Free Kindle Book Until April 19, 2018

Hey, folks.

I wanted to tell you about a free Kindle book deal that you can get just by clicking this link.

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What’s the book? It’s the dark comedy, The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal. My social and therapeutic experiment I did a wee while back. It’s the novella about Bob and his suicidal tendencies, and the results of each death that plaguing a much bigger picture. The ups and downs is struggling with depression (so bad that it can cripple a person) and also the portrayal of “social suicide,” where you kill knowingly kill your social life because you’re so fed up with your fellow human beings.

There’s murder, there’s wit, and probably some parts that will make your sides (or pants) split. Be amazed. Be disappointed? Be ENTERTAINED! With Bob and all his thoughts.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy a bit of downtime with Bob.

Until next time,

RJM

 

P.S. I’m working on a new short story… possible novella involving the undead (yay!) and am fabricating the new season of The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God. I’m excited to share them all with you. /BearSlap to the face. I’m out!

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So, What’s Up?

Hey, folks.

So, I am a bit behind on projects. It happens. Some technical stuff was (still is) being a hassle. I am doing a project with refinishing a rocking chair for my wife. I am putting together a Johnny Nightwalker bit, wrote out a completely new outline for The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God, and also being a full-time dad. In short, I am busy and I have no wings. Oh, we also got a dog and have dubbed him Gantz. Yes, much like the anime Gantz.

I am aiming to start releasing the new Bear God posts (in between my World of Warcraft Alpha testing and Raid streams) and when I get some time in. I really need to just plan out a better schedule and go with that. Though, getting sleep like a regular person is lovely.

Anyway, I wanted to say that I ain’t dead yet. I got fuel to burn and words (and stories) to do. So thanks for sticking with me (if you are or not; whichever the case may be… *sniff*)

Oh, and also Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle comes back June 21! Use coupon code PREORDER2018 for 10% off.

OH! And the Kindle version of The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal is free April 15—19th. 😉

—It’s also free via KDP

Until next time!

RJM

In Other News…

Hey, folks.

I am still adding stuff and being Frankenstein here with the site. Some things might be broken, some might not be. Headaches and alcohol would typically be present, but since I gave up on mass-induced alcoholism, it’s just headaches. Hoo.

The store still has some work to do, and the transfer is being quite difficult…but that’s alright. Thinks will get worked out and it’ll be behind me.

There’s Alpha testing for (WoW) World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth to be done, and a mythic plus (M+) dungeon that needs to be done tonight. I also am compiling some other things to get up on the site and store.

Another excerpt of Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle will also be making a stop, just to annoy you all and maybe increase its preorder count by one. 😉 That will be posted Soon™.

Lastly, tomorrow I am getting mini-pies and they’ll be delicious. Mmm.

Until next time,

RJM

The Return of a God-King: Season Two of the Bear God is Coming

Originally posted on Abnormal Publishing.


Darkness. All that there is—is darkness.

Then a pale light emanates above something—or someone.

The camera comes close and reveals the silhouette of a figure. A sexy figure—in armor and fur.

The camera then pans up and reveals the sexy beast to be The Bear God wearing night vision goggles. He pulls them off and gives a toothy grin.

“Kept you waiting, huh?”

“CUE THE LOGO!”

The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God Logo

Some announcer guy pops in randomly.

The Bear God sighs. “Woah, woah, spoilers man. Come on now.”

“Sorry, Bear God. I’ll let you *sniff sniff* take over.” Random announcer guy runs away sobbing uncontrollably knocking things over like a noob.

“Can someone go check on Ray? I think he’s butthurt for no reason…again. Right, let’s get on with the show.”

A fire erupts in the fireplace, lighting the room in a soft, warm glow. The Bear God puts on a silk pajama robe and sits down in a luxurious recliner, and sips on an alcoholic drink or whatever the hell it is he’s drinking.

“I know what you’re thinking, ‘Sin, where have you been all this time?’ Well, folks, I am here to tell you that I’ve been busy. Busy doing other things in life and well, living in itself is pretty damn busy. So, sure, we got to Episode Two of The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God and things kind of…dropped off.”

“Like a dingleberry. You’re known for those.”

“As I was saying, some books were being written, a seasonal outline made, and well, the old man upstairs apparently has a lot of things he wants to get done.”

“Like your mom!”

“Ooh, so cool, edgy and new. You really struck a nerve with me there, Maker.”

The Bear God rolls his eyes.

“Do you think normal folks can differentiate between knowing when someone is talking, compared to the script-like description that is also italicised?”

