Round 2!

OH MY GOSH! You guys and gals are the best.

Voting for Round Two has gone live and I would love it if you'd head on over there and give me and Blaze Tuesday another chance. There's some kickass prizes available to be won from Curiosity Quill Press, and a new cover challenge. PLUS! You get to read more of Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Knight Surgeon.

Not too hard, right?

Anyway, I'd totally appreciate it if you'd hang out and go spare me a vote. And if you don't like me, feel free to vote for someone else, I don't mind. :) I'd also love to hear what you think of Blaze so far!

Thank you in advance, I'm hoping that together we can pull this through and keep me int he top 5 and take it all the way!

Link is at the end of this post.

All my love!
-Kai Kiriyama

VOTE FOR BLAZE HERE!

Best Line of the Day: Blaze Tuesday

This is my favorite passage that I wrote today. It is from Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Night Surgeon.

I hope you enjoy this glimpse into Blaze's head.

Cheers.
-Kai Kiriyama

I had to walk past the morgue, and I tried not to stop and peer inside. I hated the morgue, always had. Dead bodies in coolers was a horrifying concept. Like macabre leftovers just waiting for the time when they'd be brought out, reheated and examined.

I shuddered at the thought and reminded myself to throw out all the leftovers in my fridge back at my apartment when I got home.

Excerpt: Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Night Surgeon

This is an excerpt from the current novel I'm writing.

Enjoy.

Chapter One

I wish that I had a more awesome description to start this story off with. You know, “it was a dark and stormy night” or something similar. The problem is that I don't. It doesn't always start out strong and interesting. Sometimes, the story starts out a little plainer than what we hope for and even the most innocent and boring of things turns out to be the start of something good.

My story started nearly fifty years ago; but I'm not here to tell you about my life. All you need to know about me is what's current. My name is Blaze Tuesday. I'm a private investigator in New York. I used to be a cop, but I gave that shit up five years ago. The corruption in the system made me wanna puke, so I quit. Now, I run a fairly successful P.I firm with my partner, Jackson Early. I'm nothin' special; I'm about five foot ten, blue eyes, grey hair that I keep cut fairly short. I'm skinny... kind of. I try to keep myself in pretty good physical condition since chasin' perps down dark alleys isn't the easiest thing in the world. I like to think that I'm pretty good lookin'; I haven't got any body mods or clockwork though, so I'm not everyone's cup of tea, but I wouldn't call myself rugged or nothin'. Modesty is my biggest virtue... Sarcasm is probably my biggest flaw.

Anyway, this story starts out pretty boring. I was sitting in my office, like usual. I run a pretty lax ship when it comes to the P.I firm. I own the whole building and my secretary and I live in the apartments upstairs. The building is okay; it's an ancient thing left over from the early 1900's back when New York was a major city. I guess New York is still a major city, but the cost of living sure dropped off after the oil crisis of the mid-2000's. Everything inside the building has been updated, though, and it's pretty nice, even if I am a terrible housekeeper.

I'm not stingy with office furniture, neither. I've spent a good chunk of money furnishing the place. Nice desks, decent couches int he waiting room. Killer office chairs. There's honestly nothin' worse than sitting in a chair for eight hours and havin' your ass fall asleep. By the time you stand up to work some feelin' back into your posterior, it's guaranteed that the hottest broad you'll ever see will walk into your office. Trust me; I've been there.

It had been a long day already and I was reclining, feet up on my desk, debating on if the vintage, blue paisley wallpaper in the building was actually worth keeping, or if it was contributing to the pounding migraine that was settling into the back of my skull, when my secretary knocked on the door.

I groaned under my breath, but didn't move from my spot. I was comfy and to hell with what anyone else thought.

“Yeah? Come in.” I said.

Trixie pushed open the thick wooden door and stared at me with a look of familiar contempt. She'd seen me do this a thousand times before. I flashed her my winning smile and she folded her arms over her chest in response.

Trixie Luna was pretty cute. She was in her mid-twenties, bookish, with red hair and the most intense green eyes ever. I kid you not, she could stare right into your soul with those peepers. Add the cat's eye glasses she always wore and you had a hot secretary fantasy waiting to happen. Or something. I dunno, she wasn't as buxom as I liked, but she was a good kid, smart and she made the best cup of joe this side of Manhattan.

We stared at each other for a long moment before a smile slowly crept across her face, and we both started to laugh. We couldn't take this job too seriously sometimes; it wasn't worth the trouble.

“You're gonna fall over one day, sittin' like that.” Trixie informed me matter of factly. “You're gonna hit your head on the floor, crack your skull open and I ain't callin' you an ambulance. That's out of my pay scale.”

She had a point. I really didn't pay her enough to deal with avoidable accidents.

Slowly, I took my feet off my desk and sat up straight. Trixie relaxed and stepped a little further into my office so that we could talk.

“So what do you need?” I asked.

“You've got a client waiting for you in the lobby.” Trixie explained.

“Did you get any details about what they want?” I asked, bored already. “You know that I'm pretty busy these days.”

Trixie rolled her eyes at me, clearly not buying my excuses.

“So I'll take that as a 'no' then?” I teased, grinning cheekily at her.

“It's not in my job description to ask.” Trixie shot back.

“Well, maybe it's time for me to change your job description?” I considered, still grinning. I sighed and waved my hand. “Let Jackson deal with it?”

Trixie's mouth formed a thin line on her face. I knew that look all too well; I'd seen it more times than I cared to admit. She closed the almost soundproof door and wheeled on me.

“Jackson is currently working three cases, Blaze.” Trixie said, her voice low and angry. “Good cases, too. Cases that you declined for whatever arrogant reason you came up with at the time. There's been steady work rollin' in for the past month and you've turned down almost all of it!”

I shrugged. “They were boring, unimportant things.”

“They were important to the people trying to hire you.”

“Irrelevant.” I yawned. “Besides, Jackson closed all of them anyway.”

“And you're running him ragged!”

“He doesn't have to accept every case that walks through our front door. There are plenty of other private eyes in our fair city.”

Trixie strode across the small space between the door and my desk. She pressed her palms flat against the smooth, dark wood and leaned forward. I hadn't noticed how low cut her blouse was until she leaned forward, and I found my eyes wandering for a moment.

“So you want me to just take this case, don't you?”

“That would be a nice start.” Trixie agreed.

