The noise was coming from inside his ear. At first he thought it was tinnitus. Everyone who worked at the factory got tinnitus. It was just a rule. But it was more of a whistle than a ring, and he had only been working there for a few months. The grizzled mechanics said it took years, each one extending the number to fit their tenure. Rupe was at twenty years, so that meant Jacob had nineteen and some change left to go.

Next he assumed it was a bug, maybe a cricket. The thought of having a bug wandering around his skull was off-putting, but stuck bugs tended to die and could wait until the morning. As long as it didn’t start biting anything, he’d be fine. The problem was: How would a cricket find its way to the 12th floor of an apartment building, and why couldn’t he feel it moving around? Also, he was pretty sure crickets were extinct and had been since RoundPharm™ had gotten into the pesticide business. All the bees were dead because of them. Sparrows too.

Jacob stuck his pinkie into his ear and dug down as far as he could. The noise stopped. His ear hurt. He grimaced and pulled the greasy appendage out, hoping it would be covered in cricket legs. It was not.

“Huh?” he said to the empty room. He wished his wife was home. She’d smile and tell him he’d be okay. Everything was okay when she was around. She’d also tell him to go see a damn doctor and not to be an idiot about it. Jacob could do that on his own, make an appointment on his lunch break.

He got ready for work, the low whistle following him into the bathroom and then the kitchen. His electric toothbrush drowned it out, as did the shower and toaster oven. The noise was so low that it might as well not be there, though Jacob didn’t find this particularly reassuring.

What if he was going crazy?

“Too stupid to go crazy,” he muttered at the TV, where two news pundits debated the latest piece of politics. Jacob switched the channel to cartoons.

He ate his toast and drank his morning orange juice while Scooby and the gang ran from a swamp monster to jaunty music. He smiled. When he remembered the ringing in his ears, he turned the volume up. When it was time for Freddy to detail his latest plan on catching ol’ Swampy, Jacob got an idea. If the noise was real, he should be able to record it. Freddy pulled out a coil of rope from off screen, and Jacob dug into his back pocket for his cell phone.

It was an old phone, one without the fancy holographic displays and light-sensitive buttons, but it managed to get service in the deepest part of the factory, which none of his colleges could brag about. He swiped through his apps until he found a blue square with a white microphone. He pressed the button, and when a red circle appeared, he pressed that too.

“Would you like to record a voice memo?” the phone asked in a sultry, robotic tone. He had never recorded a voice memo before and was surprised to hear the question. Older phones weren’t supposed to have AI like the new ones.

“Yes,” he mumbled. Maybe it had updated over night and he just didn’t know it.

“Begin recording.”

Jacob muted the TV and brought the phone to his ear. The ringing was back, soft and undisturbed, and he felt his hands go clammy. This would either prove he was crazy or that something was wrong with him. Either way, something was wrong with him.

After a few seconds, he stopped the recording. His nerves were on edge, but the sultry voice sounded quite happy as she saved the memo as voice_memo_xx.xx.01.

“Play the recording back.”


The whistle was faint in his speaker, but it was there, a teapot screaming from three floors up. He closed his eyes, knowing he should make that doctor’s appointment now and not later.

“You’re a god.”

Jacob yelped the phone from his hands, and the recording stopped as it tumbled to the floor. He stared at the bright screen, sweat forming on his brow. The voice asked him if he wanted to play the memo again. His ear was ringing.


The phone didn’t answer, though he expected it to. It had an AI now. He nudged it with his foot. The other voice wasn’t an AI; it was different, a whisper, like a ghost inside his head, and it had … never mind what it had said. He didn’t want to think about that.

By the time Jacob picked up his phone, Freddy was unmasking Ol’ Swampy and getting ready for a commercial break. Jacob navigated the screen carefully, making sure not to play the recording again, and looked up the number for the nearest hospital in his insurance plan. He called it, made an appointment, and told himself he was feeling better. He wasn’t, and the assurance didn’t help him, but it’s what his wife would have said.

Early-morning traffic was quiet, and the sun was still snoozing beyond the horizon, so Jacob turned his stereo up, jumping between stations to avoid commercials. For some reason, the noise was easier to hear during them. His attention was divided, stuck between blinking yellow traffic lights that turned green as he approached and the phrase in his ear. He was not a god. He was too stupid to be a god, and anyways, he was a Christian and that meant there was only the one God, which was not him. Crazy people thought they were gods, and he didn’t feel crazy. Was crazy something he should feel though? He was pretty sure the disease didn’t come with a sore throat or runny nose.

Just as the traffic lights were shifting from blinking yellow to a steady green, Jacob was leaving the city. A shallow grey ran along the horizon, not quite a sunrise but bright enough to dim the stars. He continued changing radio stations, and he continued trying not to think about the phrase in his ear. By the time he was at work, someone had spilled water-color pink on the clouds.

Jacob made his way into the factory, passing through two security checkpoints and third shift workers dressed in white coats. They yawned as they punched out, bags under their eyes and empty lunch boxes in their hands. One, a woman with paper-white hair and black earrings, gave Jacob a silent fist-bump. This routine had started on his second day and was currently unbroken. Jacob still didn’t know her name.

The factory was owned by RoundPharm™ and made electric toothbrushes, the kind that could transmit the news into your head while you brushed or play music if you had a Spotify Premium account. They could also tell you if you were getting a cavity and even book a dentist appointment, though that required Amazon Prime to work. Jacob did not know a single person in the factory who owned one.