“One can only hope. I mean, it’s been this way for quite awhile. Plus they’d know it’s one of our styles if they bothered to read anything by us, or picked up The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal, The Lodestone Files: Book One and TwoLilah’s Guide to Hoyle (due out June 21; it’s getting touched by another publisher. We’ll see how that turns out.). Anyway, so we’ve had this…break…I guess. However, we’re looking to get back into the game and swing of things. At most, we’ll probably be a once a week kind of deal. We have the Alpha to test out and well when it comes to that sort of thing we’re pretty adamant about criticising. Granted, things may or may not get through when it comes to feedback, but that’s not my boat.”

The Bear God drinks his drink and fills another magically out of thin air. MAGIC-AH!

“We’ve come a long way in a short amount of time. While we weren’t gone indefinitely, we know there is a long, long cliffhanger. Granted, it’s not as overdramatic as some other works, a lot of filler has been cut, and the action/story was allowed to keep on chugging that bottle of Oxycontin. Really, folks, it’s going to be a great show. We are going to have new forms, like this super roid rage form I get, with my armor on it and shit. Ah, man.

The Bear God squirms in his chair and tries to not moan uncontrollably.

“Hoo, I feel sorry for whoever is going to have to clean that up. Ah, back to business at hand. What is the purpose of this segment? Well, for one it’s to say I AM BACK, BABY! I am also bringing the whole gang with me. Two, it’s also to say that I can do whatever the hell I want when it comes to making adventures happen. Three, we’re still working on artwork, something to really showcase my beauty. It’s pretty awful when you went from being able to draw for many years…to a long time of not drawing. The pain…and the stick figures. Ugh. Pitiful.

“Agreed.”

“Yeah, you should. You are just a horrible person, and you do horrible things, and you should feel ashamed of yourself.”

“I have zero fucks to give. What about you?”

“And that’s why I love ya. Platonically. Is it wrong to love yourself?”

“We’re sexy, and we know it.”

“Damn right. So there you have it, folks. We will be getting back on with Season Two, maybe a movie, some platonic 69 photoshoots, and then it’s off to Season Three. We will also be working on getting the stream up so we can show off our bits and get flagged for pornography and laugh about it in the office. I advise you to stay tuned and bring some lube, and maybe a towel.”

“You’ll get hit in the neck with a hacky sack, folks. Deathticles. Fear them.”

“Exactly. See you all soon!”

The room fades to black, save for the fire still burning in the background.

“Why did I get a minor role in this? Like usually I do all the talking, and then you do the minor quips. This one felt dumb as fuck.”

“Ain’t my fucking problem—sounds like a you problem.”

“You’re a cunt. Grade AAA.”

“Yeah, we know.”

“See you in the shower.”

Random announcer guy comes in and does a surprise narration. “STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS, NEXT TIME ON WASTELAND BEAR GOD XYZ! Oh, we’re still recording? TURN THIS SHIT OFF ALREADY!”


Last time on The Diary of the Wasteland Bear God: End of Season One [Part One] and Part Two.

Season Two Premiere Episode One Part One and Part Two.

Work in Progress

Hey, folks.

Work is still being done to the A.B.Normal Publishing site, but it’s coming along. New features will be implemented, new content, and more Bear God! It’s all coming (and then some; like some flame bukkake…GET OUT OF THE MIDDLE!) — it’s a WoW thing, at the boss encounter “Coven.”

Anyway, in other news, I have a new dog. He’s a good lapdog, and by lapdog, I mean I have no lap anymore. He’s no Vitas, but he is apart of our family now. He’ll make a good addition.

Be sure to stick around for new stuff! Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle comes out June 21, 2018! Be sure to use coupon code: PREORDER2018 for 10% off.

Until next time!

RJM

Ten Years: A Poem

Ten Years [For Zelda]

By Robert J. S. T. McCartney


One

I thought my life was done; when you and your mom almost died.

Two

Darkness took over and nearly ruined my life. I was very blue.

Three

I realized that nothing was going to change by sitting on my hands. I made a change and started to get better. You grew up so much since the last year; I knew the kind of kid you’d grow to be.

Four

I watched you grow and saw how you made people smile. Your laughs were contagious, and soon you’d start school. I still struggled with myself and fought with my mind. The guilt I harbored was massive and cut me to the core.

Five

Your sassiness was profound. You were the perfect blend of your mother and I. Without a doubt, you and your mother brought me joy. I was still wading through the darkness. I’d grit my teeth and fight the pain to stay alive.

