Just been too busy

Hello everyone that still peaks in on my blog, I'm sure most of you have moved on to people that actually post more than once a month. I apologize to my readers and friends, right now amidst moving and working full time and trying to spend time with my girlfriend plus keep our cat fed, I have no time for writing or reading at this point in time. After we move and have a small time looking for a new job I am planning on getting back to writing and blogging full tilt like before, and hopefully find a job thats a little less draining.

Short and quick never fails so I will leave you all with another sincere apology. Be back soon.

Tafe

Indie Authors: Why so Serious?

I am a sucker for that phrase because of the amazing character that uttered it. But even before the Joker made it mainstream I tried to live by those words. Don't take life too seriously, try to be laid back, take things for what they truly are and nothing more. And lately, Indie Authors are being way too serious, depressing too a degree, and not nearly optimistic enough.

It started a few weeks ago when I read a post by a fellow Indie on their blog talking about how difficult it is to be an Indie Author. The self marketing, the fan base building, the small beat downs you get when you don't sell a single book in a full week.

It is hard. I'll be the first to say it. I have twenty different websites to log in to everyday, a few times a day each, just to see what is on the forums, see if my posts have responses, talking to other authors. And most of the time it doesn't amount to much. Occasionally I'll talk to someone that is rather interesting and we trade thoughts and ideas and while it's enjoyable to get to know someone new, it is still just one person, one book sale. Sure, more could follow because of that one person but not always.

Getting on social author sites is nothing like having your book listed on the front page of amazon's kindle store or the front windows of a Barnes and Noble retail store. But it does pay off. You, Yourself, are the best way to get your book noticed.

That doesn't mean to post on twitter every half hour a link to your book with a few words, or to get on kindle boards bumping the same thread every day with a blurb and a link to your book. No. The best way to go about it is reply to other people discussions, start conversations, take interest in other Authors and Readers talking about their interests. Most of them will read your reply and follow the link in your signature or go to your profile and check out your blog. Post things that people will like and enjoy reading about, make jokes, laugh at yourself, be as real as you can be so others can relate to you.

That is something Indie Authors have the corner of the market on, we are open to talking to our readers like they are the new neighbors that just moved in, welcoming them with open arms and a cold beer, genuinely wanting to get to know them.

I LOVE talking to people that have read my works, critiquing me in ways I can't, mentioning things they may have enjoyed that I didn't think was that big of a deal, getting to know someone that enjoys books as much as I do. Sure. Not every reader will look up an Author of a book just to shoot the shit. But the ones that do are great!

Basically what I am getting at is try not to get frustrated. All of us published our first novels knowing what we were getting into. Most of us didn't quite our day job, (in my case, night job,) thinking we were going to click that publish button and become rich just like that. Personally in a few years I want writing to be my full time occupation but I know it isn't going to happen over night. I have to be patient and hone my talent while getting more and more fans. I try to be as realistic as I can be about my books, I am my own worst critic. My girlfriend and family talk about my writing more than I do. Yeah I'm proud of it but I know there is still a lot to learn. Have to work for it.

For me the bottom line is this:

In the end, writing is my passion. It's what I love to do. Telling a story for others to entertain, thrill, and with my horror, to scare the shit out of them.

So that is my weigh in on the hardships of the Indie. Do traditionally published Authors have the upper hand right now? Yes. But as artists we are the ones with the freedom and that means more to me. Plus things are in flux right now, the big shift is in motion and soon Indie's, or a form of Indie, will be the new way. So keep your chin up. Something I was always told while I played hockey and was tired and beat up waiting to play my second game of the day.

"If it was easy, Everyone would be doing it."

Interview with a cartoonist!

Her name is Alisa, and normally I try to stick to horror related stuff as much as I can but I know this girl personally and she's a kick ass cartoonist so I want to get her name out there. Follow her on Twitter!
Meet Alisseus, (the girl on the left. Pouty lip, scared shitless expression. I wish she would smile haha.) Alisseus is the star of Alissa's  newest work, where Alisseus goes on an adventure only Alissa could conjure up. But enough of me speaking for her, scroll down and get a glimpse into the mind of an amazing cartoonist!


