Hounds In Hades

Here we are again on this momentous day made especially for us by The Lord. Thanking him most gratefully. Think of all the many days which have passed before this one brought us here together. I declare a moderate celebration for this stupendous occasion. Five pints of £1.99 Bud Light ought'a do it. I remembered the present revelry in advance, that's why I'm already bloated. Two Big Mac meals hardly helped.

I'm doing excellently, in case you were wondering. More so than usual. Life is still a toil, those pesky dark forces will stop at nothing to separate me from the Heavenly realms. Yet still I plod on, unaffected and faithful. Are you doing okay? I wonder about it. Hope so.

I call my writing wrangling. I wrangle with the void to pluck something worthwhile worth tapping some keys over about. Some call it going. Others refer to it as drinking water. Lately I've been delving into memories of my fiction. I can change it and alter it and put a twist on it and see it differently every time, I half-think it might be limitless, I'm not sure.

One of the fav scenes I ever wrote was about a Terminator in Hades. Cerberus was there, the three-headed hound dog who guards the gates. The Terminator had to wage combat against this monstrous beast to free captives who didn't belong there. The captives were actually Angels who had been betrayed by fallen humans who had traded their protection for the Wide Path. Angels in Hades, I know, who'd have thunk it? Shit happens, I guess. It was up to a simple Terminator with a gold skeleton to rescue them. She (it was a woman) was full of the Holy Spirit. She died in high school, got reconned for a mission in the Underworld, and rewarded POW Angels with a second destiny.

The story was extremely visual. Think of the highlights from all your best movies collated and displayed in a five minute reel. A gold Terminator skeleton fighting a three-headed mongrel amidst flames and lava with Angels flying about spectating the scene. Maybe a Cherub or two firing arrows. I decided to make the heads of the canine different, namely an Alsatian mutt, a Rottweiler guard dog, and a fluffy labradoodle. Only joking about the labradoodle there. I honestly can't recall what breed I chose for the third one. If I could revisit the tale, and make them different, I would probably choose a hyena, a wolf, and a jackal or something. It would be interesting to hear your take on Cerberus. Which breeds of hound make the most formidable foe?

I was more busy describing the Angels. They looked like normal people, far from winged and haloed. That's my experience with them anyway. It could be Jessica from down the road, or Jim from the corner shop. You wouldn't know it, but they could be saying prayers for you every night.

I was an Angel once, in my dreams. I had to protect a librarian from crowds of wicked drunkards. I feared no thing, and why should I with God, but the challenge ain't easy, as the desperate unholy fight tooth and claw with nothing to lose.

What waits in the future for me is unclear. I might bang on about sex and drugs for the rest of all time. It was certainly a mad heehaw holed up in that Golgotha flat of mine while restless spirits were daring me to unleash my load. I had no idea that penile discharge signifies sacred energy and is highly craved. Every time I pulled my trousers down in private to jack off I was saying no to Heaven and yes to Habits of Perversion. You may or may not be cheered up by hearing that I think I have finally grown out of that habit. It had to happen eventually. I still admire the female form, there's no shortage of juicy butt around here in the summer months, but I believe I am on the hunt for something deeper than fleshy surface detail.

I am seeking an experienced woman who doubles as a dab-hand in the kitchen and as an editor too to provide a second opinion on my Cerberus short story. Barber skills wouldn't be overlooked, chess talents would be a bonus, and also knowledge of the guitar would be lovely.

Joshing. I have Rochelle for that. Rochelle is an editor in an independent firm, she rejected one of my stories but gave me a brilliant response as to why. I called her once after an uplifting film in the cinema and thanked her for it personally. We have since stayed in contact. She's a far better writer than I will ever be, mostly due to her content. She refuses to publish me but is a massive supporter of me as I am of she. She says that it is a blessing to be unpublished, as most most first print runs are only 200 copies which linger in the stockroom of Waterstones, it's best to have an online blog that is traceable from anywhere on the globe. Some authors just want a big head on a bookshelf. Not every tale is unputdownable. Not unless it's about anti-gravity.

She advises me to keep plonking on here at the honey pot and maybe record all my posts in hard copy paper form. Although she adamantly reiterates that I will never get published. The Gatekeepers will not allow me in. This is nay to say that I can't be read. Being read is more important than being published. You can't count how many hits a book gets, or even if it gets read in its entirety, from cover to cover. Not that hits govern the web scene either. What should be galvanising you, Rochelle quips, as a desire to write a better story than the previous one. Now that's tough, because that gold Terminator imagery was knockout.

I'll try and do better next time. What with, I have no idea. Answers on a postcard.