Six

Enduring the rollercoaster ride as I stumbled along to keep control. I’d lose my way here and there; fighting myself and getting lost in my abysmal dismal thoughts. Your mom and I struggled to get you the equipment you needed and stood against those who would deny you. It was a taste of something we knew a life this way we would endure, but we knew that together, we could do it. I strayed and started to get lost in alcohol to try to help numb the pain. I had built up a wall with flesh, bone, and despair bricks.

Seven

This was the year when you found out you were going to be a big sister. It would be a new adventure. I wanted to be ready. As hard as I tried, I  know I could have done better. Even as I got help and started to show improvement, I’d take two steps forward and fall two more. I struggled to see the joy of having a perfect family. I often found myself outside looking to heaven.

Eight

Ah, your sassiness was so contagious that your baby sister caught on quick. You slowly opened up to having a sister. I was starting to find my way out of the darkness. My alcoholism would soon be kicked to the curb. I took up arms to further better myself: eating, working out, making an effort to be there for you and your sister. You were growing up too fast for your mom and me. The tears I once shed for the memory of a tragedy, were now tears of joy of having you still. I was beginning to let go all the feelings I had harbored, especially, hate.

Nine

Soon, we would leave our old home and move. It was a new start for us all. I relapsed and retreated into the darkness. I had found some comfort, but the feelings gnawed at me. The realizations and truths uncovered left me scared for us. It would be some time, but I would finally emerge victoriously. I improved my body and mind and would find a balance. I took up the craft that I believed I was destined for. I’ve watched you grow up this far and wonder where has it all gone—time?

Ten

The darkness has subsided and I am myself. I still can’t believe that it’s been ten years. You’ve become such a beautiful girl with a contagious laugh and smile. You’re our world and more, and even though you can be a crabby crab, we love you very much. It’s taken me this long to finally find the strength to cast off my shackles of guilt and blame. I can smile and laugh and be myself. I’ve come to manage my PTSD, depression, and anxiety. I’ll keep fighting and being here for you, mom, and your sister. I know it’s just another year to some, but you’ll always be our little bugaboo and pumpkin. Happy birthday to our Princess Zelda on your tenth.


 

For Zelda

Love Dad

Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle: An Excerpt

Hey, folks.

I come bearing news of the forthcoming novel Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle by myself and my good friend, Albert J. Debusschere III. It is currently available for pre-order at this link. It’s slated to be released June 21, 2018. You can also use the promo code: PREORDER2018 to receive a 10% discount.


Deluxe cover for "Lilah's Guide to Hoyle."

“What hand has life dealt you? Let’s check. . .”

 

“All life is a gamble. . . We go to sleep every night comfortably betting that the next day we’ll wake up.”

Demons. Sorcery. Magical playing cards.

It’s anything but a fairy tale. Armed with her choice deck, her beloved book, Hoyle’s Guide to Poker and Parlor Tricks, and the skill that led her to throw away her college fund, gambles with her life—and with the lives of those around her.

Elsewhere, other players have a different idea of the rules of the game. And investigating the bizarre chain of events is Middleton PD’s finest, Detectives Dana Deupree and Walter Conway.

It’s anyone’s game. The cards have been shuffled, and the stakes are high. The call has gone around the table. Others may fold, but not Lilah.

She plays for keeps.


Check out the excerpt below for a taste of things to come from this epic series.


 

—Excerpt from Chapter 1♠—

♦ ♠ ♣ ♥ ♠

“What are you doing? I said keep your hands where I can see them!” The New England spring night turned the mugger’s words into barely visible tufts of vapor. Beads of sweat dotted the man’s forehead. The gun in his hand trembled as his gaze fell to the girl’s hands.

They moved like clockwork: the pale right hand slid into the jet-black purse slung low on her side, while the left hovered between her and the mugger in the universal “hold on a minute” gesture. The tip of each of her slender fingers ended in the same jet black as the rest of her outfit.

In the brief moment of tension, as the girl’s hands did their job, the mugger could see underneath the typical high-school goth garb. She was attractive. Her dark-brown eyes were magnified by the thin-rimmed, if not exaggerated, glasses that defiantly exclaimed, “Here’s a nerd and she’s proud of it.”

“This is all I have. Please, don’t hurt me,” she said coolly. If he had been more focused, he might have noticed just how chillingly calm she was.

His gaze snapped from the smooth curve of her cheek back to her right hand, which she was now retracting from her purse. The gun mimicked her movement. Her hand paused for a second as if in doubt, then slowly continued on its path, revealing something that caught him completely off guard: a deck of playing cards.