I stared up at her for a long moment. She stared back, entirely unamused and I had a sinking feeling that I wasn't going to win this argument.

“Are you sure that Jackson can't take this one?”

The blush crawling up Trixie's neck and onto her cheeks told me exactly how pissed off she was. I braced myself for the verbal bitch slap I was about to get.

“Obviously I was wrong about you, Mister Tuesday. And here I thought that I was working for the most accomplished private eye in all of New York.” Trixie drawled. “What a shame it is to find out that I'm really just working for a lazy, arrogant, self-entitled dickwad who can't be bothered to move his ass to take a job to pay his bills and, oh, I dunno, maintain his outstanding reputation.”

“Are you done slandering me?” I asked. “I might start to get offended.”

“Are you done with this false macho bravado that you seem intent on putting on to alienate your entire clientele?”

“Who said it was a false bravado?”

Trixie gave me a look that would curdle milk. Any of those hot secretary fantasies I mentioned? Instantly gone.

“Fine.” I grumbled flatly, standing up. I walked around my desk, brushed past Trixie, opened the door and walked out into the waiting room.

Make Me Cry

It's funny, I have just spend the last 3 days marathon writing whilst sitting at my kitchen table in the most uncomfortable chair I have and what is the first thing that I do? I sit back the heck down and write a blog at the kitchen table in my godawfully uncomfortable chair. And then I'm gonna write something else. Why? Because it's all I know how to do.

Now that I have that out of the way, give me a moment, please, to express my elation one last time.

I completed Camp Nano session 1 last night. I crossed the 50,000 word finish line and I completed the novel that had been scratching away at my mind like a rodent for some time.

High fives and slurpees all around.

Yes, this is going to be another blog about the book that has been plaguing me for months. Deal with it.

I feel like I have had a great weight lifted from my body.

I have written 10 books to completion, one film script, three television scripts, several comic scripts and a multitude of short stories but never have I felt anything to rewarding as finishing this book.

This book has been an extension of my life since I came up with the idea just after November of last year. It has been slowly eating away at my brain for months and I finally sat down to write it.

I am very proud of this book. This book has been a difficult thing to write. I started out doing research for it by checking all sorts of gross medical stuff and learning about the doctor side of things. When I sat down to write, I realized that I didn't actually need all of that stuff, and the book really began to take on a life of it's own.

Finishing it now, I can tell you that it is the same story that I originally set out to tell, but it's not presented the same way that I had originally wanted. It sort of evolved as I sat down to write it, in a good way.

I've said it before, I am usually a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of writer. USUALLY. I'm perfectly happy to sit and plan a story and write down all my plot points and blah blah blah. This time I did a little bit of both and I am really happy with the way it turned out.

This book was extremely difficult for me to write. It deals entirely with my main character contracting an illness and suffering in the hospital. I'm not going to tell you much more than that.

When I set out to write it, it was told from the first person point of view of my main protagonist as she was getting treated in the hospital. As I wrote, I suddenly developed this character into more than what I had originally set out to do. And her relationships with people. Her parents suddenly became thse fully fleshed out characters, as did her doctor. I didn't originally set out to write it that way, but it just felt to be the natural progression of the story.

The scary thing I found, is that I got amazing attached to my character "Zero". As I was writing the final chapters, I found myself crying more than once. I had to stop and remove myself completely from the story before I could go on.

I really hope that my passion and that level of commitment to "Zero" shows and I hope that I can illicit the same response from my readers.

It's been a really emotionally draining month.

And now that it's done?

I couldn't be happier with it.

So now it's off being critiqued and beta read by my friends and I want all the feedback I can get.

I'm taking this one all the way.

But for now, I need a nap.

Kai Kiriyama is going to spend the next three days sleeping.
If you need to reach her, email her at thekiriyamaheir@gmail.com or find her on Twitter @thekiriyamaheir

Vote of Confidence

I'm struggling today. It's never a good feeling.

I feel like I've lost all motivation, all drive and all determination to write anything.

So I decide to blog, go figure.

I think that if I get my thoughts out of my head and into the aether of the Internet, maybe I will motivate myself somehow to get back into the swing of writing.

As my mom would say, "I have lost my na-na" (because na-na is the quicker way to say "je ne c'est quois" in an anglophone family of chronic insomniacs!)

I'm not gonna lie. Part of it has been brought on by myself. I have been taking on extra responsibilities. I've been slacking, I've been less than motivated to write anything. I have gotten in too deep within my character's psyche and have spiraled into a depression. I was depressed beforehand.  I let video games hold my interest longer than I should have. I've been really under the weather, struggling with my joints and migraines. All sorts of things have come between me and my project.

And yet I see all of these reasons and to me they are just excuses.

I take full responsibility for it, however. These excuses? They're all just excuses. I didn't HAVE to play video games for three hours. I could have written the 1,667 words every day, that's usually about 30 minutes of work for me. I could have sat down first thing in the morning, written my words, done my exercise and had breakfast before I got started on my other responsibilities for the day. But I didn't. And I fully accept that. I have brought this all upon myself.

This isn't to say that I'm stressing out about it at all.

On the contrary.

I choose to do the NaNoWriMo events as an exercise for myself, for my mind, for my creativity and for my discipline. It takes 30 days to make something a habit, and the goal of NaNo events are not only to write a 50,000 word novel in a month, but also to reinforce the idea that if you write a little bit every day, it will soon become a habit, and that habit ideally will stick with you throughout the year.

Anyway, I am so far behind to make up the 50,000 words. I'm still just over 13,000 and I have 10 days to make up the 37,000 words and finish my novel.

Am I going to do it? I don't currently know. I want to do it. And I am damn well going to TRY to do it. I have the utmost faith in myself and in my novel. I know that it'll be worth it when I'm finished. I just have to pull up my skirt, and put my writer pants on. It's usually easy for me to just go and write. But this is different. Still, I know that it's something that I have to do. Not just for myself... actually, yeah, it's mostly for myself. It's about my pride and my creativity.

I'm going to be selfish and greedy about it. It's about MY work. MY pride. MY creativity. MY motivation. MY future career. ME ME ME ME.

To Hell with the critics. To Hell with people wanting to edit/beta for me. To Hell with the subject matter. To Hell with it all.