He made his way through the big building, cutting well-worn corners and passing under a host of security cameras until he was in the maintenance shop. An obese man with oil stains up to his elbows worked a mill and sang to the radio, which was stuck playing country music.

“Hey Rupe,” Jacob called. “How’s it going?”

“Turnin’ and burnin. Burnin’ and turnin.”

“What’cha makin’ today?”

“Don’t know yet.” Rupe shut the machine down and removed a square piece of aluminum covered in holes. “It just might be a paperweight.”


“Got a problem with line four that I want you to look at. Conveyor is stuttering. Grab the tachometer, and I’ll meet you out there.”

“Sure, sure.”

Jacob started for his things as the radio station jumped to commercials. The ringing returned. It was almost deafening, and even though he had a doctor’s appointment in nine hours, this couldn’t wait. It would be irresponsible to work on heavy machinery if he was crazy. He pulled out his phone, now with an updated AI, and asked it to find his memo.

“Locating voice_memo_xx.xx.01”

“You finally get a new phone?” Rupe asked. “‘Bout time.”

“No. It must have updated or something.”

“That’s not how that works.”

Jacob shrugged. “Listen to this for me, please.”

Rupe shrugged back and held the phone to his ear with an extreme intent. When it whispered, “you’re a god,” Jacob jumped. Rupe did not.

“Whistling sound,” Rupe said, handing the phone back. “What’s broken?”

“Dunno.” He had heard the voice. It was there. It didn’t make any sense that Rupe could hear the whistle and not the words behind it.

“Well get your things. Been waiting for you so we could fix line four.”


It was, when Jacob thought about it, a fact of seniority. Rupe was the lead, and that meant he was above fixing stuttering belts. His job was taking care of the robot arms, fixing them when they broke and reprogramming them when they got lost. It’s what got him the big bucks. He was also too fat to get underneath the conveyors.

Jacob donned a white smock and snagged the tachometer, complete with CAL sticker. He also grabbed his tool belt.

They made their way into the maze that was production, a dozen conveyors manned with robot arms grabbing, inspecting, and moving white, bristly parts from one grumbling piece of machinery to the next. First-shift employees watched the movement with glazed looks in their eyes and bright orange stoppers in their ears. Everything was normal.

Just as they entered the center of the room, heading for line four, the noise cut. The conveyors stopped running, the robot arms stopped moving, and the giant plastic molders ceased stomping. Jacob’s hands went clammy again, and the tachometer slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a plastic-y crunch. Rupe’s mouth fell open. The ringing in his ear was loud.

Every robot arm turned to Jacob and bowed its rectangular head.

It was the longest, most surreal second of Jacob’s life. By the time he fully registered what had happened, production had resumed, each machine kicking back on so RoundPharm™ toothbrushes could be sold in all corners of the world.

He was a god.

God help him.



Hereditary: How Guilt and Blame Create Hope

Six months into 2018 and we’ve been given one sucker-punch of a horror movie in Hereditary. To call it effective would be an understatement—it’s gross, it’s gruesome, it’s horrific, and it’s absolutely bleak. It’s a movie with no safety net. And it’s brilliant for it too, because it hides this bleakness right in the title. Hereditary. This is a movie born with a disease, one it cannot shake no matter how hard it tries. It’s fated to end the way it ends.

Except, maybe it isn’t. Fate is certainly its biggest theme, but there’s nothing satisfying about a pointless struggle. To be sure, there is a cruelness to the film that most horror movies lack, but I never got the impression it was outright nihilistic. Fate is a theme, but the film isn’t hopeless.

Hereditary shares two other big themes alongside fate: blame and guilt. It’s in these two equally negative emotions that the movie finds its hope and ultimately, the idea that maybe fate could have been bested had the characters not entered the film already broken.

Annie begins the movie feeling blamed. She doesn’t know from what exactly, only that she holds this defensive view of her family, like they’re out to get her. It’s a lens we spend half the film with until we later find out that the blame is actually guilt. Annie once tried to murder her children during a bout of sleepwalking. It’s something she claims was an accident and becomes defensive of. She didn’t mean to, so it’s not something she should be distrusted for.

The problem is, Hereditary is still a movie operating on fate. There are no accidents. Somewhere deep down, Annie wanted to kill her children, and she’s afraid she still wants to kill them. It eats at her.

It means the movie begins with the family already divided and everything we see divides them further. When Peter has a nightmare that he’s being strangled, he wakes up and blames his mother. Why wouldn’t he? She’s tried to kill him before.

Hereditary becomes a balancing act between what the characters do and what they know. Every action in its two-hour runtime has a sinister cloud hanging over it, as if the characters are all struggling to overcome their natural instincts. There is the fated choice to make, and then there is the right choice to make. They always find themselves making the fated choice because they don’t trust each other, but there’s always the option—the hope—not to.

For example, Annie knows her Peter is going to a high school party filled with drinking. He lies; she calls him on his lie. Yet she forces Charlie to go with him, Charlie who is allergic to peanuts, too young to be there, and more than likely possessed by Paemon.

They both know they’re making a mistake, yet they make that mistake anyways.