“All life is a gamble,” she began. “We go to sleep every night comfortably betting that the next day we’ll wake up. When we hop in our cars in the morning, we take the chance that maybe right around the corner is a drunk driver, driving a hundred miles an hour, about to end our lives.” Her words cut into the silence of 3:00 a.m. Something about the way she talked and moved sent a chill down the man’s spine. He hoped she didn’t notice. He had the gun, he told himself. He was in control of the situation.

The girl’s left hand dropped and met her right hand in front of her chest. Together, they began a rhythmic dance of cutting and shuffling the deck. The cards seemed to fall onto each other, flipping and turning intermingling. “Every day, loved ones and complete strangers die. Deaths in the hundreds, in the thousands, in the hundreds of thousands!” she continued, her voice taking on a manic characteristic. “Some deaths are obscure, others are known worldwide. Murder, suicide, disease, old age. But one thing ties us together—our very mortality, the one thing that makes each and every one of us equal. We are just fodder for the cause that is life, fodder for progress!”

Most of her words fell on deaf ears as her assailant became fixated on the ballet of cards and fingers transpiring before him, the smooth paper and skin performing before him. Occasionally, he caught hints of red and black, and as the cards twisted and turned in her hands almost hypnotically, all tension in the mugger’s body drifted away. His hand and gun slumped down to his side.

“Now, I will offer you a rare opportunity. I will show you just how fragile your life is.” The crescendo in her tone ceased, and her voice dropped back down to a murmur. “I will determine your fate in five cards.” Her hands stopped, and she drew four cards from the top of the deck. “Let’s see.” She showed the first card to the man. “An ace of hearts.” She drew the second card. “Eight of spades, but that’s not important.” She revealed the third card. “Eight of diamonds.” A sinister grin sprawled across her lips as she drew the fourth card, and a growling undercurrent escaped her throat with each syllable. “An ace of clubs. Mister, you are a dead man, and this is your hand.”

Her left hand moved back to the deck, but this time, it didn’t make contact. The man’s head buzzed as he realized the top card was floating. Like an avalanche closing in on him, her last few words began to ring in his head exponentially louder. He brought the gun up again, pointing it straight at her heart. The card now stood erect on top of the deck and began to slowly rotate, and the little goth nerd’s expression slowly changed from slight evil to all-out sadistic glee; her eyes glowed a dim demonic green.

His hands trembled terribly; and no matter how much he willed it, he couldn’t move his finger the two centimeters that could make all this trouble go away. The card was now halfway spun, and his right eye turned red as blood vessels burst behind his retina. He clenched his eyes shut and with all his might willed his finger to move—and it did.

The crash was deafening. Scalding sparks exploded across the usually vacant alleyway. Warm blood splattered across the brick walls, across the now-revealed ten of spades, and across the young girl’s grinning face; across her exaggerated nerd glasses.

The mugger’s lifeless body dropped to the ground, blood spurting out from where the right half of his face had been and gushing out from what remained of his arm. The ten of spades nestled back down on the deck, and she placed the cards back in their tiny home in her purse. She removed a paperback book with the name HOYLE in large white letters on the cover and pulled a pen out along with it. Flipping through the pages, she settled on the page with the chapter title “Two Pair,” and quickly scribbled in the margin: Ten of spades makes guns explode.

—END OF EXCERPT—


 

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt and consider purchasing Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle to entertain your mind and find the series to be engrossing. Stay tuned for more news and the inevitable release!

Until next time,

RJM

Madness’ Sole Soul: A Short Story

Madness’ Sole Soul

A Short Story by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

 

“I’m sorry, it has to be this way,” he remembered his mother saying. She left him—left them all. Now, they were all being hunted down by an unknown person (or maybe organization?). Rumor was that his mother was collecting other family members to help her purge those that were left and would get in her way of officially taking over the family since his father’s untimely demise. The lands, she believed were hers; as was the town. It was her birthright. That even though the past had tarnished what should have been regulated to her—she was persistent on correcting. Everything would return to her: the land, the town, the family name—everything. It would only be a matter of time until he would perish. So, he supposed on the issue.

It was true, she had left his step-father for an old fling from the “glory days” or what have you. Perhaps to gain leverage in use against her remaining members of the Hessen household. Though he never saw eye to eye with the man he came to acknowledge as a father figure in his life, he felt sorry for him. Vengeance, karma, these things have a way of working out. Order must be maintained in the universe. Time will work its hands the way it sees fit.

The day had come—one he had anticipated. The hitmen (or so he alleged) had come for the step-father, for him, for the rest of them.

“You need to get out of here, John. I can deal with them.” The young man steeled himself with a knife in hand. “Run, run as fast as you can. Don’t look back.”