This is about me. This is about the book I want to write, about the story I wanna tell. This is about finishing the story that I think is interesting, greedy and selfish as it may sound, I'm not writing for anyone else this time 'round.

Realistically though, is there anyone else that you should be writing for in the long run?

Thinking About Writing...

I'm currently in the middle of Camp NaNoWriMo session 1. If you're familiar with me, then you already know what NaNoWriMo is.

If you're not, let me sum it up: NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to produce a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. In November. It's a free program, you can find the info at the NaNoWriMo website.  

Camp NaNo is the same thing, just in June. Session 2 begins in August. You oughta try it. Really.

Usually, I will write a 50,000 word novel is about 8 days. Assuming I have allotted myself the time to do it, and have built a bit of an outline, it can take less time. I write a lot. I write fast. My average is normally 1400 words in 15 minutes. That's 5200 words in an hour. Not that I can actually write that much in an hour. After a bit, the words start to taper off and it becomes a matter of making the plot work. (My record for a day is 20,000 words in 8 hours of writing interrupted by the Internet, chats online and food.)

But this time is different.

I have allotted myself the same time to write this month as I have in November. I've stopped most of my other hobbies. I don't have 3 separate jobs. I'm not getting ready for a convention. There's no reason why I shouldn't be done the novel already.

However, I'm sitting at 12,000 words when I should be at at least 25,000 to be on track to finish on time.

I sit down at my computer and am unable to write. I stare at the words and they don't want to flow from my fingers like magic, like they usually do.

It's frustrating.

I'm not usually a planner. Usually, I have a vague idea and then I sit to write it and the words begin to flow. Usually I'm what we NaNo'ers call a 'pantser', one who flies by the seat of one's pants. Last year During November, however, I planned my works. I ended up writing over 150,000 words.

And this brings me to my point.

I wrote my first novel in 8 days or so. I have since gone back to reread and edit it. I love my story. It's unique, it's spunky, it's amazing, it blends genres you wouldn't expect to blend... And I hate it. There is nothing really salvageable about it! The entire thing needs a rewrite. A major, massive rewrite. And I'm pissed off about it!! Why did I write so many words last year? Because I was competing with someone else who ended up writing 300,000 words.

I pity that person. If my perfectly planned, plotted and outlined works suck that hard, I can't imagine what HERS must be like.  I'm pissed because I basically wasted an entire month. The story needs a complete rewrite. Why did I bother then? I have to rewrite it anyway, I might as well have taken my time.

I'm not gonna lie either, I'm suffering a little bit of self-doubt. I had a very bad experience with a critique group earlier in the year. I was kicked out because I had familial duties to attend to and my loyalty was to helping my mom and my sister -- who was sick at the time and looking at surgery -- one night instead of attending the critique group. I offered to email or to meet with them another night but I got a email telling me that I was unwelcome if my priorities were not to the group.

In retrospect, it's a damn good thing I was kicked out because my writing style is not what they want in their group. In retrospect, the critique group is essentially trying to make all their novels sound the same. And that's not the point. The point is to improve your skills, not to sound like everyone else.

Coming away from that now, I'm VERY comfortable with my writing style. I love the way my words sound. I love the way my story flows. My NaNo novel that needs to be rewritten? Yeah, it's partly because I was using it in the critique group and their standards significantly changed the way my story flows.

But I'm a little off my point right now. (Thank you for indulging me in that rant.)

The point is about the speed writing that I'm usually really good at, the need for rewrites and the flow of words.

If you remember about four months ago (maybe six? I can't remember anymore.) I wrote a blog about how to deal with a story that was emotionally draining to write etc. Well, that's what I'm writing now. I've completely started over. Not that there was much to start over from. Just a few sentences and an idea.

Now I'm writing this book and the words are less flowing than I usually like. But I think that's okay.

This story is gonna be 50,000 words. I don't think that I can draw it out any longer than that. It's written from the first person perspective and drawing it out any longer is going to make it become repetitive and boring. If it wasn't my intent to submit it later, I'd make it shorter and plug it as a novella. It might end up as a novella, not gonna lie. And I'll start a second book to get to the 50,000 word mark for Camp NaNo.

The point of this all is that I went back to read my 12,000 words of this story.

I love them.

Like, love love LOVE these words. They are amazing, well thought out, well put together words. Editing is going to be a breeze when it's done. I've never felt this way about a book. Everything just fell together so well thus far. I'm amazed. And impressed with myself.

Is it because of my slow and steady attitude? I dunno. Is it because this book is so hard and so emotionally draining to write? Maybe. I think that subconsciously I know that the less time I have to spend picking at this wound of a book I've created, the better it'll be for my mental health in the long run. So the words are flowing slowly but beautifully and eloquently.

I just hope that my editors and beta readers feel the same way!

Character Development?

I have run into a most unusual problem.

I am writing a story that I wanted to write because it was interesting to me. It is a piece that pushes my boundaries as a writer in a new way. It is something that I said I would never write because the market is over-saturated with the subject, but I was inspired and have taken the subject matter in a different direction from anything that I have ever seen.

No, you can't know what it's about yet. It's not even on the "My Books" page here because I have just under a chapter written as of this blog post and I don't wanna spoil it.

Anyway, the main character, I guess she is the protagonist, insofar as you could say that this particular story has one, is going through hell. She is a good person, overall. She comes from a well-to-do family but she chooses to be different, to not be the spoiled brat that everyone expects her to be. So she has this major change of heart very early on in the story.

She is a likable character. I like her. I like writing her. I have liked giving her a past, despite her future currently looking very, VERY bleak.

And this brings me to the problem. I have gotten accidentally attached to her. I tried very hard to just tell myself that she is a work of fiction, that she exists in my head and that she is not real. Her suffering is not real. Unfortunately, to me, when I am writing about her, she is as real as I am.

And I like her.

So my dilemma basically boils down to the fact that she is essentially being tortured by the story. Bad things happen, very bad things, and she suffers greatly throughout the novel. That makes it sound very dark and horrible, but there's no other way to describe her situation without spoiling the book. I guess that I can clarify that it is not literal torture, but the events that happen are torturous to read.

And very hard to write.

As I said in my previous blog, I have a set of core beliefs that define who I am underneath all the pompous swagger and posturing that I seem to put on. I'm not a bad person. I don't advocate violence towards others. Or violence in general. But this story is brutal and graphic. I have done a lot of research, still am doing some of that research, and the gritty realism I hope, will show through in the work. And I am not ashamed to be writing this at all. It is an interesting story and her suffering is not brought on by another person, technically, unless you count me.

