I had a spare moment the other day, and so I decided to experiment with words — non-assignmenty words. The result of my random musings was a “picture story” – a small amount of words within a picture to tell some sort of tale or to convey some sort of message. I did something like it early last year, and rather enjoyed the strangeness of it.

So I’ve worked on a few more. I am in no way an artist; the pictures have been done either on Paint, or by using commercial images and inlaying my own words. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy something a bit different from my usual fictional offerings.

Wondering…

- Love The Bad Guy

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

And we can surely all agree that this is a load of bullhonkey.

Words can hurt. They can belittle, bruise, burn and beat us down. And today, I discovered a whole new world of pain that words can deliver:

reviews.

Yes, the humble review, written by amateurs and professionals alike, aimed at books, films, plays and all manner of things. I’ve read plenty of them in the past; I’ve written a few, too.

But never before have I been in the vulnerable position of being the author of the work being scrutinised.

As some of you may recall, I recently won the Romance Writing competition run by Random House Publishing and Take 5 magazine. Awesome, right? Heck yes. For a writer like me, who is pitifully trying to crawl her way into the spotlight, the recognition offered by this win was tremendous. Of most significance was the exposure that my short story received. Currently, it is available for free download on numerous sites, including Amazon, Google Play, iTunes and so forth. People all around the world now have access to my story.

Thus, people all around the world now have the chance to review said story.

I’m not shy about sharing my work. Comments, cheers, criticisms — this is how I learn and grow. I wouldn’t have a blog if I was afraid of being reviewed. But you see, for the most part, the blogosphere is a lovely place to share one’s work. You readers are kind and supportive, encouraging my triumphs and gently pointing out areas to improve on, because you are generally in the anxious position of please treat me the way I have treated you.

But when you slap your work all around cyberspace, it winds up sitting on the edge of a cliff — exposed, alone, and ripe for the picking.

The reviewers pounce.

Only today did I think to go in search of my story in its various new homes, and once I found it, but stomach did backflips and my heart rose and fell.

The reviews, dear readers. Oh, the reviews.

There was no consideration for me — the author — because these people, these reviewers and potential purchasers, don’t know me any more than they know my name. Unbiased, they ravage my tiny 1000-word offering to their heart’s content, and for me, this is quite daunting.

Some reviews were touching, and made me smile:

Some reviews… Not so much.

…Ouch, right? I felt devastated and embarrassed. I had to quickly close down the screen and go play some Candy Crush to make myself feel better…

But it got me thinking — if this is how I feel about a story of only 1000 words… How must big-time authors feel when faced with these sort of reviews about their life’s work?

Does Stephanie Meyer ever gorge herself on chocolate after yet another person makes a “Still a better love story than Twilight” joke?

Is E.L. James able to comfort herself with her piles of cash when the reviewers bring their whips out (pun totally intended)?

Could Shakespeare possibly be off crying in a corner because another high school student is lamenting over their Hamlet studies?

And the answer probably is:

…Sometimes.

Because the less-than-ideal reviews for Trash to Treasure did hurt. They did, for a moment, make me wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life, if the one thing I love doing — if the one thing I can imagine doing for the rest of my life — can be so swiftly disregarded.

But then I thought…

(pardon the language)

…Fuck ‘em.

You can’t please everybody — that’s life.

Trash to Treasure must have pleased somebody; I wouldn’t have won if it hadn’t. And you know what? It pleased me.

Sticks and stones can break bones, and words can bloody hurt.

…But they won’t break me. Because I won’t let them.

My name is Jess. I am a writer. And I throw myself at the mercy of the reviewers.

Do. Your. Worst.

- Love The Bad Guy

What’s that? Why aren’t I working on my second assignment? SHUT UP. That’s why.

Here’s 33 words in response to this weekend’s Trifecta challenge:

This weekend we want you to give us 33 words (exactly)
that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia.  

I hope you enjoy my obvious procrastination.

Smoulder

The fire crackles pleasantly as she stands in the wafting smoke, revelling in the ashy remnants.

Beneath the sounds of hungry flame is the faint sizzle of smouldering flesh.

“Goodbye, darling,” she croons.

