Vlog Update: 10-27-2010

Poem: Heart Break

The pain tears into me,
Pulling my soul out from beneath my body's flesh,
I'm tortured by the emptiness,
By the lack of feeling...the feeling of being loved,

Your face was my anchor,
But now the absence of your presence hurls me into oblivion,
There's no bittersweet ending for me,
Just the pain and lonliness of a heart still breaking.

Niteblade Submission

Well, just submitted another short story to an online magazine called Niteblade. I've heard some cool things about this periodical and, after reading it's current issue, felt that it would make a great home for one of my stories...now if I can only convince the creator/editor Rhonda Parrish of the same thing we'll be in business!


I'll give you guys a hint...the short story is one of the ones that have been posted on this site :)


Anyways, I'll keep you posted and hopefully my little bundle of horror will be picked up for publication.


OK everyone, sleep well (it's currently 12:12am where I am) and I'll try to post a vlog tomorrow to update you on what I did this weekend.

Best Regards,

Marcus

Guest Blogger: Raven Corinn Carluk, Author of "All Hallows Blood" and "Stories With Bite o,.,o"

Ok everyone, I have a special treat for you today! I want to introduce an author to you who really understands how to deliver a book with bite. :)

Please feel free to check out her site after reading her post and, if you haven't already, go grab yourself a copy of her book, All Hallows Blood.

Alright, without further delay I give you Raven Corinn Carluk.

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Author: Raven Corinn Carluk




Raven Corinn Carluk

Greetings and salutations all. I'm pleased to be here today, meeting new folks. Maybe even making some new friends.

I'm Raven Corinn Carluk, author of All Hallows Blood and Stories With Bite o,.,o. I write paranormal romance/urban fantasy, and dark fantasy stories. These were easy, and obvious, genres for me to slip into, because I'm way into paranormal and fantastical creatures. I'm also a romantic at heart. I enjoy people falling in love, and long for the happily ever after. But I also like bad guys to win, and the dark anti-hero.

So I'm all around a mixed bag.

I'm an indie author, and I support self-publishing all the way. Which is a completely different tone than when I was writing All Hallows Blood a couple years ago. Then, I was fully of the belief that if your story was good enough, it would be picked up by a publisher, and no need to self-publish.

So I finished my book, polished it up, and started working on getting a publisher. I signed with a small press, mostly ebooks, and I started looking into how the publishing industry really worked.

Now I regret signing my book away.

Being published, especially if you're not Stephen King or James Patterson or George RR Martin, is like becoming a rented mule; you do all the work writing and editing and publishing, then all the work getting a contract, and then all the work marketing. All to have someone else make way more money on the book than you, and take all the control away from you. It's painful and sad, and ton of work.

There's the same amount of hard work to do with self-publishing, but you remain in control. You can pay for your cover art and layout, or learn it like I have. As a creative person, I really enjoyed learning to do the formatting work, and had a blast putting stories with bite o,.,o together. And that book's success or failure is entirely on me. I set my price, I do all my marketing, and no one else is making money off my hard work and creativity.

I cannot advocate traditional publishing anymore. It's a giant machine that spews out only stuff that can make a profit, not writing that's skilled or artful or even mildly different. Nor does it support the new talents it chooses to pick up. If you're going to struggle, you might as well stay in charge of your own destiny, and go self-publishing.

The most important thing to self-publishing is to write damn well. Write a good story, and people will follow you. For me, a good story is well-written, without technical faults. It should be obvious, but I've seen it happen. Other than that, I just want something gripping. Totally subjective, I know, but I don't care if the story's totally unique, or if it takes place in the real world, or if there are pages of fight scenes. I just want to enjoy it, and that means so many different things depending on what mood I'm in.

For my own writing, I usually start with the idea. I don't force it, or sit and really brainstorm. Something will come to me when I'm listing to music, or watching a movie, or even reading someone else's stories. Sometimes it's even just a weird dream. Then I flesh it out in the first draft, all hand-written in my Orlando Bloom notebook. I'll usually edit as I go, choosing different words, or changing how a fight works out.

When I'm ready, I'll transcribe it into my computer, editing it further. If it's a short story, I usually just give it a once over. When it's a novel, it may end up with months of work spent polishing it. I just keep working it until I feel it's ready to do something with. All Hallows Blood, for example, took a little less than two years from first draft to submission.