Tafe -
Okay, let's start off with a little about you. Where did you grow up and what is a day in the life of Alissa?

Alissa -

I will be 16 in September. I've grown up mostly in Kentucky, unfortunately. I moved around a lot from Florida, California, and Kentucky until I was 3. I learned a lot in those other places. Like how to walk, and talk at the same time. My days sort of merge together because it's the same process repeated. I wake up, pee, get on the computer and draw for hours. Then if I get kicked off of the computer, I go to my room and draw some more. From time to time I have no inspiration and play video games, like Zelda, Super Smash Bros, pretty much anything Nintendo, and Monster Hunter Tri. Pretty exciting life, I know right?!

Tafe -

Haha, sounds like your living the dream.

So, how old were you when you began drawing cartoons and what were they like compared to what you do now?

Alissa -

I have been drawing for as long as I can remember. I think it's safe to say I have improved a lot, but there's still a lot of room for more improvement. For the longest time all I drew was animals. Not even realistic ones. Like... Lion King style. No one will ever let me live that down hahaha.

Tafe -

Reality is overrated anyway.

Who or What ever inspired you too begin drawing cartoons?

Alissa - I actually didn't stop with the whole "animal phase" until I started with my graphic novel/comic (I honestly do not know the difference) and from then on out I got into cartoons. I've had inspiration from mostly Spongebob and Regular Show.

Tafe - I don't really know the difference either, if someone could comment below and straighten it out for both of us, that would be great haha.

How do you begin a comic? I normally will do an outline and sometimes just just jump write in with my novels. What is your creative process?

Alissa -

I sort of do it all at once and see where it takes me. I do a little bit of thinking through at first, and then I just take off. It is better to have the plot laid down firmly first, because that's part of the things I ended up redoing with my comic. That and improving the art, but it's whatever, bro.

Tafe - Tooootally get it, dude. haha :D

Can you explain Alisseus a little bit more for everyone?

Alissa-

Alisseus is a comic/graphic novel that I started my freshman year of highschool. At first I had no intention of publishing it, much less even making it into a comic. It began as just a bunch of ideas that sort of all came together. I eventually drew the first page of Alisseus and told my friends, "It's started." Then it developed into what it is now.

It's a world that is "a cheap rip off of Earth" and it's filled with monsters, and heroes, which are like superhumans in a way, that are to defend normal humans, I guess. Hahaha. But sometimes the monsters get out of hand, and when this happens, one must take it upon themself to awaken The Hero. The Hero is a very special being who was sent to Heroitron (awesome planet name, right?) to eradicate the monsters herself. But this time around, things are different, and much worse. It is a hilarious tale about The Hero and her companions, and their quest to save the world! Yeah cliche plot!

Tafe -

I think the originality of "Heroitron" completely makes up for any cliche haha.

Now being that I'm a writer with a dark streak, is there any chance your future comics may show a dark side of you?

Alissa -
Haha! Most definitely! I have actually been contemplating some ideas for a new comic which is much darker than Alisseus, but I don't think I want to reveal anything as of yet. So stay tuned!

Tafe - 

I'll  be waiting for that one!

Do you have plans for what you will work on after Alisseus?

Alissa - 

I will say that there's going to be a sequel to Alisseus that I have actually already started. I'm not sure where I'm going with the plot now so that's something I need to set down before I work on it further. I'll crack down on it a lot after I fully finish with Alisseus, so it'll be a while probably.

Tafe - 

That's awesome! Something to look forward too.

Now I have to ask, have you ever watched a horror movie that kept you up all night? if yes then what was it?

Alissa -

I have not haha. I'm not a fan of horror movies. I saw I am Legend in theatres (and keep in mind I was in like 6th grade at the time) and I still have nightmares about it even though it doesn't scare me anymore. Now you will probably understand why I don't watch horror movies hahaha.