- Love The Bad Guy

Did you know that Love The Bad Guy just celebrated its 2nd Annibirthsary? It did! I’m feeling pretty chuffed, if I do say so myself!

But now, onto the post, which is a response to this week’s Trifecta challenge – to use the third definition for the prompt word “blood“:

a : lifeblood; broadly : life
b : human stock or lineage; especially : royal lineage <a prince of the blood>
c : relationship by descent from a common ancestor : kinship
d : persons related through common descent : kindred
e (1) : honorable or high birth or descent (2) : descent from parents of recognized breed or pedigree

My story is exactly 333 words long. I hope you enjoy this rather angsty piece.

By Blood

I learned the truth while Dad was drunk.

“Fuckin’ kid quit th’team,” he slurred around the moist lip of his beer bottle. Mum sat stiffly beside him on the couch, prettily donned in yellows and whites that seemed far too cheerful beside Dad’s stormy, intoxicated anger.

“He doesn’t like football,” she said simply, softly, staring only at her knees as she pulled on her skirt. “That’s his choice.”

“All Wentley men’ve been footie players!” he snarled. He gestured wildly when he was drunk, and I saw Mum flinch as the cold splash of alcohol stained across both her and the couch. Yet she remained unmoving and uncomplaining. From the shadows of the doorway, unseen, I seethed.

As quickly as it came, Dad’s fury bled out, and he sagged against the cushions with a bitter snort. “Shouldn’t be surprised, eh?” he growled. With a wet gulp, he downed the rest of his beer. And then he spoke the words that set me free:

“He’s not a real Wentley.”

Mum’s eyes glistened. “Don’t say that. He’s your son.”

“Not by blood!” he roared, as if the thought of being connected to me was a burning insult. Mum flinched again; he noticed this time. He stared for a long time, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the empty bottle; Mum resumed her anxious tugging, fraying the skirt’s already worried hems. Finally, he rose, snorting once more. “Not by blood,” he repeated. The words were muttered over a suddenly weary tongue, but his feet were swift as he left the room.

Too late, I realised I should have hidden. I pressed my quivering spine against the wall, hoping he’d pass me by, but even when drunk, his eyes were sharp.

A moment of silent inquisition passed between us—he, forcing an inebriated brain to question my presence, and I, sternly searching for the truth on his face.

The moment passed. Despite my being against the wall, he grunted, “Get outta my way.”

And then he was gone.

- Love The Bad Guy

Two days ago, on the 5th day of May, Love The Bad Guy celebrated its second annibirthsary!

My computer is very helpfully putting a squiggly red line under “annibirthsary“, but it can just shut the hell up, because I know what I mean — my blog has been floating around cyberspace for two years (and two days!) now, and I want to mark the occasion of its not-quite-a-birthday-not-quite-an-anniversary moment.

So, what has happened with us after two years, dear blog and I? Well…

We’ve accrued over 25,000 views.

We’ve gathered 177 fellow bad guy lovers.

We’ve published 283 posts (wait… 284!).

(We still have not freaking been Freshly Pressed, and I really, REALLY wanna be… *sigh*)

Our most popular post has been this little shared snippet of awesomeness.

Our most popular segment has been Why I Love That Bad Guy (and it’s been our most favourite to share with you, readers).

And it seems most of my lovely readers are from America, Canada or England. Hmmm. I find this mildly interesting. We’ve learned something here today.

But moving away from the stats, it is rather nice to float down memory lane and take a gander at some of my personal favourite moments of the past year…

I had an absolute ball writing Will You Survive The End Of the World? in which readers can discover what apocalypse they’ll face, which fictional character they’ll face it with, and whether or not they’ll survive. I loved reading your outcomes, so if you haven’t yet, go take a journey!

I wrote a poem for Christmas. A poem about Tom Riddle, a.k.a. Adorable Lil’ Voldie. Awesome, yes?

I started getting into the Trifecta writing prompts, particularly their weekend 33-word challenges. I’ve even won a bronze and silver medals with my pieces Webbed and Guardian Angel, respectively. Woohoo!