My problem is that I have connected with this character, despite knowing that she isn't real to anyone but me. I feel that I have portrayed her and built her up in my head enough to make her believable and I hope that it will translate well into the story. That is the ultimate goal for any story, right? Anyway, I am sitting here with my notes, with my story for this person - I am gonna call her Jane Doe for now - and I am having a difficult time.

Jane doesn't deserve what I am writing about. Jane is a relatively good person. She does things with altruism in mind and even when things are at their worst, she is thinking about other people, rather than herself.

So here I sit, staring at this work that I am putting so much thought and love and care into, knowing that part of the story will be exposition with the intent to make my readers love Jane Doe as much as I do, and then the brutal, life changing problem arises and your hearts all break. That is the goal. I want to give a different perspective, but in order to do this, I have to suffer along with Jane.

And I AM suffering. I am having so much trouble writing this part that I can only manage to write maybe a paragraph at a time. I never really thought of myself as a delicate person, or that I have 'delicate sensibilities' but there are things that honestly make my stomach turn. And writing this sad, heartbreaking part of the story is one of them.

The point, I suppose, is that I am looking for advice.

How do you distance yourself from a character you have made and love and is only (currently) real to you so that you can sleep at night? And how shall I distance myself enough from her to keep going on with the story without making myself cry?

I KNOW the suffering isn't real. I KNOW that Jane Doe isn't real. I KNOW that this is fiction, and that I am the one creating this world and this story, and that I could, theoretically change it at any time, but I am still connected. I am still allowing it to happen in my own megalomaniac sort of way. 

So how do I make this bearable to write?

Chasing the Muse

I like that title. I think I'm gonna use it later.

I have been focusing on editing a lot more recently, which is a good thing, I know. Still, I feel remarkably uninspired to do much new work. I feel like editing is a necessary evil in the creative process, but it also hinders me from doing anything new and worthwhile. My muse has escaped me and I don't know where she went.

At least, I assume that my Muse is a lady. Muses generally are in mythology, like a more benign succubus.

My Muse has left me. Which may or may not be a good thing. I want to create, I want to write and I want to get back to building my fantastic worlds and stories for people. (And I'll admit, mostly for myself. Keeping it all cooped up inside is not healthy.) But despite that WANT, I can't. The Muse is gone. The drive and determination to make something from nothing has left me.

I haven't seen my Muse since November 2011.

I think chasing your Muse is a challenge in and of itself. If your Muse doesn't want to be caught, they won't be. I like to think that my Muse has gone somewhere warm, like Australia, and is sipping alcoholic beverages from a hollowed out coconut. (Do coconuts grow in Australia? I should go and actually look that up.) I just hope that when she comes back, she'll have some new ideas for me.

But it is really the chasing that is the problem. Muses are like our own personal Carmen SanDiego. You can glimpse them, but you'll never catch them, no matter how smart and proficient in geography you are. (Am I the only one who remembers that game show?)

I hate feeling like this, though. I hate not being inspired to write something at any given point in time. It's like I am missing a hand or other equally important body part. At this point, I'm just gonna sit back, relax and let my Muse come back from her vacation. I'm excited to see her luggage when she gets back. She always brings back stamps on the side.

NaNo book 2: Excerpt

Invasion of Babseth

Prologue: Somewhere, Across the Sea...

The continent of Alenora boasted the most beautiful, elaborate landscape. It was a continent divided into cities and territories but each got along fairly well with the next. Alenora was home to the most advanced and civilized of all cities.

The Ten Cities, as they were known throughout the world, were the civilizations of Man. The cities stretched out from east to west in a snaking line. Here was where the non-magical race of Man made their homes, made their history and made their lives.

But there were other civilizations throughout the world. The Jewel and Ink Islands for starters. Distant shores across the Western Sea from Alenora that boasted their own cultures and their own people. The Western sea was also the barrier between Alenora and the so-called less civilized continent of Dallu. Dallu was a harbour for those who wished to escape the law. The home of pirates and prisoners, anyone caught breaking the law was sent to the smaller continent from all over the world. It was a worse hive of villainy than Tarun of the Ten Cities. It lay in the middle of the Western Sea, directly between Alenora and Khahana. It was in irregular shape for a continent, and legend had it that an army of dragons hailing from Alenora and an army of Sea serpents and Leviathans from Khahana once fought a terrible battle. The rapid cooling of the dragon fire and the heavy losses on both sides were what created the lush, tropical island in the center of the ocean. It was a perilous journey to get to Dallu, and only the bravest Captains dared to go there. It was the most common play place of the pirate factions.

The pirate factions were legendary in the Western Sea and beyond. Everyone knew that they existed and all of the seaport towns and cities feared the raiding parties of each faction. The Factions hailed from all four corners of the globe, each laying claim to their quadrant. The savage men from the North, clad in their furs and leather, the exotic men from the South, their skin bronze and their hair as black as oil, seen usually without their shirts on, clad in the skins of animals never seen above the equator. The Eastern pirates were silent killers, assassins of the sea, they fought with honour above all else. And then there were the Western pirates. They were the worst of all, pillaging and raiding more than the Northmen, killing anyone who got in their way. They were godless barbarians, outcasts from the Ten Cities who showed no mercy to their victims. The Western pirates had no leader. They were, in reality, several smaller factions who would band together under one flag when they needed to, but otherwise they were the most lawless of them all.

Infighting was common among the factions of the pirates. Disputes always arose over claims to territory. If a pirate from the South moved too far over the boundaries for the tastes of the Northmen, they would fight. If the Eastern pirates tried to break it up, or travelled too far past Dallu, someone would be there to stop them. The miniature Western factions always fought amongst themselves, claiming ships and bounties and people for their own ends, captains killed captains and no one claimed to lead them.

Finally, one industrious pirate by the name of Captain Lucius Mercy stepped forward. He was a charismatic man, six foot tall, beautiful pearly white teeth, long black flowing hair. He was the essence of beauty on the high seas. He watched the fighting from a distance. He never saw the need to engage in petty squabbles with the other pirates. He was his own man and if he chose not to fight or take sides, then he would certainly be there without question to pick up the scraps.