Tafe -

I still have nightmares about "IT" so its no big deal. and if you don't know what move that is, it's basically the soul purpose for a lot of peoples clown fears haha.

What is your drawing space like?

Alissa -

A computer desk with pistachio shells all over the floor and just a cluttered mess of paper. And it's not my paper. But it is my pistachio mess.

Tafe -

Laughed my ass off when I read that! Enough said.

Besides drawing, do you have any other artistic abilities?

Alissa -

I don't think so. I can do portraits pretty well, but that goes under drawing I suppose. I am terrible at realism and painting, and avoid doing so at all costs.. Which is hard if you're taking Drawing&Painting 2 at school hahaha. I woud love to be good at digital painting because it just looks phenomenal.

Tafe -

And for a final question, do you live in a shit ass town and are soon moving to a kick ass one? if yes, then you suckkkkk. (Now for this question I totally threw it in because I knew you were moving soon and was joking. But the last line needs to be seen.)

Alissa - I do live in a crappy, boring town where there is nothing to do. And I am hopefully moving to San Diego soon. But there's been some complications with that, and I don't know what's going to happen. Basically, if I don't get out of this town, I will not be able to do the things I want to do for a career. So if you all could keep me in your thoughts and prayers that would be very kind of you!
 Thanks so much for le interview!

Tafe -

You are very welcome!

Below is some of Alissa's works, if you want more go to Deviant Art or for more quirkiness go to her Tumblr. Who knows, maybe YOUR kids will be watching Alisseus on the spongebob time slot in a few years! :)

Thanks for reading everyone,

TAFE.

Sneak Peak!

Here is just a small teaser of my work in progress ZAMN(Zombies Ate My neighbors. It's a working title.
Saturday I will post the rest of the chapter which is a lot more exciting I promise. Just wanted to let everyone know that I am actually doing more than raving on twitter about MisFits and complaining about having to watch Toddlers and tiaras with my girlfriend haha. Now it's just an edited 1st draft so it is subject to change but probably not much. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

The ceiling spins above me as my office chair spins beneath me. My hands above my head tossing up a crumpled piece of paper, catching it, tossing it up again, catching it, my chair rotating around and around.

My reflection blinks in and out of the blank computer screen on my desk. Forty-three this year, I think to myself. Still playing with paper wads. On the verge of having no job. Kids can’t stand me. And my wife… Gone.

“Having fun?” A familiar voice asks. “Loads.” I reply, spinning one more time and tossing my makeshift ball at my co-worker and friend who is standing just inside the door to my office.

“Even in the midst of layoffs I can still find you goofing off.” Arthur says to me, chuckling slightly.

I stare at him for a moment, pretty big guy, bigger than me at least. 6’ 2” or so, 6’ 3” at the most, thin but strong. Still has a full head of hair. Wish I could say the same, been slowly but surely losing mine for a year or two now. Getting old does actually suck.

“You ready for lunch, Arthur?” I ask flatly, pretending to be mad. “If not then give me my ball, I am hard at work.” I tell him, a wry smile slowly creeping across my face. Arthur throws the crumpled paper at me and laughs, “Yeah, I’m ready. You are driving today though, my car is in the shop.”

I nod an okay to Arthur and he walks out of my office. Standing up from my office chair, I pat my slacks to make sure my keys are on me and not in my desk. Front pockets, back pockets, front pockets once again. Where the hell are they?

My question is answered as I glance at my desk. Sitting on the keyboard of my computer is my keys. I pick them up, pressing down the space bar as I do, the screen lights up from its sleep. My browser pops on and my home screen loads, a snippet of an article about a run down actress getting a DUI, my stock charts that look like a diagram for a plane crash, some advertisement for male enhancement, and local news clips.

“Come on Daryl. Much longer and that cute young girl that works at the taco shack will be too busy to talk to you.” Arthur calls from outside my office. “Just jealous she doesn’t offer you free salsa, Art!” I call out not taking my eyes off of the screen. One of the local news articles has caught my eye. “Outbreak of Violence.” It reads: “Man goes on a rampage at a high end hotel in the business district of San Jose, killing five and wounding two.” Shit. That’s awful. World of crazy fucks out there…

I close the laptop and grab my jacket off the back of my office chair, putting my arms through the sleeves.

