Flintian Post

There are just way too many delish pictures that can be 'shopped to represent Flint. Here are just three, one of which portrays both Flint and his dearest friend Gareth.

Gareth and Flint were the closest of friends. Extremely close. It is because of Gareth's murder that Flint is now hellbent on killing Cadmus Pariah. That's a pretty lofty goal, but Flint isn't known for setting limitations on himself.


I love how the phosphorescence in his eyes is made all the more intense in black & white photographs. 'Tis mesmerising.

The Waltham Phantom, complete first draft

 

The Waltham Phantom

He spent the night in the cinema house, slipping effortlessly into a small brown rat, one of many of them that the clean-up crew would probably see. After a very productive night of watching a compelling movie, he also supped on a luscious female, who was all too happy to share with Flint the needed nectar from her veins. Spying up from across the aisle, the woman could not watch the movie for stealing more glances with every passing minute. By the time the film was halfway finished, Flint had also lost interest and was sitting next to his new admirer. It wasn't every night that the unassuming Darkling could attract a human without using an almost uncomfortably level of Glamour. He just really didn't have it in him to be naturally irresistible. So when such a opportunity presented itself, Flint always gladly took advantage of it. It would mean that he wouldn't have to kill to eat this night; rather, he could take all the blood he needed and all the pleasure he may want without the inconvenience of having his prey realise what he was doing, and begin an angry protest. Flint just could not be sussed with such, and would bring their lovely little encounter to a close by affixing his mouth to the throat of the unwilling before him, and draw out all the blood, taking the lifeless husk to his favourite hill above Tinsel Town. It was just a pain in the arse, really, and there was no bonus of intimacy to be had, just food.

Flint liked the company of humanity, even if the attentions were brief. He preferred them that way, as oftentimes, the brief encounters were the most intense. For instance, in a dark movie house, surrounded by other people, to bring a person to the desired orgasm for the best effect of taking blood was a feat that Flint was more then ready to attempt. He liked challenges like that, and Flint was not prone to do much of anything that he did not fully enjoy.

And the afterglow from this one...well, it had been more than satisfactory for them both. Blood was enough to bring a Vampire to climax, particularly the Incubi and Succubi of the Darkblood Hive. But to have a human do what this woman did to him after the fact was nothing short of extraordinary. They both floated in one another's orbits, reaching levels of pleasure rarely experienced, especially in public and particularly in utter silence. The happy lassie had left quite fulfilled, but also left Flint profoundly spent.

( finally finished! )

This is...

Endless Thoughts

An hour does not go by without my thinking about him, if only to form silent lips around his name as it splashes across my mind and jagged streaks of wonderment. Sometimes, I feel as though I'm losing myself completely. Sometimes, I am not altogether certain that I want to be found.

We have an uncanny number of things in common, even moreso than my soulmate and I do. And this is distressing in a way. Soulmates are twin souls mated throughout time. But this is different. It is more profound. And it is terrifying. He is my animus, of that I have no doubt. I doubt he realises the depth of our commonality. Even if he did, it is not something that he would acknowledge.

As the night falls and the stars call out to one another in the loneliness of space, I sit alone here in the darkness, and I have the feeling that I'm never truly alone. Thoughts of him manifest his reality in my world, and I long to share everything with him, in all its varying tones of glory and horror.

It does not pain me that we'll never have that kind of relationship, not like it always has with my soulmate. In fact, I feel comforted that such a thing will never be. I am honestly not sure if I could even cope with a connection that deep. I am pretty well convinced that such a thing would swiftly drive me mad.

He has already pushed my sanity to the brink and beyond my ability to comprehend or adequately express. I am the pirouetting child consumed within his vibrancy. I am the moth with singed wings, eager to burn alive in his fire, if only to be that close for just one instance of rapture.

I fine myself more often than not wanting to scream his name into the void, and let the world know how completely devoted to and devoured I am by this man. I am desperate to give my flesh and blood over to him. I long to lose my sanity to him. I pray for the madness his whispers promise me.