One day, Captain Mercy decided to call a Parley of all the pirates. He sent word to all the pirates to meet him in Dallu in Cutthroat Bay on the full moon of the fourth month. He waited patiently, amassing a feast of wines and foods from all over the globe and made sure that he had brought in enough slave women and whores to satisfy the needs of the horde of pirates that he was calling.

As the sun set, the final ships were docking and the Captains of every ship were assembled. Captain Mercy sat at a high table, overlooking the gathering group below him. There were pirates from all over the world amassing there, the ships in Cutthroat Bay ranged from the huge warships from the North, to the tiny little skiffs of the East and everything in between. The ships of the Northern faction were sturdy beasts made of thick oak with hellish depictions of snarling dogs and bears on their prows. The sides of the ships had slots where oars would be lowered for additional speed when the huge red and white sails weren't enough. They all sailed under the flag of captain Jeran Higg: a red flag with a snow white wolf in the center. The Ships from the South were narrow, built for trading not fighting. They were made of a golden kind of wood and they gleamed like bronze in the sunlight. The Southern pirates were led by Captain Kerne and they sailed under the black flag with the golden sun. The Eastern ships were black and small and quick, made for precision striking at their enemies. They all bore the heads of dragons on their prows, and Captain Tariq took a coiled dragon on a golden flag as his symbol. Comparably, the ships of the West were a mottled, mixed bunch. Everything from trading galleys to massive flagships meant for cargo and crew. No one sailed under a single flag unless they were a part of a fleet, but there were only two fleets in the entire Western Faction; one belonged to Captain Mercy and sailed under the symbol of his seahorse and the other were the broken hearts of Captain Valentine.

The pirates began to mingle, crews dining together under the rules of Parley and the Captains began to approach Captain Mercy's place of honour as serving women milled about, filling goblets and serving food as they saw fit. A pirate's feast was never without entertainment and some men had appetites for more than wine and meat and fruit. Captain Mercy had anticipated this and had made sure that there would be something for everyone. Cheers arose from amongst the crews as they supped together, helping themselves to whatever they wanted and setting aside grudges that would be brought to fresh light as soon as they were away from the island.

“Hey, Mercy!” The only female Captain called out. “How come you never bring any servant men for me? A woman has her needs too you know!”

A hearty laugh at Captain Mercy's expense rippled through the group of equals and Mercy jumped down from his place of self-proclaimed honour. There were only a few Captains in the factions who were worth talking to, most of them were lesser captains, members of the two Western fleet who served on one of the ships, or the Captains of smaller ships who would sail under one of the two fleet's flags if they were called for.

All but one of the assembled captains were men and Captain Mercy could name each one and the name of his ship, but they were all men. They were rowdy and bawdy and wouldn't know the lap of luxury had they been born into it. They were rough, ill mannered and unimpressive to Captain Mercy. They would remember the slight to Captain Mercy for ages, pointing out that the Captain didn't know how to please a woman. It was a scathing comment but Captain Mercy would endure. The Lady Captain had her own reputation, after all.

He ignored the other captains and their jest. Captain Mercy walked right up to the only woman captain and bowed, lifting her hand to his mouth to kiss it.

“Why Lady Chiara.” Captain Mercy said sensually. “I had thought that a woman of such unequalled beauty would only want the finest man on the seven seas.” He stood up with a twinkle in his clear blue eyes. “I've saved myself for you.”

His jest caused the Lady Captain to blush furiously and the other men laughed at her expense. It was a fierce rivalry known to all the pirate factions that went on between Captains Mercy and Valentine. No one knew better what a well-placed comment could do to ones reputation. The only lucky thing that stayed Valentine's cutlass was the fact that they were there under invitation by Captain Mercy and that they rules of Parley dictated that it be a violence-free evening.

Captain Mercy leaned in close to Chiara and whispered. “I say it in jest, but you know that you find me irresistible. I have only had eyes for you, Chiara, and I would do anything to make you mine.”

Chiara backed away from him and said nothing. She was nearly as tall as he was, but with hair the colour of summer wheat and unsettling amber eyes. Chiara Valentine was lithe and graceful, the rumours said that she had the blood of the Elves in her, but no one ever confirmed it, Chiara least of all. She was from the West, like Lucius, and had grown up as a captive on a ship. She eventually learned her way around a sword and a blunderbuss and overthrew the former Captain. She commanded the fastest ship in the West, aptly named The Lady's Tears.

The huge Northman, Jeran Higg stepped up beside the lady captain and offered her his arm. She took it hesitantly, she would do anything to avoid looking like a weak and helpless woman. The tall, strange Northman escorted her to a seat at the table of honour set half a step below Captain Mercy's high seat. He sat down next to her and the other captains and faction leaders followed suit. When everyone was seated, Captain Mercy took his seat once again. And the servants brought the captains there meals.

Food and wine was passed around and the Captains ate together, sharing stories of victory and defeat amongst themselves. When food was being cleared away and many of the pirates were beginning to get rowdy, Lucius Mercy smiled at Captain Valentine and clapped his hands, causing an instant silence amongst the chattering, laughing pirate horde before him. “My friends, my esteemed enemies.” He called out. “For too long we have fought amongst ourselves. For too long the bounties and splendours of the realm have been divided unfairly amongst us. We are poorer alone then we could be together. What I am proposing tonight is not for the faint of heart. No, what I am proposing is unheard of in all the history of our world.” Lucius cast his glimmering blue eyes over the assembled crowd, drinking in their silence, their anticipation.

“I am proposing that we unite, under one flag, under one name to take the greatest plunder that the entire world has to offer?”

“Really?” Captain Jeran Higg retorted. He was a burly man, the leader of the Northern faction, and his voice boomed and echoed across the open expanse of the island. “And what, pray tell, is your great plunder?”

Captain Mercy smiled his attractive, perfect smile and let the suspense build amongst the pirates for just long enough to make them truly curious.

“I propose that we take an entire city.”

Centaur Rails (NaNoWriMo 2011) PREVIEW

Prologue: In the Beginning...
The world was not always this way. It used to be simpler. There was harmony, and balance. But the humans began to grow weary of seeing what the other races could do. Elves had their magic, the Centaurs and Minotaurs roamed the plains as nomads, never stopping anywhere longer than a season so as not to worry the land too much. The humans, however, had very little. There was an average of one in a hundred humans who could use magic, and those humans were typically taken by the Elves to learn under the mages the healing arts of the Elves in an attempt to better the human race. Those who were blessed with only meagre magical talent usually hid it from the rest of the world or made a living by peddling cheap tricks and tonics, snake oil of the time.