Arthur pokes his head in and looks me up and down, “Yes, Daryl. You look cute enough to be my driver, now lets go.” I can’t help but smile, “Do I need to go tell HR that my boss is sexually harassing me?” “Probably.” Arthur says, smiling. “Now are you coming or not?” “Yeah, I’m coming.” I walk to the door, close it and lock it with my keys. The article about the killer in the hotel swirling around the back of my mind.

I turn away from the door and the empty floor is silent. “Kind of eerie in here now.” Arthur says, seeing the same thing I am. What used to be a large floor full of desks, cubicles, big Xerox machines, bustling assistants, lethargic lower level accountants, young messengers, and mail boys, is now the ghost town equivalent. Only a handful of the cubicle accountants are left, them and their cubicles jammed into the far corner. No more assistants answering phones outside offices like mine. Hell, most of the offices are empty anyway. Can’t be more than a handful of people still working on this floor. All vacated cubicles are piled in a corner next to the stairs waiting for someone to get rid of them. Who that someone is I haven’t a clue.

“Yeah,” I say indifferently as we walk across the office wasteland to the hallway that leads to the reception desk and the elevators.

“Did you hear about the guy that went crazy and killed several people last night?” I ask Arthur as we walk across the floor. “Yeah. Was pretty sick. I saw some photos of the victims and they were mutilated.” Arthur says, lowering his voice as he continues, “He ate them. Seriously! He fucking ATE them. Wasn’t far from here either. It was that nice hotel on First Street and-“ Arthur stops as we come out of the short hallway and into the reception area, his eyes set on the young woman that works the reception counter.

“Hey Kristin.” Arthur says, she’s probably in her early twenties, blonde hair, still enjoys life. “Hi Art,” Kristin says, her eyes big with a smile to match, “Hi, Daryl. Headed out to lunch?” Kristin says in her sweet voice that could light up a room. Pretty sure Arthur hired her for that voice alone.

 “Yeah, want us to bring you back anything?” Arthur asks, his business smile on his face. “Would you please? I’m stuck here waiting for the mail guy, he hasn’t shown up today and I'm starving.” Arthur puts his arms on the reception counter and leans forward, “What would you like? Anything you want.” Kristin giggles and I look away towards the elevators, trying not to laugh.

It has never gone farther than flirting, Arthur has talked about taking her out to dinner but never went thought with it. Harmless I guess.

I walk to the elevators to give Arthur his space. Pressing the elevator call button, watching the down elevator slowly make it's slow decline from the top floor to our floor, the lights lighting up one after the other, it is stopping at almost every floor. Shit. Good ol’ lunch rush.

I turn around to watch Arthur, saying his goodbyes to Kristin with a wave and walking over to me with his eyes on the elevator behind me. Kristin watches as he walks away, smiling ear to ear like a schoolgirl.

“Looks like we might get lucky today?” Arthur says, smiling just like Kristin.

“From the look on her face I think you just might.” I reply with a wink, nudging my head in Kristin’s direction. “We are just friends, man. You know that.” Arthur says quietly, not too much assurance in his voice.

“Uh huh.” I grunt, turning around to watch the elevator, it’s coming right up to our floor. Sweet.

The lights indicating what floor the elevator is currently on flash one by one, 21, 22, 23 . . . It stops and the bell rings. I smile at Arthur, both of us relishing in this small office building victory. The up elevator only takes people from the lobby to their desired floor then goes right back down to retrieve more passengers. Might actually make it to see the cute girl at the taco shack after all.

The doors slide open and I turn towards Arthur, “After you, fine sir.” I say, motioning my arms towards the open elevator doors. But Arthur doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t add to my joke. Doesn’t even blink. He just looks into the elevator, absolutely horrified.

I follow Arthur’s gaze quickly, not even slightly prepared for what I see. Oh fuck. So horrified but unable to look away.