I had a giggle writing my Valentine’s Day post for ALL DA SINGLE LADIES! ALL DA SINGLE LADIES out there (and all the single fellas, too. I’m not trying to be sexist or nothing).

I finally overwrote all my sister’s high scores in Tetris. HELL YEEEEAAAH.

I lamented over my severe name-a-holism. It’s like alcoholism, but with less alcohol and more naming of things.

And I had my day — my year — absolutely made with a single phone call from Random House Publishing telling me that I’d won their Romance Writing Competition. This lovely lady recently emailed me again to tell me that Trash to Treasure has since been downloaded over 7000 times! I’m giddy…

It’s been a hell of a year, readers, and I have you to thank. So…

Thank you!

For the kind words, comments and constructive criticism.

For the “likes”.

For the congratulations of my triumphs, and comforts for my trials.

Seriously — you guys are awesome.

- Love The Bad Guy [Now and Always]

]]> http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com/2013/05/07/happy-second-annibirthsary/feed/ 12 lovethebadguy Haaaappy Annibiiirthsaaaary to my blooooooog.... "For it's jolly good to follow... And so say all of us!" And yes, this is still my favourite picture... http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/black-widow/ http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/black-widow/#comments Sun, 28 Apr 2013 23:03:16 +0000 lovethebadguy http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com/?p=2558 ]]> Hello readers! Once again, I’m slipping in under the deadline with a response to this weekend’s Trifecta Challenge:

Your challenge this weekend is to give us 33 words about anything you want.
 Your piece must include at least one hyphenated compound modifier.
We are talking about two words that combine together to describe something.

I hope you enjoy my contribution — oh, and I huge thank you to everyone who wished me well with my first Honours assignment. It is due today, and is, mercifully, finished (such as it is). Your encouragement really did mean a lot to me. Cheers!

Black Widow

“Tragic,” people muttered. “Absolutely devastating,” others sobbed.

Standing over the fresh grave-dirt, his wife dabbed a tissue at dry eyes. “How ill-timed of you, darling,” she sniped, and departed as a widow threefold.

- Love The Bad Guy

Good morrow, dear readers.

Yes, I should be working on my assignment (which is due in one-freaking-week ohmygodwhatthehellamidoing), but I couldn’t resist the allure of a 33-word challenge from Trifecta. Or, actually, 36-word, given that this was the challenge:

This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 of your own words plus the following three words:

I’ve produced a simple dialogue between two celestial beings. Comments and critique always welcome.

* Guardian Angel *

Wings ruffled with embarrassment, the angel Samiel admitted to having lost his charge.

“You lost him?!”

“Well, I’ve just… misplaced him, is all.”

Weary sigh. “When?”

“…Late last century. But I’m sure he’s around here somewhere!”

- Love The Bad Guy

Anyhoodley, this week’s Be Kind Rewrite prompt is “hanging on a word”, and I’ve written an odd little tale for it.

Let me know what you think!

Dangling Modifier

Oblivion, as they knew it, was vast and white, interrupted only by the sharp blackness of Times New Roman.

“New paragraph!” Craig cautioned, and Jake obediently made the leap, burrowing his boots into the safe crevices of lowercase letters.

Craig stumbled past a semi-colon. “This chapter is taking forever,” he growled.

“I know,” Jake grinned, hop-hop-hopping over a gaping ellipsis and taking the lead. “Isn’t it great? I hope it never—”

His sentence ended abruptly. “Jake!” Craig shouted, leaping past verbs and cursing at each impeding capital—but he was too late. He could only watch from atop the final full stop as his friend gave a mournful cry and tumbled into eternal wordlessness.

Cliff-hangers, it seemed, had claimed another victim…

- Love The Bad Guy

Hello readers!

It’s been far too long since I’ve written anything for Be Kind Rewrite, so here goes! This week, I’ve written a short story in response to the Inspiration Monday prompt: it’s pronounced ‘Smith’.

Alas, it was written far too quickly for my liking, but I’ve hopefully tidied it up enough to remove any gratuitous spelling or grammar mistakes. Let me know what you think!