These are my endless thoughts, my thoughts of him in all their Vastness. I am enslaved, wondrously so. Willingly is my spirit chained to his in a dance that seems more frenzied with every passing day. Once I admitted all of this to myself, the power of it has increased a thousandfold, and I see no sign of this passing in the foreseeable future...if at all. Ever.

My endless thoughts. I reside in them, just as they reside in me. It is a sacred infection. It is my life.

Dangerous Writing

"Dangerous writing means putting a piece of yourself in a work, going to the 'sore spot,' and discussing taboo topics, particularly sex and violence. It means writing for yourself, a concept that in the literary world was thought to make you go broke. It means exposing yourself to the tiger, not physically, but mentally." - Tom Spanbauer

Snootle

Silver City

I watched Silver City a few hours ago. It starred Danny Huston and co-starred Tim Roth. Seeing them together (Huston being 6'2" and the Roth being 5'7") was like watching Mutt and Jeff. But it was all worth it when there was a scene with them in bed drinking and smoking. They were clothed and it was not a romantic scene except in my own filthy little mind. I would not be typing this, if it had been a Brokedy-back Mountain sort of situation, because I would have dropped dead right on the spot. Way too much sexiness for one movie, and that's not even taking into account the fact that Billy Zane is also in this flick. My Demon Knight, Marlow, and Archibald...good grief.

Metamorphosis

Even Franz Kafka would scream bloody murder if he saw this skittering toward him. The Roth should never do this again. It's brutal, creepy, freaky, and insane.

HOLY MOLEY

Tumblr is gonna be the death of me. All these glorious pictures are blowing my mind.


( More Rothian goodness to be found hyeah )

B and Finn

Pretty pretty pretty grooveh.

Plaguing Me

I've just finished a Cadmus story, but he is demanding more words. This is one of the reasons why I was awake all night. His vicious demands are incessant, and I wish there were some way I could silence his diabolical purr. Sometimes I get weary of the dreadful imagery that haunts my head. The thing I find most distressing is that this is a large aspect of who I am. I have no idea how I ended up with a morbid fascination with insane violence and unimaginable abuse. I always return to the visions of vivisection. Cadmus basks in what he perceives to be incredibly beautiful, to rip apart a Vampire and allow him to heal, just so he can do it again. What kind of deviance do I harbour, that I can immerse in such darkness? Sometimes I feel as if I'm going mad.

Sundry

I'm back from taking care of Davis and Kathleen's three cats, Eclipse, Lucy, and the always Mighty Marble, the Astrocat. I always fall prey to a combination of comfort and sadness when I go to their house. So many lovely memories...and so many devastating ones. There are some days that I'm wholly unsure I will ever be purged of the madness that overcame me when I met the Harpist. I spent my last vestiges of optimism and the ability to walk under the warm sun, loving him. That was in 1997-1998. After the dissolution, I walked into the Blessed Dark, and I have never looked back, except with a certain regret.

But I think my soul is better for it. I don't feel natural walking a path of light. It doesn't seem sincere. The monsters I harbour are often my only comfort now, and I think that's the way it should be for me. And, if events had turned out differently during that time of Celtic Wonderment, I would not be where I am today.

Everything is connected. Everything means something. Everything is important in the forging of a spirit.

---

On my way back from taking care of the kitties, I swung by the ABC store to replenish my Irish Creme in order to make the coffee that much tastier. The woman asked for my ID. When I showed it to her, she did a double take and said "I don't believe it."

I turn 45 years old in five months.

This pleased me to no end. I told her that you reach a point in your life when being carded is actually a good thing. She laughed and told me she agreed 100%.

Sometimes, it's just damned groovy being a Vampire. Actually, it's the Evans gene. It was passed on to Aunt Josephine, who looks like she's in her sixties, when she's actually closer to ninety now. Aunt Tudi also had the gene. When she passed, she looked to be in her forties, but she was 67. I am the last Evans to carry this trait, as our numbers have dwindled and no one in my generation has the fortune of the Evans Vampire Chromosome.