Charlie’s death was a crossroad for the family. It could have brought them together to grieve as a unit, or it could have divided them further. Ultimately it divides them further. Peter feels blamed for Charlie’s death, and he feels guilty too since he was driving the car. We as the audience know it wasn’t his fault though. We saw Paemon’s symbol on the light post.

Annie, meanwhile, blames Peter. She lashes out at him, and instead of trying to console her son, drifts even further away from her family. Answers are to be found not in communication with one another but to the dead. If Charlie’s ghost can tell her everything is alright, then no one will have to feel guilty about anything. She won’t have to blame Peter for her daughter’s death, and Peter won’t have to feel guilty.

It’s a destructive viewing because it removes introspection and personal growth. The characters have the option to make the right choices, to tackle the emotions they are feeling and grieve, but Annie isn’t willing to do that. Peter isn’t either. Upon Charlie’s death, he avoids the problem and goes to bed. Someone else can deal with it in the morning. After the funeral, he finds solace in solitude and drugs, spending a lot of the movie getting high with his friends.

Ultimately, this lack of dealing with problems is what puts Paemon into Peter.

Guilt is what propels Annie to try and fix the problem, but it’s something she attempts to do by herself. She goes to burn the book believing it will kill her. It doesn’t, and its destruction doesn’t stop Paemon either. All she manages to do is kill her husband—the one person trying to keep the family together—and causes herself to snap.

There’s an argument to be made that the climax of Hereditary is Annie’s final attempt at saving Peter. She still believes this is her fault and by killing her son, she’ll have saved him from being possessed. After all, it’s not the first time she’s tried to kill him. It’s more destruction and more division. It’s the easy way out, of not taking responsibility for what she had done.

It’s what fate wanted.

At the end of the movie, Peter is possessed. He looks at his new congregation as Paemon, and between confusion he seems to look relieved. Killing Charlie was his fault, but this, this was not. He cannot feel guilt for this. He cannot be blamed for this.

Hereditary is a movie filled with loss and grief, yet it’s also a movie where no one apologizes. Characters make mistakes that result in death and emotional trauma, and no one apologizes. Everyone feels guilty and everyone feels blame, but those emotions are only allowed to stew into something destructive, not be released in catharsis. Grief is buried into more grief, and fingers are pointed to avoid taking responsibility.

Had someone just said, “I’m sorry,” the end results of this movie could have been avoided, and that’s where the hope lies. I spent the entire movie hoping someone would just say, “I’m sorry,” and mean it, because that little act would have allowed the family to admit responsibility for their mistakes, grieve as a unit, and then do something about it.

Deadpool 2 Review

I’m going to keep this review fairly spoiler-free and in brood strokes because comedies live and die on their comedy, and retelling jokes does no one any favors. Suffice to say, if you liked the first Deadpool, you’ll probably like this one. It’s a riot.

Deadpool as a character is a hard sell and an even harder execution. His humor isn’t going to jive with everyone and his reliance on breaking the fourth wall and being pointlessly crass is a shtick that can run old very fast. Basically, it takes a light touch, but Deadpool 2 isn’t a movie that operates lightly. It’s loud and in your face because it’s freaking Deadpool.

It’s strange then that it all works. Part of it is Ryan Reynolds being an absolute joy and a perfect fit for the role, but really, the movie knows its strengths and how to play into them. It’s a superhero movie with an R-rating, and that means it can do things most superhero movies cannot, like show the hero cutting someone apart with a chainsaw to jaunty music. Grenades are pulled with middle fingers, and 14-year old Russel gets punched in the face during a prison fight.

There are a few jabs at DC thrown around, and it’s poignant because movies like Suicide Squad wish they could do what Deadpool 2 does.

The key to a character like Deadpool, I think, is to pair him with more “normal” people. By himself he gets exhausting and can wear thin, but if he’s playing off of Colossus, Cable, or Russel, it all comes together. They bring the salty while he brings the sweet. Though honestly, that’s a bit misleading since the movie gives everyone a chance to be salty and sweet. Even Negasonic Teenage Warhead throws out a smile before all is said and done.

Those jokes–because it’s all about the jokes here–continue to the violence, which is over-the-top and bloody. The movie is full of action scenes, and most are better than what you’re going to get in Marvel and DC superhero movies because we don’t have to take them seriously. Deadpool can get ripped in half and that’s gnarly and funny. Hands can get chopped off and spill blood, and walls are made to be knocked through in a way that treads the line between painful and slapstick.

Adding comedy to the fighting allows for a bigger variety of action types, such as Domino who’s luck-based superpower turns every environment she’s in into a Rube Goldberg machine. She’s an absolute delight, and watching her fight is just as mesmerizing as anything in Dr. Strange.

Above all, Deadpool 2 is a movie that knows how to handle its jokes, how to tag them and build them. Rarely is something just a one-off gag. My favorite bit comes around the middle of the movie, when a character mentions the weather. It’s a funny jab, one joke in a long series, and then the movie doubles back on it a few minutes later. The weather is important.

For all of its play and violence though, there’s really more to Deadpool 2 than meets the eye. The film operates on themes of loss and overcoming grief, and as Deadpool jokes, it’s really a family movie in that regard. There are right and wrong ways to be sad, and there are right and wrong ways to find/create a family. People deserve second chances.