Inside the elevator crouches the mail boy, feasting upon a woman in a shredded, blood stained business suit. His head shaking violently as his teeth tear into her chest just above below her collar bone, her eyes jarring up and down as they stare lifelessly up at the ceiling of the elevator.

Please leave comments bellow with input or questions!

Indie and Proud: The Horror point of view

I write Horror, it's what I have always enjoyed watching, reading about, and listening too. You know all those creepy ass sounds that people play in haunted houses around Halloween, I enjoy those too. Of course I hated anything scary when i was younger, (having nightmares terrified me.) But my dad persisted to make me watch movies like "IT" "Dawn of the Dead" "The Silence of the Lambs" "Friday the 13" "Nightmare on Elm Street" "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" Just to name a few, (pretty sure my prepubescent brain blocked out a lot of them.) Not to mention SyFy channel being on all day every day with "Tales from the Darkside" and a show I can't remember the name of that was basically mini horror stories. Now I watch all of that and laugh, somehow my nightmares don't scare me anymore cuz they will make for great novels!

I apologize, gotten off topic. . . my point is, the movies I grew up on were graphic and at times a little "sick." So I believe in writing the same way, no pulled punches, nothing left out, realistic as can be with all of the blood and graphic detail of how that blood spewed from someone's body. (Little graphic? good!)
Now how could I do that with a big name publisher? I would have to edit my shit till the last bloody massacre was no more than a paper cut. Over dramatic, yes. But still. Every Author has their own style of writing and their own story to tell in each and every one of their works. I don't need someone to tell me how to write MY story. And thats how I wrote, Inner Horror. May be a little rough around the edges at times but I told the story how I wanted to tell it.

Now there is plenty of reasons I am an Indie Author, problem with authority, problem with selling my rights to a publisher, (feels like selling my soul) But being able to write how I want to write is most important to me. I am sure plenty of fellow Authors feel the same way and are just as proud of their works as I am of mine, who needs someone telling us it is too graphic or inappropriate in one way or another.

I've said what I wanted to say, It's just my personal opinion :)
Stay Indie my friends and if your a reader, keep it Indie!

My Friend Tyr Kieran

Tyr Kieran, a fellow horror author that I stumbled upon recently and began talking to has a cool way of getting his readers involved in the creative process of writing a novel from the title of the novel all the way to the final paragraph. He has self dubbed it his, "Interactive Fiction Project." I thought the concept was pretty cool mainly because it puts the readers and the author on the same page. Literally.
Check it out for yourself at http://www.tyrkieran.com/blog/
And here is a small peak at his current Novel, Cale's Story. Click on the title to see the rest!

Grass surrounding the motionless body swayed in the breeze—whispering a soothing tune like soft rain. The tall blades tickled his face and he began to stir. Slowly opening his eyes, the boy blinked up at the stars. They seemed to wink back, twinkling in and out of patchwork clouds. He smiled and moved to sit up, but a jolt of pain webbed through his skull and thrust him back down. The boy cried out—as much from surprise as agony. He clutched at the back of his head, but he felt no blood, no wound, and the pain was already receding. Only a faint ache lingered as if an old injury tried to relive its glory days and failed. ‘I don’t remember getting hurt,’ he thought.

The boy’s mind whirled. He tried to remember the previous day or the day before, but nothing solidified in the dark void of his memory. He couldn’t remember his parents, his life… his name. Panic swelled in his chest, swelling up into his throat with a burning lump of needles. “I can’t remember anything!” He sat up fast, this time either without pain or without noticing, and searched his surroundings through frantic, brown eyes. He was in a field of unkempt grass. Distant mountains lay like sleeping monsters in the night shadows. A natural tree line fenced in the meadow on all sides, as if keeping the brooding mountains at bay. Nothing about this place seemed familiar. “Where am I?”

