers solo. Pure and unsullied.

    I'm really not certain by the writing of Spiderfingers as you 'you' perspective, don't get who's narrating it, and if we're meant to be reading it as if we the reader are Spiderfingers or if it's another voice addressing Spiderfinger's himself. If I'm being truthful I don't like this as much as some of you're other pieces, it feels too confused and diluted. I want to like it, but it's either too awkward because of the perspectives, or there's not enough to get my teeth into, like I've stepped into a momentary fragment or a larger tale. As ever you're sentences structure, grammar and deceptively casual/deep writing style is great, I'm not criticizing/critiquing your skill or ability as I know it's strong, I just am not satisfied as a reader. Sorry :-S.

  14. Ha! I posted before I read the other comments... You know me well...

  15. Firstly, Steph is a weak point to most of you (all of you?) and so I'll just have to think up ways to 'fix' her in redrafts. Any ideas (that's your job guys....c'mon) are very welcome. I'm waiting patiently. Is liking Steph ruining the intrigue level as to what Spiderfingers end game is? No, didn't think so.

    Secondly, truthful is good. It's more than good - it's very much what I'm here for, so I'm glad you were able to share.

    Yes I'm bored, but not of our favourite neighbourhood man-god; just the technique I often use to share him (first person). If you want more of that go here:

    For those of you up for some mad experimentation then this is of course the place to be.

    I'll be honest, writing from month to month is far from easy, so if the plot pace isn't moving as fast as you like it's because I'm taking my time to get it right. Plot pace you say? Didn't have a problem with it you shout? Maybe not consciously, but enough of you are dying to know more about the Discordians. Patience.

    Not enough to get your teeth into?

    The main cast seems to be either dead or dying, Steph is becoming quite the absorbed ego-maniac -ahem- writing reviews about 'her' stories and hey, Spiderfingers P.O.V took up a large perspective of the story. It's interesting though that you regard this part as too confusing when arguably past instalments have been much more dense. You can't please everybody but I do concede that I would have liked to have made it more obvious to all that the narrator is in fact Spiderfingers talking himself into a calm and peaceful headspace. His arms been hacked off after all. Do you know how much strength it takes to chop off a gods arm? Well, do you?



  16. Hi John,

    Enjoying the story as it progresses! Your choice of pace , works well here. I understand you’ve edited with this in mind so good job! It's an exciting chapter.

    In the sentence: “The tales she could recall pulsated through her veins like nitrogen bubbles, thick and painful and aching for release.” Here you have described the simile, which seems a bit odd (to me). I would suggest the following edit “The tales she could recall pulsated through her veins, thick and painful and aching for release.” The sentence feels a lot more powerful. Unless nitrogen is particularly important to the story.

    Absolutely love paragraph describing Steph’s writing and her obsessive compulsion in writing down Spiderfinger’s words. Definately getting a sense she is possessed by something or someone. ;)