It all comes down to Cable. He’s the big-bad in the trailers, the future-soldier with a big gun and a robot arm. He’s grim and dark, a time-traveler on a mission to kill a child in hopes of righting the future. Yet the more time we spend with him, the more we realize he’s not really a villain and, in fact, is similar to Deadpool: He’s hurting, he’s lonely, and he thinks what he’s doing is right. The two become wonderful foils for each other, and their personalities play well together by being so contrasting.

What this allows Deadpool 2 to do then is change its structure around. It’s a movie without a central villain, because at the end of the day, Cable isn’t much of a badguy (the foil continues because let’s face it, Deadpool ain’t much of a goodguy). It allows for the two characters to do more than fight each other, and their bits of genuine conversation bring out the best in both.

Meanwhile, Russel turns into this emotional core that works way better than it should be. Julian Dennison sells his scenes, and when he gets mad, he gets scary. It’s all very genuine, and given the stakes at at hand, threatening too. He goes toe-to-toe with Reynolds in the comedy but is able to sell the tragedy in a way Deadpool simply cannot.

I’d say my one complaint with with the film is the tone. For a comedy to deal with loss means jumping between sad, dark, and hilarious, and those jumps aren’t always seamless. It’s hard to know if I’m supposed to laugh at Deadpool trying to kill himself or feel bad for him. It’s a small complaint though, and at the end of the day, I mostly just laughed. Like I said, this movie is a riot.

Before we wrap this up, I want to touch on the music. Deadpool 2 has a great soundtrack and it knows how to use that soundtrack to, once again, be very funny. It’s another tag to jokes on the screen, another way to add more and more layers to jokes until you’ve got a big ol’ cake.

Deadpool 2 is a cake! It’s a candy and it’s cake. It’s good.

Deadpool 2 is a pretty fantastic action/comedy/superhero mashup that won’t appeal to everyone. It’s brilliant writing for jokes that are generally more crass than brilliant themselves, but the absolute commitment is commendable. Deadpool 2 is a comedy without a shame, and I adore it.

The Land of Glass Available on Steam

Over the last handful of years, I’ve posted dev blogs on The Land of Glass, formally known as The Regret of Vitrerran. Those blogs were about song composition, level design, and writing for video games.

Well, that game is out. You can find it here


The Land of Glass is a card game with a twist: speed. It’s CCG meets action RPG, combining card collecting and deck building with frantic combat. Choose your heroes, build your deck, and save Vitrerran.

I’d appreciate it if y’all took a look, or spread the word or whatever. This was a five year project, and we’re happy to be done, but like with all projects, done isn’t done.

The Fire Seller

“What are you looking to burn?” the small man asked. He was, according to Christian’s associates, a dwarf, though given the orange in his beard and hints of green in his suit, he looked more like a Leprechaun. Given the amount of canine in his smile, he was probably a gremlin. He moved like a gremlin, with a shuffling, sliding grace that was hard to follow. His hands were lepric, blemished with black and brown soars, and he blinked too much. He had a small wand tucked behind one ear.

Christian did not deal with gremlins.

“I have all kinds,” the little creature said, giving his store a nod. Christian felt the store nod back. Or did it wink? There were no lights, just hundreds of fires in hundreds of jars on dark-brown shelves. The shelves couldn’t move, nor could the jars, yet something had. Christian glanced at his watch, though he we was unable to process what the little and big hands were doing. The lighting was wrong—there were too many shadows for such a small room.

“Big fires and little fires, strong and weak,” the gremlin continued. The name Christian was given was Shebasta. “The weak ones can be more useful than the strong ones. Most people don’t realize that, but you look like a man who knows his fire.”

“There’s been a mistake,” Christian said. He had to leave before he agreed to do something he’d regret. “I’m sorry.”

Shebasta smiled a salesman smile. “No mistake, no mistake. I don’t make them, and I know you don’t either, Mr. Gathers. Senators cannot afford to make mistakes!” He clapped his little hands. “Now come, have a look at my fire.”

Christian turned for the door, but the door was gone, replaced by a series of shelves holding a series of jars. He blinked. There was supposed to be a door here. He looked around and saw the only exit on the opposite side of the room.


“Ah,” Shebasta said, gliding over. “You have a fine eye.” The gremlin grabbed the jar and gave it a quick dusting with a purple handkerchief before thrusting it at Christian. “It’s dragon, of course. Go, have a look.”

Having a look was the last thing Christian wanted to do, yet the fire’s twirling forced his attention. He brought the jar up to his face and peered inside, at the bright-red flame that wasn’t a flame at all. A tiny dragon careened back and howled, and Christian heard the rustling of wind chimes. Then the fire was back to normal, a red ember in a sealed jar.

“A little cliché,” Shebasta shrugged, “but the red dragons really do produce the best flames. The green ones are prettier, I think. More in line with what you need.”

No, Christian needed more than dragon fire, but he wasn’t going to tell a gremlin that. He was going to leave. He put the jar back and found himself looking at another. Inside, a volcano was erupting a black spew of ash and rock. Now that was more like it. He picked it up.

“You don’t want that,” Shebasta said, taking the jar and putting it back. “Too much. You want…” he grabbed Christian by the sleeve and led him towards a different set of shelves. “This one, I think.”

Inside the jar was a small lady tied to a wooden log. She struggled against her bonds, opened her mouth to scream, and then burst into a flame the color of dandelions.