Soon, however, the humans grew jealous and they began seeking out ways to better themselves without relying on the other races. Soon, friendships were formed between the humans and the dwarfs who had for so long been hidden underground that they had passed out of memory. Soon the trade began – leather and wool and vegetables from the sun for coal and ores. It was an excellent system, dwarfs began to stay with the humans for prolonged periods of time, teaching and learning. It was mutually beneficial. The humans lacked in strength what the dwarfs had, but they made up for it in cunning and intelligence.


The world began to change when the humans began their metalwork. Not only did they arm themselves with tempered steel, but they began to shod their horses. Soon, metal horseshoes and trinkets and jewelry became the standard for wealth. Soon women sported useless bits of metal on their wrists and fingers. The jewelry of the dwarfs was only surpassed by that of the elves, but the humans didn't care. They had never before been treated as friends or trading partners. Soon, the bonds grew as strong as the metal they forged together.


Evolution continued, the longer the humans worked with the dwarfs, new ideas began to form. They worked together to create not only weapons but new ideas. Taking the wheels and reinforcing them was only the beginning. Soon, they had reinforced carriages, reinforced doors. Steel in their shoes every day.
And then one day, it was accidentally discovered that steam from boiling water in a pot could push things. And this sparked a whole new idea. If there was only a way to harness this power, they could put it in the tillers. They could save their horses. But then, not even that, what if they put it in their carriages? Long trips would no longer take such a heavy toll on their horses. They could carry their horses in carriages powered by the steam. And then they could expand.

The dwarfs thought this was a brilliant idea. They began working with the smartest humans they knew and soon the word spread through the small homesteads, through the small settlements that were so densely packed. Steam carriages! It was a dream come true! Work began immediately.

Soon, however, they found this to be a backbreaking endeavour. The steam-powered engines were heavy. Even with the combined powers of the dwarfs and the humans it was difficult and dangerous. No one was able to lift the steel chassis themselves, and even the rigging they built could not support the weight with a team of men holding it. Problem solving was further needed.

The humans talked for days, leaving work unfinished while they tried to come up with a solution. Unlimited muscle was needed but where could they get the resources to undertake this new expansion?

The plains people didn't see it coming. They were at peace, in-between a seasonal migration, they weren't prepared to defend themselves. The humans took advantage of it. They struck in the night, like thieves, unseen until it was too late to stop them. They arrived with torches and steel and their guns. The humans were teh only race to use such barbaric weapons, and the dwarfs liked the idea of a revolver. The humans were a terror. They started fires intentionally, burning the few tents the Centaurs set up for those who were to frail or too young to keep themselves warm at night. They started fires in the grass, to block the escape route. The came in on horses, guns blazing and tearing up the night sky. It took but a few moments to make the entire area awash in chaos.

The biggest, meanest one of all was an average, heavyset man with evil eyes and greasy hair. He shot to kill, never to main or wound. “What good is a useless slave?” He claimed. He rode in on a huge black horse, towering over the rest of the party under his control. He carried two guns, gleaming silver monstrosities that he wore at his hips. He dressed in the finest clothes he could get his hands on, all smoke and black. He didn't even stop to let his men catch up. He was a hellbeast, bent on destruction and chaos.

It felt like an eternity for the Centaurs. They had no way to defend themselves. The screams of the wounded and dying were an unnatural blend of horse and human. The air stank of blood and fear and smoke. They panicked, trying to escape, only to find themselves on the ends of whips and chains and ropes. Children were left to weep over their parents' corpses, if they were too young to work, they were left. Anyone wounded beyond the simple were shot then and there, Easier to euthanize them then risk having them warn the next encampment.

“Why are you doing this?” The Centaur chieftain demanded. He was a muscular creature, a chestnut brown thing of beauty. He was wounded on his shoulder, the blood red and glistening in the flickering light of the fires. “We are peaceful, we have done nothing to you. And you come here, with your guns in the night to kill my people? For what purpose?”

The heavyset hell-man stepped forward, his eyes dark and dead as he snarled in the face of the defiant chieftain. “You are lesser beings.” He spat. “And we have need of your services. You live on our land and you don't contribute to our society. You eat the resources and plough the fields for yourselves and don't give us anything. For too long you have lived here, sneering and jesting at the weakness of the humans, but we will no longer stand for it.”

The centaur eyed this man suspiciously and took a step forward. A hundred pistols levelled themselves at the Chieftain. He didn't flinch. He took another step forward and the clicks of the guns echoed, threatening to release a hail of deadly metal shards.

“You have no right to us.” The Chieftain said defiantly. “You will not have my people.”

The heavy man stood his ground. “What are you going to do about it?” He sneered. “Die?” He barked a laugh. “What good is it if you're dead? Nothing will have been accomplished, you'll all just be dead and we will strip your bodies and your camp for anything valuable and move on to the next camp. But, you can come peacefully with us and you'll live. You'll work, but you'll have food and water and you'll live.”

“You have already killed my wife, and I can not see my daughter for all the smoke and carnage you humans have brought down upon us.” The word humans was uttered with such contempt that a shudder stole it's way through the ranks of savage, bloodthirsty men. The Chieftain continued. “I have no reason to live. If my death should bring about the release of my people then I will be able to go into the great plains of the heavens and know that my death was not for nothing.”

The leader with the dead eyes began to laugh, but he was the only one. No one else seemed to get the joke. His laugh rang out in the still ngiht air, the sounds of the fire around them a quiet punctuation to his raspy chortle. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean, embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes where tears of mirth had begun to well up. He sniffled once, dabbed his eyes and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. When he was comfortably composed again he turned his icy gaze back to the Chieftain.

“You really believe that, don't you?” He asked with a hint of a smile.


The Centaur raised his handsome head proudly but said nothing.

“What a waste.” The ringleader said flatly.

In a blink, he had drawn his huge revolver and fired two, perfectly aimed shots at the Chieftain. One penetrating his chest and rupturing his heart and the other dead center of his forehead. The entire scene semeed to hang in the air, frozen, like a photograph. The Chieftain blinked once, his face still stoically blank. His hooves skittered slightly and he managed a small step forward, as though he was still going to defy the humans. Then reality came crashing back around them.