‘I can’t remember...’ With the clean slate covering his mind, that thought repeated over and over, each time carrying more desperation. “What happened?” Tears formed and the boy dropped his head into his hands. Something cold pressed against his face, interrupting his grief. He pulled back to looked at the object. A square pendant with rounded corners rested against his palm, its chain still around his neck. It was nearly the size of a half dollar, but carried no markings of any kind, like a solid hunk of stainless steel. “Great.” He sighed and felt the sorrow begin to creep back. He turned it over again, hoping he missed some kind of engraving. But there was nothing—completely smooth.

Then, he paused, realizing a face was staring back. The reflection was faint in the moonlight, but undistorted. The boy stared for a long moment, looking at himself as if it was the first time. Lean adolescent features framed eyes large with curiosity and wonder. His hair was mussed but still managed to resemble a slightly-curled shag that fell around his prominent ears. The boy scrunched up his nose and squinted his eyes to make sure the reflection was really his. And, when it mimicked his movement perfectly, he sighed and looked away; he didn’t like his unfamiliarity with his own face. Tears developed again and he let the medallion fall from his fingers.

As it fell a tiny spark of light appeared at one corner and spread slowly across the metal surface. He picked it back up and watched in awe as the medallion illuminated. Subtle blues brightened into vivid purple. The boy, working to swallow in a dry throat, tilted his head in scrutiny and noticed a glow at the edges of his vision. He lifted his gaze to see the horizon in similar throes of purple and pinks. His expression dropped. With slumped shoulders, he tucked the necklace behind his shirt and set to watch the coming dawn.

Brilliant orange pushed back the purple edge of night. The boy sat, scratching the random itch of morning bugs, and waiting for the rebirth of daylight. Cough. He didn’t see the insects buzzing around, but they had to be there; they were really starting to annoy. He twitched and smacked his arms yet, no mini corpses squashed at the scene. “Go away hungry bugs!” he coughed from a dry mouth, still unable to catch them mid-bite or in humming flights past his head. “Ow!” The boy looked down at the stinging on his arms. His skin showed irritation in wide spread blotches. Frantically, he scratched his arms and the itching flourished into a consistent burn. The red rash spread like flame across a July parched forest.

Colors of nature slowly bloomed around him as field brightened like a Polaroid in development. A golden halo glowed along the mountain edges for a moment before dawn detonated. The sun emerged over the horizon in an explosion of day. Beams of direct sunlight blasted him in searing lasers. “It huuuurts!” The boy whimpered. His arms, face, and neck were completely raw with swelling irritation. He had to scratch, but it hurt too much. “What’s happening?” His skin started to steam, as if it were boiling away. He screamed. Blisters formed and popped. Skin charred and split. Pain sent his mind spiraling inward, falling into the welcoming abyss—the cool darkness of unconsciousness. Muffled shouts traveled down to him and the distant light was abruptly extinguished.

Inner Horror Teaser!

Here is the first chapter of my book, Inner Horror available for just 99 cents! Requested by my friends at Effen Entertainment, here ya go guys. 

  

CHAPTER 1.

Finally home, I think as I walk into my bedroom. “Long day.” I sigh, plopping myself down on my bed. The soft mattress welcoming me. All stress and tension gives way as I get comfortable, exhaustion beginning to set in.

I pull out my phone to check the time and find a new text from my girlfriend. “I love carnivals! I had so much fun with you. See you in the morning, babe! Can’t wait! Amy.” I smile at how she signs it with her name at the end. I give the text one more read as lay out on my bed, the warmth of the sheets beckoning me to crawl beneath them and I do.

Still in my clothes, with my phone on my chest open to Amy’s text, I close my eyes and feel sleep taking hold.

My eyes slowly open just a fraction. Taking an unfocused look around my room before shutting them tight . . . I jolt awake, sweating and panting for no reason. Taking in short heavy pants of breath. What is going on?

I sit up in my bed quickly, my head moving around the room in a panic, scanning for whatever woke me. I see light shining through the window in the corner, the moons glow dimly lights the room revealing shadows all around.

My eyes adjust after a few moments, allowing me to put details to the shadows. Looking up, I see the ceiling, coated in the same old dark blue paint a modern brown ceiling fan smack in the middle.