“A witch’s fire to kill a witch, right?” The gremlin chuckled. “Mrs. Stumlin is a witch, you know. It’s the only truthful part of your attack ad.”

“How do you know about Laura?” Christian asked, hoping the fire would repeat itself. This wasn’t why he was here, but it was fun to pretend.

“I know everything about my clients,” Shebasta said, his canines poking out from under his top lip.

“I’m not your client.”

“Are you sure?”

Christian shook his head. Dealing with dwarves was bad, but he wasn’t desperate enough to bother with gremlins. He’d have better luck with a monkey’s paw.

“What about this one?” Shebasta asked, picking an indigo ember. “It’s not as flashy as Salem, but it’s guaranteed to burn one house down with no questions asked. No survivors either, save the fish.”

“The fish?”

Shebasta shrugged. “Mrs. Stumlin has an aquarium. Would make for an interesting story. Take the public’s mind off of that … incident of yours.”

“There was no incident,” Christian said, more out of habit than anything else. Every member of the press thought they could stump him with that gotcha, but come November, no one would care. Those that still did weren’t going to vote for him anyways.

“If you say so,” Shebasta said with a pointed grin. “You are a man who knows his fire.”

Christian once again turned to the door. It remained stationary, and if he didn’t blink, the gremlin couldn’t use his tricks on him, couldn’t move it across the room. He was done here. Let Shebasta’s cheap tricks rot like the cheap words of the press. Laura the witch could rot with them.

He started for the door and stopped when the small shop shuddered. He put his hands out to steady himself, though nothing had moved. The small room was still standing, and the tiny fires were still inside their jars. The ceiling seemed a bit higher than when he had entered though, and the floor looked askew. Shadows swirled about the ground like snakes. No, not shadows, shadow. It was a singular entity, a monster of tendrils and flat smoke, and it blocked Christian’s path to the door.

Shebasta grabbed another jar. “There’s a fire for burning money, you know.” He held it out to Christian, who did not want to touch it. “More of a metaphorical flame, yet it burns. The smell is bad. Like…” the gremlin tapped his chin in mock thought. “Like coal.”

“There was no incident,” Christian said again, though now the fire was taking shape, morphing from a little candle’s flame into a man writing a check. Christian had done that years ago, had made a small man go away so a bill could be passed. It wasn’t an incident though, and it wasn’t a problem. It was politics.

“A man who knows his fire,” the gremlin repeated.

“What do you want?” The room felt hot now, though maybe it always had. It was hard to discern the place. Even Shebasta didn’t seem so little anymore.

“To help you.”

“What do you really want?”

Shebasta gave another canine grin. “I don’t like witches. They’re … bad for business.”

Christian returned to the shelf with the volcano, or maybe it returned to him. He watched it spew another horde of ash and rock. It was close, but not quite right. He knelt down to another jar, this one with a purple flame. Inside, a wizard wearing dark robes was casting a spell. The flame puffed up, filling the entire jar, and then the wizard was gone. The flame returned.

“Nair Dworak,” the gremlin said. “Poor fellow. You don’t want that one.”

“No,” Christian agreed.

“Come,” Shebasta tugged on Christian’s sleeve. “I have more appropriate ones over here. You need something subtle. You need—”

“I need something that will destroy a state.”

Shebasta’s salesman grin slipped off his face, and for the first time, the gremlin looked confused. “What?” the little creature asked.

Without waiting for permission, Christian grabbed another jar. “I need to burn a state.” Inside, a landscape of brush and weedy trees was ablaze. Animals were running around the perimeter of the fire, hugging the glass walls that kept them confined. This was better, though still too small. He put the jar down and started for another.

“What?” Shebasta asked again.

“You want to help me, right?” Christian said. “Then get me something that will torch Hawaii. Make it look like North Korean launched a missile.”

Shebasta fingered the wand behind his ear and gave Christian an obscene look. It was one the Senator had seen before, and one he knew how to deal with. It was not, however, one he expected to see from a gremlin.

“No,” the little creature finally said.

“Why not?” Christian asked, surprised. The bigger the favor, the bigger the price, and for a gremlin, the price was everything. Yet Shebasta looked confused. Even the shadow oozing along the floor wasn’t sure what to do.

A heavy arm fell around Christian’s shoulder. He jumped. Shebasta was gone, and the burned, blemished appendage holding him was too big for a gremlin. Christian followed the arm to a face that was Shebasta’s yet not. The creature was no longer little, and his beard was now bony. Four other horns poked out of his head in the shape of a rough pentagram. The wand stayed wedged behind his ear.

“Come,” the demon said, embracing Christian like they were drunken frat buddies. “Away from that shelf.”


“First,” the demon continued, hauling Christian away from his wares. “I will not sell something you already have. And second,” the demon gave Christian an uncomfortable squeeze. “What on Earth makes you think I’d condone this?”

Christian shrugged as the shadow pulled away, stretching until all that remained of it was a dark spot in one corner of the room. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” he said. The shelves with their little jars of fire began disappeared next, fading away as if their batteries were dying. For the first time since Christian had entered the strange shop, the lighting was normal. He looked at his watch and read the time: 11:58. Two minutes until the witching hour.

“I could guarantee you a reelection, yet you want to destroy a state.”

Christian laughed. “I’m already guaranteed a reelection. My state’s so gerrymandered not even your magic could stop me.”