Being a storyteller is damn fun. I encourage anyone with a tale to tell to get into it. Just don't expect anything right away. Even in this digital age, fame and fortune don't come at the speed of the internet. Boy, I wish they did. Not that I got into writing for the money, just for the fame. I want people to hunger for the worlds I create, and to get lost in my stories. I want to be the author that people get rabidly impatient waiting for the next book.

As such, I've got a bunch of free stories on my site, and I'm taking part in Twitter's #FlashFriday, so stop by my blog to keep up with those. Sure, I'm a little dark and twisted, but I'm also a little bit fun. I'll only bite if provoked. o,.,o

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Find out more about Raven on her "About Me" page! Also, make sure to browse the rest of her blog at http://ravencorinncarluk.blogspot.com

Six Sentence Sunday: Dark Goddess

Here's another vampire Six Sentence Sunday post.  Enjoy!




Dark Goddess

by Marcus Twyman


His arms wrapped tightly around his mate – his deathly cold flesh pressed up against hers. They writhed in a crimson puddle of blood that their victim's body still pumped, even though its heart was finally beginning to stop. His tongue traced patterns in the blood against the ghostly pallor of her flesh, making her purr like a large, predatory, cat. Together, they had hunted...and together they'd feasted, making the man yell out in both pain and, as he had come closer to death, ecstasy. She liked letting them feel sexually aroused before their death...apparently she felt less monstrous – more humane. With her jet black hair and her ruby colored eyes, she was anything but a monster...she was a dark goddess, his eternal goddess – of death.

Where Do You Find Inspiration?: An Answer To A LinkedIn Group Post

Linkedin Member, Darlene Quinn, posted a question on a writer's group page asking: "Where do you find inspiration?"

I posted this as a response to her post:

My writing inspiration comes from EVERYWHERE. Seriously, I could be driving and listening to a song on the radio. A line from the song's lyrics might really grab my attention...pulling the seeds of a story from my mind. Usually, after something like that, the story just avalanches and becomes something that demands to be written.

I also get inspiration from my daily feelings and experiences. I might be upset, or maybe I'm angry...infuriated even. I try to step outside of my "box" and view myself in the third person so that I can "see" how I look and react to these feelings and experiences. Then I might ask myself, "What can you turn this into? What can you turn these painful, hurtful, or happy emotions into?" This method has inspired many stories to be born in the cramped spaces of my mind.

I try to find my inspiration in everything. I want life to be inspiring and waiting for a "thing" to inspire can leave a writer waiting for something that may never come.

When your heart speeds up, or your stomach knots...when a chord is struck and you're saddened by something you've witnessed, use it! That should be your inspiration...Life.

Thanks for posting this question!

Marcus
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Vlog Update: 10-20-2010

Vampire Diaries Teaser!

Guest Blogger: Spotlight on Autumnforest

Here's my first guest blogger post. Feel free to read more about Autumnforest on her blog:

http://autumnforestghosthunter.blogspot.com/


Autumnforest:

I’m known as Autumnforest on my blog, “Ghost Hunting Theories” blog. I’m a ghost hunter, a psychic and a horror writer.

I write horror, but more specifically I enjoy writing atmospheric paranormal horror and erotic horror. I was a storyteller as a child, but later when I learned to type in my teens, I found myself writing fiction all the time. I couldn’t stop. I started out in romance and then went into doing a lot of published self help nonfiction, but then settled for the thing that has always been the constant in my life; horror.

I’ve entered a lot of short story contests and won a few at online magazines and a printed one, as well. I won the short essay contest for “Ghost Adventures” show last October having to do with their stay at Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum. Right now, I’m in the semifinals of the Kreepy Krawlys essay contest. It’s a really exciting one. One of my things on my bucket list was to have a hand in a haunted attraction’s creation. That’s what this contest is about; an essay that will be the basis of a haunted attraction.

I grew up in a 250-year-old mansion in Northern Virginia. It was taken over by the North during the Civil War and used as a field hospital and then the South took it over again and used it for the same. The wood floors were still stained from the blood. I grew up digging up relics and NBC did a special on the house’s ghosts and mediums came to do séances and newspapers did articles. At one time, it was considered to be one of the most haunted houses in America. It was during that childhood that I not only experienced many paranormal happenings, but I also developed my psychic talent for touching objects and reading their history. It began with relics I dug up around the grounds. I never knew it was a psychic skill until I was well into adulthood. I thought everyone did it.






