Joe Schmoe, pt. 5

Joe knew a couch he was fond of. He felt a little odd about being fond of it, but he talked to it enough that he couldn’t quite help himself. It belonged to his baseball coach. The man took it everywhere with him, and firmly believed that it was sentient, holding conversations with it and even going so far as to be offended if someone talked to him and ignored the couch. Apparently being sat on didn’t bother the couch, though, because the coach always brought it to practice, and most of the time could be found sitting on it while he coached the baseball players.

It was a nice couch, over all. Unlike the coach, it never yelled at him and the comments that coach sometimes relayed from it were often kind, or wise observations on baseball. It could be rather sharp worded when a player was messing up, though. Joe thought maybe it was a bit strange that a couch knew so much about baseball, but rationalized that it did belong to a baseball coach, after all, and probably coach had picked out the couch based on its enthusiasm for the sport.

[Yes, folks, I know it’s only one letter of difference between the two, but the coach and the couch are rather different entities. Even if they are both obsessed with the same sport.]

Di Salas

Now that I have abused your sensibilities with some Joe Schmoe rants, terrible style and all, I apologize for not updating for several months. I could cite ‘life happens’ as the reason, but really it was just that I had nothing to say. Moving on, here’s an excerpt from a story that went wrong in a hurry, so even though I like most of what is written past this point, it will probably be rewritten so it’s less grotty and more story that doesn’t end up dead-ending.

It was one of those situations when you know your writing is careening out of control, but just can’t help yourself, until you run into a dead end and put it down and walk away in self-defense until you’ve put enough time between you and it to be able to turn it into something usable.

This world is one of two worlds I’ve written in that were not originally my own, but a world concept gifted to me by a friend. In my notes, it is simply ‘The Demonwisp world’. Di’s name literally denotes him as the 4th born child, and thus not a citizen. Only the first two children of a citizen are citizens, but it’s considered ‘patriotic’ to have extra children to give to the government for the army and other purposes. Extra children are usually given ‘letter names’, a social attempt to be a bit nicer than calling them by numbers instead. Di didn’t qualify for the army, so he was sold to a private owner, instead.

Enjoy!

Di Salas really hated being manhandled, but he supposed that it was better than being pushed and expected to find his way without tripping. He had no idea where he was, or who had him, for that matter. They stopped suddenly. Di wondered why, then a cold, very noble-accented voice stated, “You’re a traitor.”

So, his owner, Lord Pyoter Daralis had been found out. It was like a kick to the chest, but he didn’t let it show. He was a dead man now, but they couldn’t have his pride. Only that stupid traitor, Lord Daralis, held that power.

“Yes. What of it?”

The blindfold was removed and he blinked in the sudden light. The noble, a highly placed one from his clothing, looked familiar, but he couldn’t place why.

“Arrogant, aren’t you? Do you know who I am, little fire mage?”

“No. Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

The man chuckled and rose. Up close, Di suddenly noticed the man was taller than him. Not that that was hard. Di was only 5’9½”.

He lifted a hand to the slavemark on Di’s neck. “I am High Prince Balsam Kai Renalis Vitchenka Alric.” He said more, but it was in Ancient, the language used for spells, and Di didn’t understand most of it, because a buzzing arose in his ears. Then pain struck him so hard that he would have screamed himself hoarse if he could have drawn breath. It was like being turned inside out, like having the original spell laid on him and then twisted, but at the same time. Then it was over, and he was panting heavily, tears in his eyes.

“What-” He cleared his throat. “What did you do?”

The High Prince smiled at him. “All of these spellmarks have a clause that allows one of royal blood to override them and assume ownership. Unfortunately for you, when that happens, the partially enforced binding is converted to a master binding to prevent a second override.”

Joe Schmoe, pt. 4

Joe really missed Mindy on days when he was marching in the hot sun or cold rain, with his riffle on his shoulder. At least they didn’t make him carry his rifle, though, because rifles could shoot people, and even though the government told him it was patriotic to shoot people, they understood that messing up people’s hair or disturbing their water or flipping the pages of their book was much less traumatic for their soldiers and much more frustrating to the enemy. The government was good like that.

[Yes, ‘riffle’ is a word, no, a ‘riffle’ is not a gun. But hey, it’s all good, Joe gets to carry around a conceptualized riffle!]

Joe Schmoe, pt. 3

They were extremely compatible in the bedroom, because his girlfriend liked to suck cock and didn’t mind when he got semen on her. There was an occasional problem with seamen, though, since when they magically appeared out of his spurting semen, they tended to curse a lot and get in the way and even try to join in. It was a good thing that his girlfriend was a witch and could teleport the seamen back where they belonged pretty quickly. Jack, across town, had a lot more problems, because his boyfriend was an empath and couldn’t do any teleportation magic. Sometimes Jack and Jordan had to traipse over with a whole boatload of seamen for Mindy to teleport back to their ships.

[And while we’re at it, folks, please don’t misspell ‘cock’ as ‘coke’, the sudden introduction of drugs in the middle of a sex scene is really disconcerting.]

Joe Schmoe, pt. 2

He was used to being a solider, but being a soldier made him sad, because it meant he had to be away from his girlfriend. His girlfriend was sad too, because she missed the way he liked to ring orgasms out of her. He did this by passing the Ring of Orgasm repeatedly over her body. He also liked to wring orgasms from her in the more traditional manner, wringing every last drop of pleasure from her and leaving her a content mess.

[Yes, sex scene writers, unless you have a Ring of Orgasm, or are featuring some sort of ring device to make your character orgasm, the word is wring.]

Misused Words

So, I’m sure there’s people out there who wonder why people jump all over them for using a typo-ed, misspelled, or otherwise slightly misused word.

I’m someone who naturally tries to skip over things like that, but it takes an effort, because I can see how silly it makes things read. Since I’ve been teaching myself editing, this tendency has increased exponentially.

So, for those who don’t get it, or just have trouble with spelling or using the correct homophone, here’s approximately how reading through typos translates to my brain while I’m trying to read that otherwise lovely story. [This will continue for several entries, and I apologize ahead of time for the writing style.]

Joe Schmoe was an enemy solider. He was a solider cuz he was just built that way. Never mind that he was a skinny lightweight little fuck, he was a solider, and as a result, swimming was tough for him because his extra solid mass made him sink like a stone. He was also an enemy soldier, because his government handed him a gun and told him it was patriotic to shoot us. Governments being like that.