“What you’re talking about is madness, Eric. Your mother could never do such a thing! Not to us, especially, to you.” John was flabbergasted at the information that had been collected and evidence that suggested his wife had, indeed, put a price on his head and the rest of the family.

“Go before it’s too late! There’s no time to argue. I know you’re not my real father, but I do look up to you like one.” Eric gripped the knife tighter as he clenched his jaw. John nodded and gathered a few things, before hurrying straight out the back door.

Out front, Eric heard an engine approaching. He opened the massive oak door to see a black SUV coming up the drive to the estate. “Typical fashion,” Eric mumbled aloud before closing the door.

He peeked out the window to see the occupants disperse from the vehicle. He knew them all. “My Uncles? Aunts?” He noted two more vehicles coming to the estate. “This…cannot be good,” he said.

A voice came from behind him. “Hello, dear brother.”

Sister.

“Hello, dear sister,” Eric replied, still peeking out the window. “Quite the family reunion we have today; unannounced in fact. Any reason as to why?”

His sister grimaced. “Did you not hear? There’s a high price for you and ‘dad.’ We are all here to collect—it’s nothing personal. I could use the money to take care of a lot of things.”

Eric sighed. “You were always greedy. We have vast wealth as it is and yet, you squander it.” His words struck a nerve. “You do know mother will only kill you after you kill John and I, don’t you?”

“I am aware of that. I have taken precautions. I’m afraid John is already. . .disposed. He didn’t get very far,” she smiled.

Eric grit his teeth. “The man was hardly any threat, let alone needed to be involved. You could have spared him, you cold-hearted bitch.”

“Please, I have been called worse,” his sister laughed.

“And soon you will be dead, all of you. I will make sure of it—mom included. I won’t let any of you live anymore.”

“Bold words, little brother, but remember I am older,” she replied sharply.

“Remember, I planned ahead,” he grinned.

Eric’s sister pulled out a knife of her own and motioned to attack him. “At least you will die with some honor, bitch.” He quickly disarmed her and slashed her arm; sending her to recoil in pain.

“You little bastard,” she screamed.

Eric moved in hastily and stabbed her in the gut and slashed upward, bringing her to her knees and to be embraced by death.

“Sorry, Julie, but it’s nothing personal,” Eric said as he twisted the blade once more into her neck.

The door opened and in came the rest of the family: his aunts, uncles, cousins, and his mother.

“Well, you certainly save us the time in having to find you, son,” his mother stated.

“Mom…”

She looked over at the dead body of her daughter. “I see you took care of your sister. Good job, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree alright.”

“You all are ridiculous. Acting together to kill another of your family? For what? For money? Land? You will all stop at nothing after this matter is settled to make sure you solely get all of it.” Eric shook his head. “Your greed consumes you.” He pointed to his mother. “Your whore ways and betrayal to this family will be your undoing, dear mother. I will kill you all.”

His mother laughed. “You sound just like your grandfather. He used to believe we had some ‘disease’ within us that drove us mad. Granted, that’s what got him locked up. As cunning as he was, he was no match for me. It’s just human nature, sweetie. Kill or be killed.”

Everyone eyed one another, uncertain of who would betray who.

“Kill him,” Eric’s mother ordered.

The cousins were the first to swarm him, and they were the first to die. He effortlessly slaughtered them and left them dead on the floor. Then came his aunts. The one that had a change of heart was only to be stabbed in the back by his mother. They too fell in the bloody heap that was amassing in the house’s grand foyer.

Three uncles and Eric’s mother remained. They spread out around him and slowly motioned towards him. “I wish you a merciless death, dear uncles,” Eric said as he went after his more overweight uncle. He ran and leaped at the man, stabbing him in the neck and under the jaw. Collapsing atop him, Eric stabbed him a few more times in the chest before rolling off him and readying for another attack. The next attacker came, and Eric disarmed him and stabbing him with his own blade; then used his body as a shield against his other attack. He slid on the ground and slit the Achilles tendons of his last uncle, and then sliced up his backside.

“Mother, you are all that remain. It appears things did not go as you had hoped,” said Eric.

“On the contrary, honey. You did the legwork for me,” Eric’s mother replied. She then drew a small pistol from behind her.

She smiled menacingly. “Never bring a knife to a gunfight, sweetie. Thank you for getting rid of everyone for me.”

Eric reached behind him and withdrew his gun and shot his mother in the chest several times, “I knew you would.”