= S.M.A.I.T.H. =

It was with some curiosity, but greater trepidation, that Phillip agreed to take Walt and the Semi-Mechanic Automated Invention of Territorial Hazing on its first mission.

“I don’t like it,” Phillip decided, tightening his fingers around his rifle. “It ain’t normal to have Goddamned robots out here fighting with us. They’ve got no sense of right and wrong, no sense of mercy. Hell, we’ll probably all be dead within the week, fallen under Smaith’s friendly fire.” He spat the name like poison and glared at the machine in question. It pounded its mechanic feet with the rhythm of a swinging pendulum, never stopping, never stumbling as it guided the two men through the thick undergrowth.

And that was another thing! He and Walt were supposed to be leading this thing on its mission, not the other way around. When the heck had it taken the lead?

Phillip frowned over at Walter, seeking agreement, but found that his young partner was entirely content. His gun was resting amiably against his shoulder as he strolled along the path formed by the machine’s giant footsteps.

Walt glanced over to meet Phil’s increasingly irritated gaze, and shrugged. “Smith,” he said absently, stepping over a tree that the Invention had snapped like a twig.

“What’d ya say?” Phillip snapped. His boot scraped awkwardly across the felled tree’s bark and he stumbled. Ahead, the S.M.A.I.T.H. paused for a fraction of a second; its mighty head swivelled 180 degrees and its reflective red eyes locked onto Phil’s hunched form. The man froze beneath the terrifyingly blank gaze, but the moment was already over—the metal head completed a full rotation and the machine marched on.

“Creepy,” Phil whispered. Walt barked out a laugh.

“He was just checking you were alright. That’s his job—protect our side; completely annihilate the other.” Walter jovially nudged his mate. “Smith will make our job that much easier, eh?”

Phillip quirked an eyebrow. “Smith? Who the hell—?” His eyes flicked to the Invention and back again. “You mean that thing? The S.M.A.I.T.H.?”

“It’s pronounced ‘Smith’,” Walter corrected.

“But it’s got an ‘A’ in it.”

“Doesn’t matter. His name is Smith. The Corporal told me so.”

Phillip snorted. “‘His’ name? It’s not a ‘him’, Walt. It’s an ‘it’, and it’s creepy as balls.”

Walt shot him a slightly disapproving look. “Don’t talk about Smithy that way; you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Smithy?!” Phillip promptly exploded. “Feelings? Do you hear yourself when you speak?!” Walt opened his mouth to protest, but his partner barrelled on. “It’s a robot, Walt. A mindless machine that would shoot us in the head and not blink an eye. You shouldn’t trust it to do our jobs; you shouldn’t consider it as a person; and you definitely should not be giving it bloody nicknames!” Shoulders heaving, Phil resumed his glaring of the Invention’s vast, metallic back.

Beside him, Walt dropped his gaze to the destroyed foliage underfoot. The odd trio continued on in silence for a full minute.

Then Walt muttered sulkily, “’Course he wouldn’t blink an eye. He ain’t got no eyelids.”

“GODDAMN IT, WALT!” Phillip shouted, throwing his arms into the air.

In hindsight, he should have toned the volume down.

Out of nowhere came a sound like thunder; Walt yelped and fell to the dirt, abandoning his gun in favour of pressing his hand against his shoulder. Blood oozed immediately through his quivering fingers. “Phil,” he gasped. His eyes were wide and frightened, and Phillip was reminded of exactly how young the lad was.

The two of them lay low to the ground as the cacophony of war filled their ears. “We’re outnumbered,” Phil growled needlessly. Of course they were outnumbered; this was meant to be a routine run with the bloody S.M.A.I.T.H., not an assault; they hadn’t even known that the enemy had broken through their defensive lines.

“Phil?” Walt quavered again. His khaki shirt was turning red, too red, and Phillip shushed the man by pressing his hand over Walter’s own.

“It’ll be right, mate,” he promised, flinching as the tree behind them spat splinters under the bullets’ force.

Walt offered a weak chuckle. “Yeah, we’ll be fine.” A shaky grin. “We got Smithy.”