The Chieftain staggered and his knees buckled. He made no sound as he fell, and as his body hit the earth, it made a hollow thud. A scream pierced the air and the sound of hooves thundering against the the ground filled the empty spaces. A rusty female Centaur hurtled through the smoke, carrying a fire-sharpened lenght of wood like a spear. She rushed at the man who had shot the Chieftain, screaming obscenities in her own language, and the language of the Elves.

The man didn't flinch, in fact, he held up his hand to stay the guns of his men. It happened in a heartbeat; the scream, the silent order for his men to stay their weapons, and his first two shots. The centaur dropped her weapon and dropped to her knees, her face contorted in pain and confusion. She pulled herself closer to her Chieftain, tears streaking her pale face. She didn't even notice the blood.

The man in the suit walked towards her calmly, refilling his revolver from the pocket of his jacket. He stopped just out of her reach and looked her over.

“What is your name, wench?” He demanded.

The red-headed Centaur looked up at him with a scowl. “You ask my name, but not the name of the man you just killed?”

The cold eyes lit up in humour. “I see no point in asking for the name of a defiant criminal. But it's always polite to ask the name of a lady.”

The girl spat at him.

The man pulled the hammer back on his newly-refilled revolver and aimed it at her face. “Should you like to end up like him?” He asked calmly.

There was only a tremor of terror on her otherwise blank face. “Better to die like him than serve a monster like you.”

A head tilt, a glimmer of recognition in his face and the man began to laugh under his breath. “He is your father isn't he?” He asked gleefully. “Ah, the stupidity of children.” He crouched down to look directly into the Centaur's face. “Yes, I see it now.” He smiled. “You know, if you weren't a god-forsaken monstrosity and a freak of nature, I could find a use for you as a woman. You're not entirely unattractive, from the waist up anyway.”

The girl lunged, forgetting about the bullet that had shattered her leg moments ago. A thick hand stopped her from gouging out his eyes. The man laughed again and shoved her down into the dirt.


“You are so weak.” He sneered. “Pathetic. You're nothing like your father. At least he died a hero. You won't even die a whore.” He stood then, aiming a well-placed kick to her ribs.

The girl coughed, sputtering a few more unintelligible words in his direction.

“What a waste of a beautiful half-human body.” He said loudly for the rest of his men to hear. “If she was an Elf, I'd have let you all had a chance with her, but she's a freak. She is one of our slaves. And she is a criminal, attacking her master like that.”

The assembled men chuckled quietly amongst themselves.

“You, you freaks.” He continued, turning to where the rest of the Centaurs who were deemed 'useful' were trussed. “You will work for us now. You are ours by rights and by conquest. You will learn respect or you will end up like this.”

He turned to where the roan Centaur was struggling to get to her feet and abruptly emptied all six bullets from his gun into her body. Her mouth formed a little 'O' of surprise and she crumpled to the ground next to her father's body.

The hell-man smiled a cruel little smile. “Pack them up.” He called to his assembled men, mounting his own horse. “They will have a few long days ahead of them.” He smiled again and spat in the direction of his two dead adversaries. The cruel man spurred his horse and rode in a wide circle around his group before rushing off into the distance, back towards the city where their captives would be put into slavery.

Tears began to fall across the cheeks of the captive Centaurs as they were led away, words of blessing and forgiveness passed their lips as they passed their fallen leader and murmurs of fear spread in their own language as they were dragged away from their homes, mourning would be put aside, fear was the emotion that gripped them as they cast their final glances on the carnage that had been brought down on them this night. The fires burned low as they were carted away, and only the carrion birds would be the mourners at the wake for the needlessly killed.

Tales from the NaNoWriMo Homefront: Day 1

So yeah, I'm participating in National Novel Writing month. It's a yearly thing for me now. It's like Christmas and my birthday and Easter and Hallowe'en all rolled into one.

Man, it's Day 2 now. Day 1 felt really long. Probably 'cause I went to the  kick-off at midnight, then we had a write-in tonight... I'm doing pretty good, over 6000 words out of the 50,000 I'm supposed to write by the end of the month.

I'm really tired right now so this is gonna be short and sweet.

The next post I put up (which is gonna happen in like 2 minutes of my publishing this post) is going to be a sneak preview of my novel that I'm working on.

I want feedback. Lots of it. If you love it, hate it, notice a typo, tell me it's tl;dr, whatever. I want feedback. I need critics, dammit!

So yeah. That's my story. Kind of.

Oh, I have a youtube channel now. It's thekiriyamaheir over on youtube. The first video is loading right now (as I write this) so hopefully that'll be up soon.

Anyhow, I'm about to put my writing up for all to see for real.

I hope to hear from you all soon.

Love,
Kai Kiriyama <3

Seance

The candles flickered in the chill breeze. The leaves rustling were the only sounds to be heard. It was as quiet as the grave otherwise. The dirt beneath their feet was hard-packed and the persistent wind sent the few fallen leaves scuttling across the ground around them. They were nervous, this was the first time they had ever attempted anything like this, but it seemed to be the only logical means of closing the case.

They were desperate. The police had failed so far and with no new leads on such a high profile case, there was pressure coming from all sides to finally give the family some closure.

So they had called her in. Starlight Ravenchild. A self-proclaimed witch and practitioner of helpful services. She had assisted other precincts on other cases, and apparently she was 100% accurate, even with knowing only specific names or dates. She never seemed to need much information and despite her unconventional methods, she had proven results. The family of the missing child were all for it, anything to recover their precious heiress.

The chief had snorted about it, claiming it to be some newfangled new-age B.S. that only the rich and gullible fell for. The chief was a born-again Christian and would have no part in any of this devilry.So he sent McGill and Tomashino to sit in on this one, godless heathens he had said. McGill laughed and pointed out, behind their boss`s back, that he was Irish-Catholic but would do it anyway.

The cops had met up before the designated time to secure the area, again. They didn't really think that anyone would try anything, it had remained very hush hush and besides, this was a kidnapping for ransom, not a mob trial or something that required constant media attention. Despite the family being rich, they weren't celebrities and they certainly didn't act like some other heiresses did.