A Short Story By Autumnforest

Wolves At The Door


They raced the pathways through the woods by moonlight. The lunar cycle didn’t matter. Clouds or rain, snow or new moon, they owned the forest. In a pack, the beasts kicked up dirt, tore at hiking trails, and pursued the abundant deer and wild turkey. Their haunting howls resonated back and forth from hillside to hillside.


“Coyotes?” The hitman pressed his face to the cabin window to glance out at the murky moonlight outside.


He stepped away and finished off the glass of Jack Daniels as he studied the gym bag. He had to think clearly about where to hide the cash just in case he was followed.


Collapsing back in an overstuffed chair, the criminal turned on the TV. The local resort’s channel touted the Olympic-sized swimming pool at the main lodge and went on to brag about how it was a giant preserve where hunting was not allowed and wildlife abounded. They encouraged the visitors to enjoy the woodland paths in total privacy.


Privacy. He chuckled at that. The resort was a nowhere place, a dead end mountain no one knew about. The criminals knew that cabin #5 was a special location. It was not only completely isolated by the woods, but the resort had a policy. If you were willing to shell out the cash, they’d protect your privacy completely. They had no records of a #5 cabin and no housekeeping. They liked to say, “this is the place to get lost.” In fact, the key was sent to him in the mail so he didn’t have to go further up the mountain to the lodge and be seen in public.


The hitman’s associates knew the in’s and out’s. He was learning them, but admittedly he wasn’t the brightest of the batch. He was no alpha dog, but he could provide a service when requested. Making hits was easy. Cash was plentiful. He never made this kind of dough in construction.


He ran a meaty hand over his grizzled face and sighed. The howling outside the cabin reached a crescendo. It unsettled his already taut nerves. He had no guilt about the kill, but he sure had fears about the cops finding him.


He got up and flicked on the front porch light. It shone on the pine trees nearby. Something shuffled by the side of the cabin and thumped the wall. He flicked the light off and held his breath.


“Just a raccoon.” He told himself, but his mind was seeing that strange black car that was following his car the last 10 miles to the mountaintop resort. Sure, they kept going on to the lodge, but they did see him turn down this road.


“I should check.” He grumbled as the howling stopped outside and he cautiously opened the door. Thinking about the coyote pack and their calls, the killer felt a bit of nostalgia. He missed his gang in Philly. It had been a long time since he could go home and run with them, intimidating everyone on the streets. No, his work in Jersey took him away from there and it was too dangerous to go back.


“Yeah, I’m a coyote without my pack now.” He commented sadly.


The area near the cabin looked clear in the half moonlight. His car was tucked in behind the building out of sight. The cabin itself was completely engulfed by huge rows of wild bushes and brambles. No one would ever guess it was there. Even the ground was gravel strewn and showed few tracks. Just in case, he walked over into the circle of moonlight and kicked at the gravel to be certain no car treads could be seen.


The hairs on his neck tickled. He knew he was being watched! He spun around, squinting into the woods nearby, a bead of perspiration rolling into his eye and stinging him blind. He backed up towards the cabin, surveying the area cautiously.


“Who’s there?” He called out, his voice cracking.


Something thrashed the bushes nearby and the hitman backed up a step, squinting into the darkness of the shrubs.


“You’re not gonna catch me.” He vowed under his breath.


Without warning, something yanked his shirt, pulling him to the ground with a thud. Shaking off the stars in his head, the hitman studied the dark figures above him. The half moon settled between their heads, casting them in silhouettes. There stood five man-like figures, hunched over, long snouts sniffing, smelling of wet dog and snarling lowly in threat.


“What in the hell are you?” He cried out.


The leader stepped forward and lifted him up easily with one gnarled furry paw as if he weren’t a 6’2″, 250-pound man. Claws dug into the hitman’s shoulder and he winced. When he braved opening his eyes again, he looked straight into the fiery red eyes of the beast, fangs exposed and glistening in the light. For a panicky minute, the hitman remembered the cries of his last hit. The man had been on his knees, begging to pay him cash, do anything to just live.