Phillip subconsciously clenched his fingers, and Walter shuddered uncomfortably beneath the too-tight pressure on his wound. The older man quickly relaxed his grip and rested a cool hand against his mate’s clammy forehead. “Nah, Walt. I’ll get you out of this. Trust me. We don’t need any help from some creepy hunk of metal with a stupid name and a stupid—”

Screams sliced through the sound of gunfire, and Phillip flinched. Turning slowly, he could only stare, aghast.

Just as Walter had predicted, the Invention was completely and undeniably annihilating the enemy forces. The snipers in the distance, unseeable to Phillip’s human gaze, were swiftly silenced by a blinding green laser; simultaneously, a barrage of bullets emerging from within the S.M.A.I.T.H.’s wrists was spilling into the undergrowth, eliminating their attackers with sinister accuracy.

The Semi-Mechanic Automated Invention of Territorial Hazing was, quite literally, a killing machine, and Phillip was afraid.

But as Walt’s fearful shivering eased, comforted by Smithy’s presence, Phil grudgingly felt a sliver of gratitude. So long as he could get his partner out of here, nothing else would matter.

Amidst the sounds of chaos and panic, Phil vaguely acknowledged the sound of a rifle’s single gunshot. And then he was on the ground.

“Phil,” Walter rasped. Phillip hated the sound of panic in his friend’s voice; he tried to reassure him, but the words died in his throat.

Only then did pain make itself know, blooming from his spine and spreading to every inch of his body. He groaned, but stubbornly reached out to Walter; blood pooled sickeningly across the back of his shirt.

“S’alright, Walt,” he soothed through gritted teeth. For a moment, the two men made eye contact, each willing the other to hold on. Then Walt’s eyes fluttered shut; though his chest still rose with rapid breaths, his exhaustion was winning.

And suddenly—silence.

Phil huffed a sigh as he dragged himself closer to his fallen friend and rested a hand against his chest. The reassuring thud of his heartbeat pushed against his palm.

Distantly, he heard the thud, thud, thud of long, heavy strides.

Phillip jerkily turned his head. Towering above them was the Invention; its wrists were smoking slightly and a spattering of blood canvassed its mechanic face. Those depthless crimson eyes stared into Phillip’s own, watching impassively as his life bled away.

Phil coughed, clenching his fingers into Walt’s shirt. “Come on then, you bloody thing,” he grunted. “What are you waitin’ for? Get us back to camp.” He coughed again, cringing at the wetness spreading rapidly along his back. “For God’s sake, Smaith, help us!”

With cold brutality, the Invention’s hand reached out, gripped around Phil’s wrist, and pulled. The man’s eyes widened and he screamed as his frail body was stolen away from Walt and lifted into the air. The S.M.A.I.T.H. observed him, this tiny dangling thing, with the sort of curiosity a child would offer to a mildly interesting insect. Numbness spread along Phil’s limbs and each breath grunted from his lungs. Held aloft by a single arm, he was very much aware of his vulnerability; his panic was subdued only by the darkness leaching into the corners of his vision.

A new ache stabbed through him; it took him a moment to realise he’d been dropped by the metallic beast, and now lay crumpled beside Walt.

A whirring of mechanic movement sent a spasm of fear through him; the vice-like hands returned to his vision and he whined pathetically in anticipation of the Invention’s inescapable strength.

He was ignored. With an unexpected gentleness, the massive S.M.A.I.T.H. curled its prong-like fingers beneath Walt’s fragile form and, cradling him like a small child, brought him against the safety of its steel chest.

Phil shuddered weakly as a bleak blackness wrapped around him. Despite his efforts to keep Walt in sight, his head lowered against the earth. “Walt,” he croaked. “Smaith!”

Blood was pooling and the darkness was encroaching, but there was no avoiding the cold, metallic voice that screeched through the silence.

“My name… is SMITH.”

Those red, dispassionate eyes were the last thing Phillip would ever see.

- Love The Bad Guy

The blog Stuff No One Told Me contains many brilliant comics and cartoons by Alex Noriega, who shares his interpretations and realisations about the world in hilarious (and often deep) ways.

I highly recommend you head over to his blog and check out his work.

But for now, please enjoy some of my personal favourite pictures from his collection.

- Love The Bad Guy