“Then why are you here?”

The politician smiled. The problem with demons is they always thought small and personal. It’s what kept them from being humans. “President’s poll numbers are down. America likes a war. We need at least two more years to pass—”


Shebasta yanked the door open and shoved Christian threw. Christian stumbled back and bumped into a man wearing a suit and tie. He looked around, at familiar walls with familiar paintings. He was back in the White House.

“How’d it go?” a Senator from Georgia asked. He had liver-spotted jowls and no chin. “You get what we need?”

“No,” Christian said, not sure how he should view what just happened.

The Senator from Georgia shrugged. “Magic isn’t the only way to start a war. It’s not a problem.”

Christian nodded. There were other ways to ensure another four-year term, and fire was still the easiest.




A sorry walking broken I
a fires flaming screaming sky
a wanderlusting staring down
a shiny object in the sand.


A whispered question answer no
a never ending far to go
a lonely hope that reaches for
a shiny object in the sand.


A consuming flame a glint of gold
a moment’s blindness a moment’s cold
a wordless silence a spinning gear
a shiny object in my hand.


A fleeing man just up ahead
a déjà vu of walking dread
a followed course forevermore
a shiny object in the sand.


Global Game Jam 2018: On the Best of Intentions

Another year is just beginning, and that means another Global Game Jam has come and gone. For those who tuned in last year, complications shut my “local” place down, meaning the nearest GGJ was something like three hours away. The idea of going to Minneapolis or Saint Paul had its merits, but my brother and I decided to try something different.

We’d host our own.

However, the title of this little essay is “On the Best of Intentions,” so you should know where it’s going. I’ve yet to have a GGJ experience that wasn’t filled with problems. The tradition continued.

It started as a good idea though: We’d invite our group from last year, turn our apartment into a jam site, and order pizza for everyone. We’d spend half the time playing Smash Bros, watching garbage on Youtube, and drinking beer if I had any say in the matter.

Problem one: People live far away, have jobs, and in general, are bad at communicating.

Problem two: Apartments aren’t appropriate jam sites.

Problem three: Murphy’s Law.

2018’s Game Jam was a lonely one, with only two people instead of five. We did manage to get our apartment turned into a jam site at the very last minute, but with no one here, it felt like a waste of effort. It’s not the same, having a private site. Yes sleeping in a bed is nice, and yes being able to shower in the morning is straight-up divine in comparison, but the lack of people—of enthusiasm and spontaneity—isn’t worth the better living conditions.

I missed the random debates about Star Wars and the trading of portfolios. I missed the encouraging hosts and the curious people trying game development for the first time. I missed the video game talk. Hell, I missed that goofy dude with the cowboy hat and Amon Amarth t-shirt. I still don’t know his name!

It was…an odd weekend.

Typically I’d take a break from game development by listening to music, chatting on Facebook, or going for a short walk. This time, I took breaks to do dishes, clean my apartment, and go grocery shopping of all things. Last year life stopped for this event; this year, life continued. It was just a busier weekend than normal.

I don’t begrudge our friends not being able to make it. They love the spirit of the thing, and for all we had planned, that was the one thing we could not provide.

That being said, I’m still glad we participated. For all the tradition of problems, I still had fun, and when all was said and done, I still helped make a cool thing.

Like the last two years, this one saw me on music and sound. The big difference this time was my instrument choices. I’m used to working with bad midi guitars and orchestral synths; this time I wanted to try my hand at digital sounds—electronic/EDM stuff.

Step one was to find some synths, which is honestly a huge chore. I’m not good enough to make my own, not like I had time to anyhow. That meant diving into FL Studio presets. The good news is FL Studio has like a thousand; the bad news is that FL Studio has like a thousand.

Day one was spent finding the tools I’d need for day two. I tried my hand at digital drums but quickly abandoned that for more traditional ones. Toms and kicks and snares are easier to work with…and the stuff I had put together sounded really, really awful.

I threw an hour into a tune that was shaping up okay only to have my brother reject it outright. I scrapped it, a little miffed at doing so, and then quickly fell in love with my second attempt. My bro has a knack for being right about that sorta thing.

I spent all of Saturday making a four-and-some-change minute song with all kinds of crazy synths, bells, but no whistles. Those sounded too tacky.

Day three was spent on sound effects. I typically do those on day two, so that felt pretty off, like I was very behind. Thankfully we didn’t need many and planned on using the Foley method for the big ones. That went about as well as it normally does.

The result is the game you see below, uploaded with four minutes to spare.

I don’t…I don’t have a real conclusion to this blog-style post. We went into this with the best of intentions and came away with a fun, cozy project made with less stress and back aches than previous jams. I missed the stress though, and I missed the people. Last year I talked about the importance of art, how these events are meaningful as creative outlets. That still holds true, but my perspective has shifted some.

It’s more than art: It’s about community.

Guys, if you’re reading this and ever had the inkling to make a video game, then see if you have a global game jam site near you. Join up. Talk games and movies and music with strangers. Make a thing. It’s really, really awesome. If you can’t wait, hit up the internet. I hear there are people on there that might share your interests.

B.A. Paris’ Behind Closed Doors Review

Behind Closed Doors by B.A. Paris is a bad book that I read in two sittings because I couldn’t put the stupid thing down. I am confused by this. Normally I have to force myself through bad books, and normally I’ll derive at least some pleasure between starting and finishing, even if it’s at the book’s expense. There’s a glimmer of value to be found.