He whimpered hysterically just as his victim had.


Behind him a beast snarled loudly, another howled. Then the leader bent, teeth sinking readily into the hitman’s shoulder with a crunch. As his knees went weak beneath him, the beast leader grabbed the hitman by the hem of his shirt and dragged him deep into the blackened woods as the criminal lost consciousness.


The resort manager came the next morning, grabbed up the bag of cash, the traces of the occupant, and used the car key to move the vehicle to his cousin’s car shop where it would be parted out.
It never failed; crooks were looking for an easy out. He provided it for them. The pack of other thieves-turned- werewolves brought the criminal into their fold. They had all the fresh deer and wild turkeys they could want and the resort manager continued to give them new members. It was an amicable situation that helped both sides, as well as cut down on the uncontrolled population of wildlife in the preserve. In fact, he was feeling pretty pious about his life mission as he drove off in the criminal’s Mercedes Benz at sunset.


A stealthy creature followed not far from the bumper, eyes of fire, fangs exposed. He wasn’t the brightest of the batch and he was no alpha dog, but he served his pack well as he stalked their next member.


http://autumnforestghosthunter.blogspot.com

Video Of Interview With Laurell K Hamilton

Just thought this was interesting. Enjoy!

WTF....The Vampire Song???

OK, so I should be asleep, it's freakin' 3:35am and I feel like my eyes are full of sand...but I did a search for "Vampire Music" and guess what came up!

Well...just watch the video below. I don't know what I just witnessed...all I know is that I'm tired and I'm going to sleep.

Enjoy this weird ass video y'all!

Vlog Update: 10-18-2010

Six Sentence Sunday: Vampire Love

Image Source: Myspace

OK, so here is another #SixSentence/#SixSunday creation that I've linked to on Twitter. I hope you all enjoy it and please check out the other wonderful writers who post to this hash tag!

Best of Everything,

Marcus




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Vampire Love


By Marcus Twyman


She savored the taste, rich and metallic. His arms squeezed her tighter as her mouth worked at pulling the coppery blood from the vein she'd tapped. His moans rumbled through his chest and he worked himself up to a faster rhythm, as her lower muscles squeezed him, bringing him close to experiencing euphoria. Their eyes shone with inhuman brightness in the dimly lit room as they took turns biting each other to savor the rich fluid that mere mortals could only taste in their dreams. True immortals, children of darkness...vampires. She placed her arms around his neck as they reached their climax, both of them ripping their fangs from the other's body to gleam wetly in the darkness of their den.

Vlog Update: 10-16-2010

Some updates for you guys. Talking about my blog posts, stories, etc.

New Poem

Jealousy

by Marcus Twyman





It's the poison that stills the heart,
The violent memories that tear love apart,
With a chilling touch the blood will cool,
Reignited by rage, remade the fool,

Never happy, always a skeptic,
Strangers' eyes do wander, that's to be expected,
Though with you, possession is law,
They are yours, and for you they should crawl,

Then one day they up and leave,
Enough was enough, so they cut you free,
Couldn't stand your insecure tendencies,
So they washed themselves clean of your jealousy.

Vlog Update: 10-14-2010

Ramblings Of A Rusty Writer

Vlog Update!

CONTEST FOR BETA READERS!

Hello Everyone!

I'm holding a contest for people who would like to read my rough manuscript and provide feedback on it within a month.

The prize is a Sony DVD Camcorder. It has an extra battery and a leather carrying case. It is in top condition and records onto DVD as well as takes still photos.  


**********It is the same camera pictured on this post.**************


Let me know if you're interested in being a Beta reader. I need all contestants to send me an email to Marcus.Twyman@gmail.com by next Wednesday, October 13th, 2010. The contest will end on Nov. 10th and the contest winner will be chosen on November 17th.

Thank you all in advance for your help!

Marcus

Khet Chronicles: Sunset Over Bloodied Waters

Very rough & unedited excerpt

I tried not to include any spoilers for the first book.


By: Marcus Twyman

Three mutts greeted me at the bottom of the stair's landing. Their nails clicking noisily against the hard marble of the floor. Che had found them running around out back in the woods that surrounded the estate. They had been half-starved as well as flea and tick ridden. She'd brought them in, cleaned them up, and made them the brats of the residence.