I dangle my legs over the side of my bed and bring my hands to my face, slowly rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My unsettled nerves and sense of paranoia nearly gone completely.

Before laying back down I take a look around the room, seeing the flat screen TV mounted inside a cherry cabinet against the far wall, the matching table sitting in the corner the corner where it always is, the moonlight coming in from the window above it, making the tabletops high gloss finish glisten.

Okay. I tell myself, taking in a long slow breath, my nerves now all gone allowing sleepiness to settle in its place. I’m awake. Good. I let out my long breath and spin myself back into bed. Sleep. Sleep is good.

I lay my head back down against my pillows, my eyes half closed staring up at the ceiling fan. Something doesn’t look right. My eyes shoot open, straining to focus. Are those scratches? Long deep gouges glow on the blades of the ceiling fan. Those weren’t there a moment ago!

I’m Asleep! As the thought plays through my head, black fingers move over my face, their nails cutting into me like razors as they glide down my forehead, over my eyes, stopping as the tips of the sharp nails dig into my neck.

Not Him. It can’t be Him! I grimace in pain but don’t move. Too scared to move. The sound of tearing fabric fills my ears, and then I'm falling. Falling into blackness, into nothing. No sound of wind rushing past me, to black to see anything around me. Nothing reminding me I am even alive but the immense pain of the cuts that travel down my face and the smell of my own fresh blood stinging my nose.

Out of nowhere His legs wrap around my waist and His horrid laugh rings in my ears. “I’m Back!” He whispers to me, His voice raspy with a sick amused tone to it, like the devil telling a joke before he rips out your soul.

His claws cover my face once again, ripping the flesh open from the top of my head to the bottom of my chin. Excruciating pain stings at my face as my hot blood begins to pour from the wound. But He isn’t done yet. He pulls back the skin from my skull and rips it off in one powerful tug. He then leaps from my back as I scream out in agony, finally finding my voice.

Without any warning, I hit the ground. No give, no burrowing into the ground from the impact. Like I fly hitting the windshield of a speeding car I splatter. Every bone in my body shatters from the impact, my blood pours over the ground as it seeps from hundreds of wounds all over my body. I twitch as I try to move, choke as I try to breath, whimper as I try to scream.

Flat on my back, I lay still. Unable to move or scream, pain shooting throughout my whole body, helpless, utterly helpless. With my thoughts I begin to mend myself, taking in breaths as my broken ribs slide out of my lungs, the puncture holes healing as the bones leave. Next I numb the unbearable pain, flushing my body with an icy coldness that dulls the pain to excruciating.

While my body heals my mind begins to race, my eyes begin to wander, and my mending body gains enough feeling to move just slightly.

It doesn’t take much to figure out what I am. In His room. The cage I made for Him so many nights ago. How the hell did He get out? Where is He now?

Fear prompts me to stand, but I don’t get very far. My legs still broken in to many places to support even a tenth of my weight.

With a focus of a thought one of my legs mends, and then the other, the cracking of the bones echoing off the walls in the small room I find myself in.

I can do this. This is my dream. I can do anything here. I try to stand again, moving slowly to my knees and then to my feet, numbing the pain with my thoughts as the still mending bones begin to splinter as I try to heal them.

Now on my feet I realize I am leaning to the left. With each movement my upper body flops from side to side. My spine must be in shreds.

I focus my thoughts on my back being healed, how it looks and feels when it’s healed, and the alignment of the vertebrae. The noise of my spine cracking makes me cringe, and the pain drives me back to my knees. but it’s healed. I willed it and it’s done.

I get back to my feet and look around the room; it looks nothing like how I left it. An old boxy black and white TV is sitting on a wooden chair in the corner, the screen blaring static snow, casting shadows around the room for me to see.

In the corner sits an old wooden table, rotted and run down, two of the legs missing, making it lean awkwardly. The room has no windows at all. Smoothed concrete walls that seem to be weeping blood line the room, small chunks are gouged out as if someone with razor sharp talons has been trying to claw their way out. With nothing more to inspect I look up, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

From the ceiling hangs human faces, hooks poked through each of their foreheads. All of them look familiar but I recognize none of them. I look from face to face, scared out of my mind but trying to stay calm. Where is He?