I don't know how old the woman thought I was, but she obviously thought I was much younger than 44. Actually...you have to be 21 or older to buy alcohol, so I figure she thought I was near enough to 21 to hold me in suspicion.

---

Speaking of Vampires, I posted this picture of Barry and Finn on Facebook, 'cos someone was keen on seeing it and I figured I'd share with all the Shriek fans. The picture is from 1985. I never knew the date until Vivienne clued me in, in the comments section of the photo. Barry has changed very little from that picture. There are signs of age, yes, but nothing like what it should be for someone who turns 56 in September.

Todd piped up and declared the picture "creepeh." When I private messaged him and told him he'd just called Vivienne's ex-husband creepeh, he swiftly replied with "Oh dear. Damn it." I can't stop laughing. HAHA, he just wrote me back and said "I really need to use judgement, eh? I never want to be a dick." ::dies laughing::

Publicly, I told him I would kill him off in my next novel but, since I'd already done it once (his anchored character Paine Bryerson was the only one to die in The Chalice, and he did so at the hands of Cadmus Pariah, which was intentionally ironic, considering his disdain for, as he calls them, "Screechback"), I'd have to think of something equally as vile to make him miserable.

I love Todd. He always makes me cackle.

---

I have another buttload of Rothian photos to display here. The people on Tumblr are insane when it comes to posting pictures of The Roth. And all of them are so damned lovely.

I now have over 200 pictures of Tim Roth. That is ridiculous. I'd be ashamed of myself, but I'm too busy stoking the smouldering fires of my lust.

Watch this space.

---

For now, I think it's time to either work on the Gethsymonae story, or begin a new one for Cadmus. He's clawing at my brain, demanding attention since the whole Flint debacle.

When Cadmus is out for blood, you either feed him or he feeds himself, at your expense.

I'd give anything to know what Clive Barker would think of Cadmus, since his influence is quite evident on the character.

I guess I'll never know.

STOP THE INSANITY

This is ridiculous, I can't even. So much Rothian Goodness, so little time.

Probably exiting the place after bartending, which he actually does on occasion, just for fun. What is it with this man?


( Click at your own risk. Hotness behind this cut. )

By the time I'm finished, everyone is going to cringe when they see Tim Roth or hear his name, 'cos they'll know I'm going to act the fool soon afterward.

Titch

Why does Cadmus call Flint "titch" so often? It's art imitating life.

From the MacMillan Dictionary: Titch - Someone who is very small.

From an extensive biography of Tim Roth:  So Roth, disturbed by his father's departure, now living in the company of artistic females, was sent into this macho hell-hole. Being short (his nickname was Titch) and named Timothy only made it worse. The bullying was bad and Roth had no physical response.

Cadmus calls Flint this because he is familiar with British slang, having lived amongst the English for centuries.  Flint hates the cognomen, and takes it as the insult Cadmus intends it to be.

See, everything is there for a reason.  I'm just glad that The Waltham Phantom has been exorcised...for now~.

"Hope for the Best, Expect the Worst"

Ever since I saw The Twelve Chairs back in 1986, this song has been the definition of my life philosophy. Mel Brooks is a mad genius and here's the proof.

Yeah, Pretty Much

Blatantly burgled from this place here: The Darkside of the Zodiac. Go check out how horrible you are. This Virgo has some issues with the reading (of course, being a Virgo), but all in all, it seems pretty darned accurate. Baahaha!

VIRGO

You have one belief. Everyone in life is beneath you. There isn't an idea that you can't improve upon, or a person you can't whip into shape. You may pride yourself on being a discriminating perfectionist, but everyone else sees you as a royal pain in the ass. You are very intelligent but can't make any practical use of your knowledge, so you end up spouting platitudes and pumping gas.