Chloe, is a large female pitbull with large dark brown spots that encircle each of her eyes, making her eyes stand out with their light gray coloring—giving her the impression of always being surprised. The rest of her fur is a fawn color. She weighs a little over eighty pounds—all of it solid muscle, thanks to Che's care and attention—but she is the biggest love-bunny you'll ever meet. She'd be more liable to lick a serial killer breaking into the mansion than attack him.

Bobo is a little terrier mix of some sort, standing no more than a foot at his shoulder. His fur hangs down in dark gray wisps, making him look more like an oversized, dirty cotton ball than a dog. He has bangs that cover his beady little eyes, and his tongue hangs out of his mouth every minute of the day, dripping drool in his wake.

Lobo, well—looks like a lobo. He looks like a damn wolf. His eyes are yellow-green, and the only thing that would make you think twice about his heritage is his fur color. He's the warm, blondish color of a yellow lab. He's huge standing three feet at the shoulder and weighing in at one hundred and ten pounds. I'm still up in the air concerning his lineage. I'm almost positive that he's a big, wild, snarly, beast of a wolf. His coloring is probably just a fluke. All I know is that as long as he doesn't eat me, I'm fine with him. He' extremely playful, and loves everybody in the house, but...sometimes I catch him staring at me—like he's thinking. Yeah, I'm gonna keep my eye on that one.

The three mongrels—I say this with compassion— were jumping up on me, making it impossible to move ahead towards the front door. Let me tell ya', half the time I had to move around the house using the inhuman speed of my race, just to get from room to room. They were adamant about having your full attention when in your presence.

“Shane!”, maybe he could take them outside or something. That would help them let loose some of their pent up energy. “Hey, bro! You around?” My voice echoed through the massive rooms of the mansion.

“I'm here, what's up loud-mouth?” Shane spoke into my mind using telepathy, or as he called it—as well as everyone else now that he's been pushing the term on people—brain-tapping.

Rolling my eyes at his name calling, I told him out loud, “Come take the pooches out, mutt!” Shane was half sape and half khet. Some of the other khet called him Half-Breed, I called him dork, boob, bobblehead, and lately, Mutt. He knew I wasn't serious, we always call each other names—we have a snarky relationship.

“Why can't you do it? I'm watching a cool show—some guy just got eaten by a shark and now his shipmates are tracking it through the ocean via the GPS on the dude's cell phone—Ooh...oh that's just wrong...Kalin you've gotta—”

“Shane!” God, he could be such a twit! Running my hand through my hair I shouted, “I'm leaving...take them out!” Before he could make an attempt at another mental rebuttal, I threw up my mental shields.

Che had been teaching me how to guard my thoughts. Living in a household full of telepaths and having other telepathic beings around who knew my energy signature—like the Sidhe and some of the witches—I had needed to learn how to deflect unwanted intrusions. One time Saru had reached out telepathically from New York and entered my mind while me and Krysia were...occupied. Needless to say, that was the equivalent of a parent walking in on you doing the bump unexpectedly. He was the one who requested that Che teach me how to block against intrusions. He was like an uncle to me and Shane and finding not-so PG thoughts flying at him like that must have been just as awkward as it had been for me. Krysia still blushes when I bring it up.

Shutting the door quickly so that the dogs didn't push past me onto the walkway, I tossed my keys into the air, catching them as the gravity pulled them back down towards the earth...

Six Sentence Sunday

I'm bad about making time for this but I wanted to make sure that I posted something this Sunday.  Here is my contribution to "#SixSunday" as they say on Twitter.

I hope you all enjoy it and if you do please feel free to contribute as well by posting on your blog and then labeling the post with the hash tag "#sixsunday" on your Twitter account.

Best Regards!

Image Source: xiongdudu.com

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The force is shearing through my being-- through my very essence. It's intangible blades hot against the fabric of my metaphysical mind. His attack is relentless but I am not so easily subdued. I am the darkness that the night imitates, the bitter cold that has made hunters huddle close to their camp fires for millennia. I am the fallen, the sentry that has prevented the light from burning through the darkness for all remembered time. There's a reason they call me “Devil” and now I'll have to show this pigeon-winged fool why his kind should stay in the light where they belong.