“Now its time for so long...”
It's time, peeps. It's been a long time coming, and I've put it off for as long as I could. But it's time.
Time to say goodbye to Prose.
It's been fun. Truly. But I never focused on building my presence on here as much as I should have or would have liked to. If I was already an established writer, I'd like to think that things would've been different. I would've loved to do challenges on here every week, or a post a day. But I can't.
For a long time, I had this notion that anything I wrote needed to be something that I could a) market and b) showcase. That was the intent of this page originally: to be a portfolio of sorts for my writing. As my writing journey progressed, my goals changed. I moved away from prose, thinking that the problem was my weak writing, and hoping I would be able to find better, or indeed any success, in other mediums I tried screenwriting and I tried comics. The fact you don't know my name from Adam should give you a hint as to how my forays into those mediums turned out.
Disappointed and tired, I put the pen/laptop down for a bit. Did some good ol fashioned soul searching. And at the end of it all, surprise surprise, I found myself back at the beginning.
The deep desire to see my name on the cover of a novel I wrote in a store shelf somewhere...That desire never left me. So I jumped on the wagon again.
Its been an uphill battle, writing a prose novel again after five years (I've written plenty of other things in the meantime, but not a novel). I had forgotten how daunting of a task it truly is. That last novel, I finished in a month. Day in, day out, I wrote like my life depended on it. I had quit a perfectly good job, and I doubted my decision and my skill with every word I typed and every paragraph I struggled to complete. I was hungry then. I wanted my name in lights, so to speak. But more than that, I had a hole in my heart that I desperately wanted to fill. I thought success as a writer would fill that void in me.
Now, five years older, with a handful of more wrinkles and more than a handful of grey hairs on my head, I no longer have that void. I'm no longer as hungry as I was then. But that yearning, that longing, is still there.
And so, though life gets in the way, I continue to go up that hill. Sadly, that trek doesn't leave much room for Prose anymore.
Thus, we come to the end of my journey on this weird little site. To everyone who ever took time out of their day to read my words, from the bottom of my heart...Thank You. I'll be tagging most of you, just to make sure you all see this post. But come the end of the month, this site will self-destruct.
Though I don't use it much, and Lord only knows how much longer it will stay afloat, I do have a twitter, if you'd like to follow that (https://twitter.com/E_R_RBane)
To all who remain here, I wish you the very best of luck on your journeys. I know its tough, but keep going. No matter how many times you stumble or fall, get back up. Doesn't matter how long you stay down, and believe me they'll be plenty of times when you'll want to stay there a long time, just make sure you get back up. Always.
May I speak to your Manager?
"He was supposed to be dead!"
The pimply-faced boy recoils in fear.
"Would you take him back, please? I can't have a live human. Not so close to the full moon."
"Yes, sir. So sorry, sir," squeaks the pimply-faced waiter. With a rather audible grunt, he lifts the human, all oily and dressed like a Thanksgiving turkey, over his shoulder and makes his way to the kitchen.
The "Homme Brulant" is a difficult dish for any chef to master. You have to pay close attention to the hair tips and the smell of the flesh. But whatever chef they have in the kitchen tonight didn't even bother to kill the man before cooking him. I am a patient werewolf, but even I have limits.
While I wait, a mediocre blood wine, of 1987 vintage with a low iron count, oozes down my throat. It's fine for the price I suppose, but I expect a little more from a 3-Crufix restaurant. I pick at the fried batwings, soggy and bland. Did they just dip them in the oil and microwave them afterwards? Ridiculous.
I'll say this for the Crone's Nest, what it lacks in culinary finesse, it more than makes up for in artisinal charm. Everything is handmade, or rather, made to look handmade: from the unicorn horn lamps to the Yeti fur curtains, no expense has been spared. Wish I could say the same for the food.
My glass is empty and the bottle is half full. I stare a little too long at the crimson liquid and I can feel the effects of it coursing through my veins. Couple that with the melancholy violin of the house band, and I find myself becoming a little nostalgic. At 260, I'm not exactly a young pup anymore. Not that you could, of course. My skin, white as porcelain and just as flawless, bares no hint of my true age. I've allowed a slight streak of gray to otherwise grace my raven locks; it adds a hint of wisdom and mystique, you see. My eyes, still the vibrant emeralds of my youth, are somewhat dulled by the glasses I am forced to wear. Who ever heard of a wolf with glasses? I detest them. But Dr. Alucard insists. I can never resist that---
The scent is immediately sobering. I turn to face the waiter, startling him in the process.
"H-here you are, sir. I hope he's more to your liking."
Smoke still lingers on the charred flesh. I can taste the saffron and lime...
I don't wait for him to struggle with the platter. Effortlessly, I grab the platter from the cart and place it before me. It's been ages since I've had a human. What little embarrassment I have about drooling all over the mantle is gone as I bite into a supple thigh.
It is a miracle I spit out the rancid fat unto the table and not the waiter's face.
"Gangrene. The man had gangrene and your stupid chef didn't even notice! Where is your manager, boy?"
I can almost hear his knees rattle.
"S-She is in the kitchen, sir. Would you---?"
"Yes, I would. Fetch her. Now."
All eyes are on me as the boy flees to the kitchen. My hair stands on end, my fangs protude from my fat-soaked lips. I might just kill someone tonight.
I spot the boy and the manager. They are in a heated conversation which I easily eavesdrop on.
"Again?! But, I don't understand it."
"Don't understand what, ma'am?"
"He's supposed to be DEAD!"