He approached his fast-dying mother’s side. “The only difference, mom, is that I didn’t hesitate and make a big speech before I pulled the trigger. Perhaps now you can be at rest.” He kissed her on the cheek and looked at her dimming green eyes. “I love you,” and then pointed the gun at her head and pulled the trigger once more.

One by one, he went around to each family member and shot them in the head. He called the cleaning service that the family used in cases of messes like these. He gave them all a proper burial, despite them having tried to kill him. Ownership and duty fell to him now. Eric was the lord of the manor, the land, and town that came with it. He was the sole survivor of Hessen Estate Massacre.

He was granted everything, although the attorney thought it to be proper to read the wills and testaments of the deceased. Sifting through the mess, Eric had found a piece of paper that clarified more things for him. He handed it to the lawyer.

Clearing his throat, the lawyer read aloud. “It is hereby declared that under article nine, sub-article three, clause eleven, that in the event of the purge of the household, all assets fall to the surviving heir. Debts will be settled with the provided fund, and any outstanding family members outside of second cousins will cease any violent interaction. Half siblings hold no right, nor just cause, and are therefore exempt of any claim to the family name, land, or township. If so claim is ever made, they will be disbarred, and the assets will become forfeit to the state.”

Eric sighed at this. The lawyer shook his hand and eventually left.

In due course, Eric readied himself to leave the house for good. As he is about to close the door, one by one, his family all appeared before him.

“Eric, can you forgive us,” his mother asked.

“We are sorry. . . We should have been a better family,” an aunt stated.

“Time wasted. . .” an uncle added.

“We all could have been better,” his sister agreed.

“No, it was my fault,” he said. They all looked to him, puzzled. He returned their gaze in spite and anger. “It was my fault. . .for being so weak. You may haunt me and my dreams, but you cannot escape your damnation. Suffer your fates, you wretched kin.” The house trembled and shook, and the spirits vanished; returning to their relics, paintings, and pictures. Slowly he pulled the door behind him, closing and leaving behind it all.

Eric took a seat outside in a rocking chair and rocked in it. He noted the gray sky that seemed to have plagued the day. He sighed aloud.

The family car and chauffer pulled up. He noted his serviceman and driver in black attire, with two cousins that laid claim of wanting no involvement of what had transpired. Slowly, he got his pale self, up and ventured to the car.

The driver motioned for the cousins to get in the car. Eric remembered the driver had made prior claims before that he shared his distaste for the twin cousins. He always thought they were up to no good. To spur a change in the young master’s mood, the driver accelerated and would leave a short distance between them and the car.

“Stop, Thomas. Let them in,” Eric stated.

“Thank you, Eric,” replied the one cousin who sat in front of him. The other cousin nodded and sat next to Eric. The car then rumbled away from the estate.

Soon, down the driveway, the cousin who sat next to Eric, took out a knife and slit his throat, then his brother’s throat, and then his own throat. He had tried to strike the driver but was held back by the serviceman in the back.

“Is he alright, Bennie,” Thomas asked the man in the back who applied a handkerchief to Eric’s neck. “Drive—drive to the bloody hospital!” Bennie looked back down at the bloodied Eric. “Put pressure on it! Hold it, young master!”

Eric could feel the warmth slowly leaving him. He also felt the heat of his dead cousin departing him as well.

“Faster,” Eric gasped.

Eric looked at the rearview mirror from the backseat. Who he saw was not his reflection, but rather his grandfather’s. “Grandpa?”

 “Eric, do you see now? Do you see why I did what I did?” Sadness overcame the old man’s wrinkled face. “I loved my family. Honestly, I did. I loved you all. But what I saw—what I knew that was harbored deep within, I knew it was only a matter of time. Even when shown kindness, we’ve all turned on one another. You know it well, my grandson. We carry a sickness—one that spreads like a plague. It must be contained, Eric. It must be put down.

Eric nodded. “I understand. I will purge them all. I will carry this mantle—this burden. For our family.”

His grandfather smiled and then vanished into nothingness. Eric looked out the window to the cloudy sky and the buzzing street corners. He closed his eyes and greeted the darkness.

Some time passed, Eric stared out at the gardens at the hospital. The sun shined brilliantly everywhere. He caught a glimpse of himself, and his family behind him, all mourning. He grinned as he lightly rubbed his bandaged neck. “I’m not dead yet.”

It begins again. This time the madness will be contained.

My Own Prison [Extended]: Poem and Post (One Year Later)

When I initially wrote My Own Prison (then revised it; followed by the post), it was a real rough spot in my life. Let me quote myself and go from there. . .