Not so here.

This is like…you know when you stumble upon some awful movie on The Hallmark channel because someone—not you—left it on, and then you go to change the channel yet somehow end up watching the entire thing? Behind Closed Doors is like that. It’s disposable, joyless, yet just well-crafted enough with a hint of mystery to keep your attention.

I don’t know. Let’s see if we can figure this out together.

So our plot is idiot #1, Grace, marries idiot #2, Jack, despite only knowing him for like six months. Jack is not subtle. He spends the next few weeks systematically cutting Grace off from the life she’s worked hard to achieve for reasons that don’t hold up under any kind of scrutiny, but she falls for them because she’s an idiot. Jack is overbearing and kind of creepy. Grace is hopeless.

Jack then entraps his newly-wed wife so he can abuse her. The catch is that Jack is a lawyer (who helps battered women because hahahah irony!) with friends, so he’s forced to be social with his wife, who has to pretend to love him lest people find out she’s married to an abusive idiot. Also if she doesn’t pretend well enough she gets abused.

Now, I’ll concede that I’m being reductive as hell here, but every character in this book is so blitheringly, frustratingly, completely, and freakishly stupid that I can’t really help it.

Grace walks headfirst into what is obviously a bad deal in such a glorious fashion that I’m reminded of that old lie about chickens staring up at the rain and drowning. Her attempts to leave are equally stupid because she is an idiot.

Also, why is John Wick the only character in fiction to double-tap? Did no one watch Zombieland?

Jack sets himself up for failure because he’s an idiot. There’s no way any of his plans are going to last because even though his friends are stupid, they aren’t dumb. You can’t control your wife for over a year in such an obvious fashion and not raise some eyebrows.

I mean, in a way the two were probably made for each other.

Grace’s motives are pretty straightforward: escape. She also has a sister with Down’s Syndrome named Mille that she needs to protect because eventually Millie will move in with her and Jack. It should be noted that Millie is the smartest character in the whole book and actually has to convince her sister—who has been kept prisoner for over a year and tortured mentally and physically—that killing Jack is in her best interesting.

Because Grace is a fucking idiot.

Jack’s motives, meanwhile, are boring as hell. He’s a bad guy because he’s a bad guy. One could argue that sociopaths and sadists exist in real life and don’t have any other motives than “I like hurting people,” but that doesn’t fly in fiction. I need more than evil for the sake of evil. That he enjoys being evil like its some badge of honor doesn’t do him any favors. He’s so transparent that Photoshop lost the layer.

(Yes that was a bad joke. Sorry.)

The book is written in first person, jumping between first-person present and first-person past in alternating chapters. To B.A. Paris’s credit, she handles the style pretty elegantly, or at least better than I’ve seen in quite some time. Grace’s thoughts and actions come quick and naturally, focusing only on what needs to be focused on. They feel like a real internal monologue as events are happening.

The problem is that there’s not much going on to the writing save dialogue and basic movements. The writing works, but it doesn’t do anything more than work. There are no grand descriptions of anything, no fun metaphors or similes. It’s just words. I appreciate a logical handling to first-person present, but even then, the book is just another example of why the style should not be used in long-form fiction.

As to the dialogue, it’s mostly bad. That Grace talks mechanically makes sense in that she’s acting like she loves her husband through most of the novel, but Jack’s verbiage comes off as forced and unnatural. Everything he says is so on the nose that there’s almost no personality to it.

The side characters fair a bit better, but they’re not really around long enough to offset the other two.

Problems continue with the jumps between past and present chapters. The present ones are the only ones with any real tension because you don’t know what’s going to happen next, but the past ones only act as either exposition dumps or Grace failing at escaping her predicament because she’s an idiot.

What we’re left with is a pair of unbelievable characters in an unbelievable situation that’s executed competently. The question remains: Why was it so engaging?

I still don’t know, to be honest. Maybe people just need mental junk food now and then, and it’s better to have junk food that’s well put together—think a Snickers bar—than junk food that’s just bad—think gummy worms.

Or maybe it’s fun being frustrated and mentally shouting, “you idiot what is wrong with you?” for a few hours. I mean, there has to be some truth there given how people act when they watch the Packers play the Vikings. It’s kind of cathartic, really. Certainly writing this review has been cathartic.

I’m normally a little more professional.

Regardless, Behind Closed Doors isn’t a book I recommend unless you plan on taking a six hour plane flight. You’ll be done with it right as you touch down, and then you’ll forget it as you go about the rest of your day.

Top-5 Movies of 2017

Note: This was originally written and posted on wethenerdy.com

The top-ten season continues, this week with movies. 2017 has been an interesting year for film, mostly in that I frontloaded the amount of movies I saw and didn’t like most of them. The ones I did like, I feel like didn’t like enough? Or that’s the impression I’ve been given. The Internet has a strange way of skewing perspective with discourse, hype, and general trolling, and I don’t think I moderated that enough this year.

The negative feedback cycle that was 2017 is perhaps its own conversation though.

As to this conversation, I’ve decided to frame it as a top-five affair instead of a top-ten. The reason for that is simple: The bottom half of my top-ten is boring. It’s all the big Marvel and action movies that we’ve all spent hours talking about already. More intelligent people than myself have explained why Wonder Woman is loads of fun and worthy of all the praise it received, and no one is going to miss another paragraph praising Star Wars: The Last Jedi, though I’m still tempted to write one.