You have Forest for the Trees Syndrome. You are so bogged down in the excruciating minutia of daily life that you let the world, and your dreams, pass by. But that's OK with you, since it gives you a reason to blame your faults on every one but yourself.

Yours is the sign of the scribe, prosecuting attorney, mimic, despot, and anything with critic in the title. Virgos make excellent bureaucrats because they love to make people stand for hours in lines that go nowhere.

You spend your life moving your metaphorical piles of dirty laundry from one side of your psyche to the other without resolving anything. However, this is fine with you because it gives you something to do on Saturday night besides rearranging your medicine cabinet.

You are so concerned with your health that you rattle when you walk from all the pill bottles jiggling in your pocket or purse. Your home serves as a satellite pharmacy for the neighborhood and you delight in dispensing the latest holistic advice on every ailment from boils to constipation. You are the type of patient who hounds your doctor for double prescriptions, just to be prepared.

Your favorite game is Mountains out of Molehills, and you obsess over things that will never happen. You spend hours worrying whether or not you should use milk that's one day past its pull date and if your tires have enough air to get you to your next dentist appointment. You are the only sign in the zodiac that looks forward to a tooth cleaning. You have more systems for coping with life than the IRS has for tracking down tax dodgers.

In love, you are as romantic as a top sergeant drilling the troops. You expect your lover to adhere to your timetable and preferences and balk at any variation. After you invariably get dumped, you cry for about five minutes then decide that he, or she, wasn't good enough for you anyway and grab the nearest good book to soothe yourself. When you do get the urge to merge, you usually make the wrong choice, because you've been so picky in the past that you suddenly find yourself on the downside of sexy and grab the first person you can clutch in your impeccably manicured little hands.

You also have exceptional self-discipline and your will is so strong that you can easily make all your dreams come true. You are often misjudged because of your perfectionist attitude. Truth is you never expect more of others than that which you are willing to give. You are sympathetic and generous and have a genuine desire to help people do their best. But you need to cultivate more patience and less assumption that your opinion is always either correct or sought. Instead of squandering your energy trying to control the world, learn to listen first, then take aim with a few well-chosen barbs and there isn't a sign in the Universe you can't outwit.

The Tim Roth Tutorials #44 - #50

Hard to believe there are fifty of these now. That is just absurd.

( more madness found here )

And, with that, I'm gonna give the Tutorials a rest, at least until I collect more footage. I'm sure this could go on forever, as long as Tim Roth continues to kick ass and take names.

The Next Tale (hopefully a proper Harming Tree canon)

Far off galaxies were reflected, spiralling in the depths of Cadmus Pariah's obsidian eyes. He blinked slowly, allowing himself to go ever further outward into the cosmos, reaching out spidery tendrils of ancestral memory, where his ancestors had taken their first breath and sung their first songs of Creation. Across the multiverse he travelled, taking in each galaxy and naming it according to the ancient Tarmian ways. And he pulled to him the presence of the black hole at the center of each heavenly body, that inevitable dark matter that was the source of the life that chose to ignore its origins. Black holes were the realm of the Pariah. Surely the songs pulled into their ineluctable gravity fortified their existence, forging the event horizon that was the only indication of their presence amongst the vibrations of the living stars. It was at these times that Cadmus grasped at his philosophical apices only to realise that he could actually feel wonder and amazement without the assistance of his long-gone beautiful pets.

He shuddered in reaction to the moisture that pooled around his endless irises. Such emotion presented a kind of terror in Cadmus. He was wholly unsure what to do with it, and so he fought it with every fibre of his being.

He blinked again, his heavy lids resting at half-mast as he absorbed the light around him. The blessed dark would always be his primary realm, that rhapsody in which he could touch eternity by gazing into the impossibly ancient stars, and the dark matter that suspended them in time.

Unpopular Opinion

Captain Mal was so much better when he was Han Solo.  Fuck Joss Whedon.