Prison. For most, they think it to be a building—a physical entity that exists to house criminals and wrongdoers. In most cases, however, a prison can also be one’s self. For the millions of those who suffer from depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder [PTSD] and many of the other mental illnesses and disorders, their mind is their own prison.

Built from the ground up, bit by bit, piece by piece. It can result from many things. For me: it’s been overcoming guilt. The burning anger that resides within. The negativity of several people and their dirty antics. The “what ifs?” The memories, though some blurry, of when I was on my antidepressants; the actions and things said. . .done. The immense sadness that dwells within. The constant twisting and shaping of how one can manipulate things against their own being. You realize it, you acknowledge it, and you know it to be a lie, but you can’t seem to overcome the grief that has besieged you and left you, seemingly, stranded.

Alone.

A fight for your life.

You have been tossed into shark-infested waters, and you are bleeding out.

My first therapist wasn’t horrible. He was just doing his job and trying to help me. You can’t help those who do not will to be helped or want it. I found it to be my punishment—to suffer—to slowly kill myself. Painfully. With the most potent malice ever conceived.

There were others that tried to help. Then there was the medication. Going to sleep for. . .what I believed was one day, turned into two or more sometimes. It hurt. I felt I was missing out on the most important of times, and it was unfair—to my daughter and my wife. . .and myself.

I was unstable. Anything and everything could set me off. The wind could blow the wrong direction and I would be having an anger attack. Eventually, I would do an unspeakable act that would convince myself; through a sort of out of body experience, that I needed to lose the medication and get proper help. That I needed to accept responsibility and be a man, a father, a husband. There were to be no more “woe is me” moments.

It would take time. . .

As time has gone on and that I went through EMDR therapy, my overall person has improved. I made changed, important and very much needed changes. I stopped being surrounded by negative people. I began exercising and losing weight (because I have always hated my body image). I stopped drinking alcohol in unnecessary consumption rates (I was an alcoholic, plain and simple in the end there. I became dependant on it).I started eating healthier. The food I did consume was not healthy and paired with soda, it bogged me down.

Simply enough, I didn’t care about myself. I didn’t love myself. I needed to change that. Being on the path to recovery doesn’t happen overnight and everyone is different.

“Get over it. That happened X years ago.”

“That still bothers you? Grow up.”

[At the intersection where the accident happened after finally being able to take my daughter home, away from the hospital, with my wife in the car behind me] “Sorry, I thought this would be the faster way. . .”

Being accused of wanting to kill my wife and daughter and using the accident to cover it up.

Those were a few of the many things said that were fuel added to the raging tempest I held within.

Time. Help. Understanding. Therapy. Changes.

That has been what has helped me. Good friends. Family. And making myself really change—for the better.

Every now and then, I get a dark spell, and that’s OK because it’s going to happen. I’ve been trying a new technique personally, and it’s helped. . .to a degree. Writing, however, has been the most helpful.

Normally, I’d never share my emotions or my thoughts. I figure, though, if someone can relate—someone can be helped, and that others out there that struggle can know that they are not alone in the fight. That there are rescue boats in these shark-infested waters with proper help for you. Then that’s fine with me. Because we are all pieces of a far grand puzzle than we can comprehend.

Stay strong and stay vigilant, friends.

You see, it’s only been (almost) a year. One of the most significant and significant years that came to pass. I moved out of state; one that I grew up in, started my family, left my friends and remaining family behind—and started a new life with my wife and kids in Tennessee. It’ll have been ten years since the car accident, and my oldest will turn ten. I try to not look at her birthday as a reminder; it’s hard, but the effect is losing hold. I still have occasional days of where I am fending off the darkness. . .but I know it, I am aware of it, and I valiantly fight back and hold it off. Even for just one more day, one more night. My wife and kids make it, so it’s worth it.

I spoke of a technique I was trying out at the time. What was it? I was killing myself; killing or slaying the negative thoughts and emotions. Stuffing them into boxes or attaching concrete boots to them and dropping them into the abysmal sea. It worked. For awhile. I keep testing myself and pushing my psychology appointments out further; and around, eh, probably in between a week or so until my next session and such I had a big issue come up. I was also having a lot of anxiety with our trip to BlizzCon 2017 and getting ripped off on our tickets (but thankfully, a good friend came through, and we got them and had a great time.).

Needless to say, it wasn’t perfect. Thus,  I ended up creating The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal. So, to put some rumors to rest; not that there really is any, yes, it’s loosely based on me. Congrats. Spoilers. #Spoilers. It’s not just a dark humor approach to suicide because you get the M. Night Shyamalan twist at the end! Really, it’s a fun read.