Ravenchild and the parents arrived at the same time. They were all pale, but the cops suspected that Ravenchild did it on purpose. She wore all black under a white robe emblazoned with black stars and crescent moons. It was a lovely outfit, perfect for the Hallowe'en season. The cops exchanged glances, not really sure how they felt about this whole thing after all. Starlight Ravenchild stopped in front of the police officers and gave them both a critical look.

"You are the ones in charge of protecting us tonight?" She asked, her voice heavy with a Romanian accent that reminded McGill of a bad Hollywood gypsy.

"Yeah, from any human threats." McGill replied gruffly.

Starlight nodded. "Good. But you will need to join us in the circle first and foremost. No one will be here to harm us."

"Sure, lady." Tomashino said with a brusque nod.

"Follow me." Starlight trilled, chanting as she walked past the police officers towards the cleared patch of ground just beyond the last row of gravestones.

The missing girl's parents followed immediately but the police officers gave each other skeptical, worried looks.

"I don't like this, McGill."

McGill nodded. "I know, Vinnie. The whole thing smells like Phooey, but honestly, what else can we do?"

With a resigned sigh, the detectives followed suit. They found Starlight drawing on the ground with chalk she seemed to produce from nowhere. The rich parents held each other tightly as they watched with wide, teary eyes. Starlight continued to chant, her voice rising and falling and ululating in a foreign language no one understood. Clearly, she had performed this very ritual before.

"The words are complete." Starlight said, standing. "And the circle is drawn and cast. Now, all of you, hold hands, complete the circle with your minds and bodies. Pour your energy into finding this poor young girl."

"Natascha." The mother said. "Her name is Natascha."

Starlight nodded and began to speak again in her strange tongue. McGill and Tomashino glanced at each other and clasped hands, McGill holding Starlight's hand and Tomashino bravely taking Natascha's mother's hand.

They felt like they had been there for an hour, listening to Starlight chant and Natascha's parents weep. Every now and then an English word would slip through and McGill and Tomashino would exchange skeptical glances. It was useless, they agreed silently. It was all hokey and no one was going to get any answers tonight.

Just as McGill was ready to call the whole thing off, the wind began to pick up moving clockwise around them, and only around the little circle. It began to gust violently around them, growing stronger until it was whipping Ravenchild's robe around her body. The roar of the wind became almost unbearable and only Starlight's shouts of 'don't break the circle!' kept McGill at his post.

Suddenly, a pale, ghostly light began to ooze from the ground in the circle. White and shining it leaked out of the ground like water, pooling in the center of the circle and slowly building up on itself until it was a shapeless blob of glowing light.

"Spirit!" Ravenchild called out above the roaring wind. "We are here tonight to ask you about these grieving parents' child. Natascha has been stolen from her bed! The human law enforcement can not find her! We are here to ask you to show us the way to find this poor innocent child! Show us your true shape so that we may look upon the truth of what you tell us!"

The blob of light and energy began to shift, taking shape of a vaguely humanoid figure. It was too tall to be Natascha's ghost, the girl was young, this was the spirit of a full grown person. He growled under his breath, all his instincts working against him. It was unnatural, inhuman, dead, even! He tried to block out the words and the hallucination, but he couldn't.

And then it was over.

McGill felt himself drop to his knees, shaking and weak. Natascha's parents were clutching each other and sobbing. Ravenchild was chanting again. Only Tomashino seemed to have his wits about him. He was on his radio.

"All units, she's alive she's being held captive at..."

McGill passed out.

He awoke in the hospital, shaking still and disoriented. His partner was sitting next to his bed, but there was something odd. Like a shape floating next to him, glowing and white.

"What..?" McGill tried to ask.

"We found her." Tomashino replied. He looked gaunt, like he'd lost ten pounds very quickly.

"How long have I been out?" McGill asked, focusing only on the white blob floating by his partner's head.

"24 hours." Vinnie assured him. "But we found her."

"Natascha?"

"Yup." Vinnie nodded. "Alive and unbroken." He added.

McGill squinted. "There were others, weren't there?" He asked.

"Yeah." Vinnie paled a little more. "But they're all safe now." He stood up. "I gotta get some coffee, okay? I'll be back in a bit and we can uh... Debrief. Or something."

"Okay..." McGill mumbled watching the shining object follow his partner out of the room.

Moments later, Starlight Ravenchild appeared in the doorway. "You see them now too, don't you?" She asked mysteriously.

"See what?" McGill demanded.

"Spirits."

"So what if I'm still hallucinating?" He replied defensively.

Ravenchild smiled through her red lips. Her pearly teeth showing slightly. "You will accept them in time. And they will help you more and more." Her smile turned seductive. "You will ask for my help soon. To understand." And with that she left.

McGill laid back against his bed, staring at the growing number of hallucinations on the ceiling. All white and fuzzy and glowing. All silently crying out for his help...

The couch sighed softly as she sat down and made herself comfortable. The room was an absolute mess, leftovers from her previous projects lay strewn about haphazardly. She tried her best to ignore them, there would be time to clean up later. She stifled a yawn as she lifted the laptop from it's resting place and put her feet up on the comfortable yet mismatched footstool. She realized that she had no idea how the footstool had made it's way into the living room, but she wasn't going to complain, it made using the laptop on her lap that much more comfortable, if not easier.

Absently, she ran her hand through her hair, noting that it was not as dry and brittle anymore. She smiled to herself, realizing that these were awfully strange and mundane things for her to notice. She made a mental note to get back to being so blissfully ignorant about her appearance, but knew that deep down she would continue to notice things like how dry her hair is. She fiddled with a lock of her platinum white hair for another moment, really impressed that she hadn't destroyed it as badly as she thought she had.

Stop it.

She rolled her shoulders, stretching out her tired muscles. She'd been at the computer for three days now, accomplishing nothing but really wasting her time. Another blog, another social networking site, Twitter... So much to update because her fans and friends and family couldn't all just use the same bloody networking sites could they? No, she had to appeal to everyone. Oh well.

She twined her fingers together and stretched her arms, relishing the crack in her joints at her neck and shoulders. She never could get her fingers to pop.

She made one final adjustment to the laptop on her lap, moving the computer so that it wasn't so hot on her skin through the thin pants she was wearing. Yawning again, though not bothering to hide it this time, she positioned her fingers against the keys and began to type...

...she was Kai Kiriyama, The Great and Terrible. And she was on a mission...