And if I’m being really honest, my top-five makes me feel a bit more intelligent. I’m an insecure man at heart. I love vapid action movies and stupid fantasy novels and bad things with the best of them, but I feel guilty about it, like I shouldn’t.

It’s stupid, but hang-ups are hang-ups. I can admit I have them, which is probably a step in the right direction. Perhaps I’ll worry about the alcoholism next year when I feel the need to be introspective again.

So with all this nonsense out of the way, here are my top-five movies of 2017!

5: John Wick Chapter 2

Okay, so I know this is funny coming off that insecure paragraph, but damnit, John Wick: Chapter 2 is more than just a shooty-shooty, bang-bang action flick. Yeah a lot of people get shot and die, but the characterization and storytelling on display while that happens is really impressive.

We learn more about John Wick when he’s killing than when he’s talking.

He’s such a compelling character in these subtle ways that involve gunshots, stabs, and crashing cars. It’s a wonderful dichotomy that then gets continued on to the other assassins that live in this huge world. Talking leads to lies; fighting leads to truth. It’s a storytelling device I wish more action movies would use, because it absolutely fits the genre.

Pair that with some of the best action sequences I’ve seen all year and an amazing amount of world building, and you have one of the best action movies in a long time—certainly one of the best of 2017.

4: IT

The IT film had a lot to live up to, because the novel is one of my favorites. It’s Stephen King at his best character writing, and it’s Stephen King at his best horror. IT lives up to the novel in all the ways it needs to while sacrificing little (what it does sacrifice I’ll forgive. The book is like 1200 pages long).

The Losers Club depicted on screen is perfect. Perfect. The casting, the acting, and the rapport is straight out of the book, with plenty of heart, horror, and humor. I cannot believe how well and believable everyone is. Meanwhile, Pennywise is perfect too. Bill Skarsgård nailed the otherworldly aspect to him, where he’s just a little funny and a lot dangerous. I knew how this would ultimately end, yet Pennywise always unnerved and surprised me.

I will admit to being more giddy than scared throughout the whole thing though, but given how much the book plays on old, schlocky horror, I honestly call that a plus. The movie is fun in the way a good horror movie should be.

3: Underworld: Blood Wars

Okay, so this really comes off as funny given that insecure paragraph above, but damnit…okay Underworld: Blood Wars is kind of a bad movie. I reviewed it for the site and gave it a 7, but that was being very generous. There are a ton of flaws with this one, especially a twenty minutes segment in the middle which is just dumb even by Underworld standards.

Here’s the thing though: I don’t care.

Underworld holds a very special place in my heart. It reminds me of being in high school in one of the few ways that doesn’t make me cringe in pain or embarrassment. It reminds me of staying up late and drinking 40oz Mountain Dews and playing World of Warcraft. It reminds me of hanging out with my best friend when the biggest worry I had was the homework I didn’t feel like doing. It reminds me o

f being a kid and enjoying bombastic bloodshed via B-movie monsters.

It reminds me of fun.

To the movie’s credit, it is fun. Selene is back and as badass as ever, and the last half hour gives one of the better action scenes in the entire series. It’s big and cool and if you don’t think about it, pretty awesome.

I also think it has some of the best sound design of 2017. Say what you will about the writing, but the audio technicians earned their pay this go around. The cuts sound gnarly, the gunshots sound massive, and the explosions are ground-shaking.

The day I don’t get excited about an Underworld movie is the day I’ve become a boring adult. I avoided that this year, and that’s why this is in my top five.

2: Get Out

Get Out is one of those movies that has thousands of pages of text already written about its importance, relevance, and exceptional storytelling, so me adding to that isn’t really doing much. I do want to say that it’s the most tense movie I’ve seen since The Green Room, walking the line between suspense, horror, and humor with expert footsteps.

It’s absolutely engrossing is what it is.

The rest of my praise is everything you’ve heard before: It’s smart, it’s important, the premise is exceptional, the twists are out of left field yet believable, the cinematography is great, the acting is great, etc, etc, etc.

Go see this one.

1: mother!

mother! is the most jaw-dropping, fucked up experience I’ve ever had at a movie theater. I went in knowing nothing save who was directing it, and I came out feeling like I had been through something akin to an alien abduction. I was affected but in a way that was hard to explain.

Primal dread and exhilaration don’t really mix, you know?

Everything about mother! is unnerving, from the first shot to the last. The way the camera follows Mother around in this close, claustrophobic way means you only get her perspective but in a way that’s too close for comfort. She’s the only person that acts like a real person in the entire movie, yet there’s still something off about her too. You can tell she’s otherworldly because she’s not insane.

You want to pull back to breathe, and you can’t. The movie won’t let you.

I could spend pages talking about the point to mother!, but there are so many ways to read the movie that I’d more than likely be wrong. I saw the relationship between author and creation first and a damning accusation of humanity and religion second, but what do I know? Both might be wrong!

That we can have that conversation is why I like this movie, though.

mother! is a wild ride, the kind of rollercoaster that only ever goes down. It’s clever and smart and wonderfully scary in ways that most horror movies never think to be. It is the best film I watched this year, and my favorite too.