So, what do I do now? I write. I talk about things more openly. I play WoW. I’ve actually gotten a better sleep schedule down (granted, I am pushing it with this write-up), and yeah, things are pretty good so far in my mind. Lilah’s Guide to Hoylei will be coming back out; due for release June 21, 2018. More stories and shorts will be coming out as well. It should be a pretty good year.

It’s incredible how much and how far you can go from one year to another; or day to day, month to month, let alone for me from so many years of guilt and self-torment. I’ve come a long way, and I am happy to share my experience with you all. I wonder what the coming year will bring?

I hope those of you out there keep your chin up and know (and remember) that you’re not alone. There are others like you. You needn’t face and take on the world alone. Remain vigilant and be strong.

Take care and stay safe.

RJM

P.S. enjoy My Own Prison in its entirety below. Cheers!


My Own Prison

(The Original Version)

by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

It’s my time, as every year it seems to be, yet come this time it seems to be getting more to me.

An endless cycle that had begun long ago and further widens its cut into my being.

How so much pain can be felt, and how it was made was never an intention but how its function has fucked me up so much.

Each day it tears me apart, and each time I try to reassemble the pieces, it never seems to resemble me entirely.

As for how the light can teach but never gives answers, looking to the dark for its secrets but always coming with a high price.

The cold I know is there, but I cannot feel, as it’s already in too profound, but why is it I stay warm?

Why do I feel like a stray dog in a foreign family, when I’m given love and yet I back into the corner terrified.

What it means to be alive, what it is that pushes me to remain here.

Why it is that I remain? Why I stay humane, and stray from the constant fear that lingers in the depths of what I am?

This misery is a friend, one that does not bend.

Nor does it lend a hand for when I try to stand, as I get kicked back down.

A war with the mind, and a battle with the heart.

To stay here and see it through, when there is a victor.

How it is that I am enshrouded with such a dark mist, and yet still have light to prevent myself from being engulfed?

Why is it that I suffer from so much of my own damnation when I tried just to live.

Why this struggle in my mind takes such a toll on me, and others.

Never did I want to impress, or pose.

Never did I want to tell lies, or be hung for the truth.

I was me, and all it did was kick me in the teeth for trying to survive.

The beginning of all comes full circle to that we don’t remember.

There is no race to be won.
There is nothing that can be said to make things just as quickly as they are said and done.

Life is hypocrisy in itself that is all too well what it’s cracked up to be.

My daughter. . .My happy, unhappy accident.

How she’ll never know how sorry I am for everything.

My wife, how all the problems I cause and make and make things worse at times.

I am being pulled apart at the seams. . .

Life undoes itself from me slowly as dare try to redeem.

This prison

All these walls I’ve built up

Damn them

Damn me

I want to break free

From the binds that continue to keep me

Sometimes I only believe in self-absolving

But I know it just to be

I mustn’t keep fighting for me

For they are why I am here

The things I hold dear

Here

I will suffer through the pain

Because I have so much more to gain

Pain knows love just as well

As life knows death

Intermingled we are

The realization of which I now know

I do not suffer alone

Writing Prompt: Your Eulogy

Hey folks,

I have something new for you—a break from the norm if you will. In fact, it’s a writing prompt (or a type of homework if you prefer) for you all.

Write a goodbye letter to yourself. What is your goodbye message? To elaborate, what would your eulogy be? That is to yourself.

Aside from that, what would people—your friends, your family, etc.—what would they say about you? Would they recall the good times? Cite the bad times? Curse your name and cast you into the wind? Maybe bury the hatchet at long last?

Our lives are mere fleeting moments in an insurmountable measurement of time. We exist—in the moment—the now. At any given moment, it can all end. What we hold dear, who we love, what we hate, what makes us all…us. Instead, we live day to day squandering over trivial things and looking to see “what’s hot” out in the world today.

This post isn’t a religious provocation, nor a call for one but some to reflect.

Take a moment. Appreciate what you have, what you’ve had—what you have endured—the struggles it’s taken to achieve where you are, what it’ll take for the future. Acknowledge and remember the loss of others—of those that have gone before you, and think of those who will go after you.

We’re all drops in the river that leads to the pond, which leads to the lake, which leads to the ocean. We’re all connected whether we’d like to admit it or not. We’re capable of great things, and we’ve yet to do the greatest of them all—peace with one another. Whether that happens in our lifetime or not remains to be seen, well, I am sure it won’t be in mine. Though part of me wants to observe Humanity as it evolves and what it accomplishes from far away, the thought of watching so many people eventually go sways me the other way to mortality. I guess we’ll see.

Until next time,

RJM