“Do you like my collection?” a raspy voice asks from across the room and I turn to find it. Sitting on a stained mattress in the corner is Lancifer, the skin of my face wrapped around his head like a mask.

He hops from his seat on the bed, quickly moving towards me, bobbing his head left and right taunting me with his new face. My face.

After a moment, Lancifer stops bobbing his head around and lets loose a maniacal giggle, his voice cracking first as if he had been holding in this entire time.

“Lancifer.” I say, appalled by the bloody piece of flesh that used to be my face. “Didn’t miss me?” He cackles, parading around me once again with my face pulled tight against his own.

“You know, your face is my favorite!” He says, putting his hands up gestering to his collection hanging from hooks on the ceiling. “Do you like them, Lance? Do you know who they are?” Lancifer asks, tossing my face at me and grabbing another mask from the ceiling. The new mask looks like a man I’ve seen before but can't place where.

I catch my face and stare at it, a sick feeling rising from my stomach. I hold the skin to my face and imagine it healed. I grit my teeth as my face sows itself back onto my skull.

Lancifer watches as I heal myself an amused grin across his face, his blood stained teeth looking vicious in the dim light. “So? Have you figured it out?” Lancifer asks. I look at him, frustration clear on my face. “I don’t give a shit. How did you fucking get out of your cage?”

Lancifer’s grin fades, his lips slowly going flat. And then he rushes me. grabbing me by the throat before I can even think to move. He drives me back up against the blood-splattered wall, his claw piercing the flesh of my neck. My feet dangle as he stares at me, rage in his eyes.

“It will be revealed in time.” Lancifer growls. I try to struggle but his grip holds firm. Holy shit he’s strong. He puts me down and begins to pace the room, resuming his rant about his collection.

“They are everyone we have ever met. People we have seen and forgotten as soon our eyes saw them, their faces doomed to float around our subconscious forever. These are just my favorites.” Lancifer says, his voice playful but then his demeanor turns cold, his eyes lock onto my own. “Not much else to do while your locked in a cage.” Burning hatred in his quite whisper. Time for me to go.

I walk around the room, looking at the smeared blood that covers the walls, taking just a second to find what I am looking for. I run my hand down one of the walls, slicing right into the smoothed concrete like cutting through a curtain.

Without a word, I step through the now open wall, getting only half way through the slit before a claw grabs me from behind. Closing down on my shoulder, the tips of his claws embedding themselves in my flesh right down to the bone. I jerk forward to escape his grasp and instantly blood pours from my shoulder where a chunk of flesh used to be.

Blood pours from the wound as I continue my way through the slit in the wall, trickling down my arm and dropping into the void beneath my feet.

When I come out on the other side it’s almost pitch black, just a little light shines through the window. I know where I am. I created this place, my dream house, just after I put Lancifer in his cage. I am in my room. And that light shining through the window is new. I walk to my door and open it, hardly phased at what has happened to my home.

I slowly make my way down the stairs, decrepit and rotten, broken in every place you can see. Looking nothing like how I left them. Rotted, splintered beams dangle from the ceiling, the walls looks as if at any moment they will fall in around me, dragging the whole house down with them. what the fuck is going on?

Quickly I move down the rest of the steps, the last one caving in beneath my foot. I don’t need to look at the rest of the house to know it is just as rundown.

At the bottom of the steps, the front door stands directly in front of me, dark wooden French doors, once my proudest feature of the home. Now as broken down as the rest of the house, with a note nailed to it.

I snatch the poster from the door and read it: “Welcome to your new home, Lance.“ slash marks gouge the paper, beneath the words written in fresh blood. So fresh the words bleed as I read it. It’s my blood. He’s out there. Waiting for me. Lancifer’s laugh echoes through the empty house, a nightmare in itself that torments me and taunts me at the same time.

I open the door and stagger through, mouth agape at the sight before me.