A friend of mine says it was the right thing to do because I took an action after thinking about it long and hard.

This could imply that prolonged thought plus action equals right thing done.

Is action taken the best thing to do when unsure?

Sun Tzu said don’t engage if your forces and circumstances aren’t strong.

Does this mean one should not take risks until one is strong?

Does risk not imply you stand to lose something should things go awry and therefore your sense of strength might’ve just been a comforting illusion?

I listened to this audio course over a decade ago, maybe two, called ‘Your Wish Is Your Command’ by Kevin Trudeau of ‘Natural Cures “They” Don’t Want You to Know About’ notoriety (yup, the guy who went to prison) wherein he stresses to the listener not to act from a place of weakness.

Such is also the sentiment of Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Fookin’ Blinders.

Sun meant it in terms of military power and favourable circumstances,

Kevin in terms of intuitive calling or lack thereof,

Thomas from a bargaining perspective.

The through line my brain surmises is: don’t act from a place of weakness, as gathered from some morally questionable folks.

But how to know if you’re there and not just itching for relief from the pain of the unknown?

Pavel Tsatsouline, a fitness trainer for the Navy SEALs, says it’s best to take long breaks between weightlifting sets to regain strength for the next push.

Perhaps the question is: did I act from a place of weakness?

Or does it only feel as such because uncertainty’s in the air and clouding my memories?

Does it even matter if the prime end goal every moment of every day is to amass strength through money, muscle, loved ones connected with, sunrises witnessed, hugs given, foods tasted, places seen, people met, air breathed, and thoughts pondered?

Or

action can create strength,

or maybe even just the feeling of it,

which compounds.

I’d say probably the answer is: measured action is the best approach.

Plan to get a job.

Plan the persona you want to adopt.

Plan how you will smile at the receptionist.

Plan how to speak to the interviewer.

Plan the questions you want to bring up.

Plan.

Act.

Plan.

Act.

Plan.

Act.

Plan.

Die one day.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Am I really going to die?

What to write about today?

I’m thinking maybe I should address the previous article and inform you as to whether or not I am indeed a vengeance-hungry psycho.

And good news is… I am.

At least in my mind.

Fantasy is a nice coping mechanism.

What happened in physical reality was a bit of a ‘live and let live’ scenario.

A warm smile changed things.

My co-worker’s girlfriend. I smiled and waved hello, and she did the same. Tension dissipated. I don’t really want to do much to my co-worker after that, for it would in some way impact her. And whatever impacts them impacts me because of our close proximity.

Plus circumstances outside of the immediate deemed it not economical.

Altruism has a cost-benefit.

Someone whose altruism cost-benefit probably leans heavily one way.

So yeah, the energy’s dissipated back to a more stable sense of calm for the moment.

Maybe forever.

Probably not.

Depends on how economical it is for my mind.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, as the Klingon proverb goes.

Do I sound psycho yet?

I probably did back in my last post.

Please, oh, please, dear reader, think of me as an upstanding citizen whose values are at least Christian-adjacent.

Oh, I need to be liked for the sake of my self-esteem and bank account, for most opportunities in this world come from who you know.

Please don’t let me be too confident lest I die alone, pointing the finger.

People like it when you show teeth,

which is a sign of submission in primates, as the great Dwight Schrute once said.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Again, who the hell are you?

When to assert and to hold back?

Because assertion is essential, which I hope you’ve realized, because without it you can and will be taken advantage of, or bullied, or whatever else comes with disrespect.

I’m currently in an ongoing dispute with, let’s say, a ‘co-worker’, and the powers that be over our territory I believe side with him because they like him more, and I’m the semi-recluse who thinks some of my co-workers are hillbilly scum (maybe if you’re reading this and I work alongside you you can tell yourself, ‘Nahhh, he doesn’t mean little old me!’).

I got a letter saying that I should amend an action I’ve been undertaking recently. So I did. And provided proof that I did. Co-worker still didn’t like how I was doing it. So he bitched to the powers, and now the powers are telling me to stop altogether because people generally side with those they like more and twist around their previous words and even the rules to fit their current emotions.

Rules are a set of suggestions barring any whims and grand plots.

Intermission happy face to balance out this article

So now my conundrum is thus: do I keep doing what I’m doing to assert that I have rights, which were implied to me in previous warnings, and piss off my co-worker some more, which would be sweet, or cease and live and let live? Because this is a conundrum I’ve had occurring in other areas of my life this year.

I’ve heard one should not partake in ‘baneful magick’, which I think can be translated to ‘revenge can karma your ass’.

So should one help one’s enemy?

I’ve also heard forgiveness is for yourself, not the perpetrator, which sounds like it’s veering in the realm of Christian-esque doormattery.

But is there truth in it?

But does human instinct for revenge not come from wanting to regain a sense of assertion over those who’ve taken from you and left you feeling lower or with less than before?

Do we not all instinctually know that to feel low means to dampen the ability to get more in this life?

But do we also not know that some forms of obsession lead to shooting oneself in the foot?

TS

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Speaking and not knowing has been a very useful tool in my life. At times I’ll get a prompt from an outside source (Teri), beckoning me to speak, and I’ll just roll with it after having saved up a decent amount of mental juice within the conversation, and poof, conversational magic wherein all participating parties start connecting neural pathways begins.

Now that’s a drug.

Excellent soup, that: when brains sync and ideas build off each other.

Conversations tend to often be soapbox turns unless rooted in humour, and even then it can get competitive and in a way stagnating. I’m trying to stagnate less and momentum more.

Some guy whose life is always perfect

Bit of my juice has been spent on the last post, which I wrote just prior to typing this note.

And this is why knowing what to prune from one’s life seems essential to me: because riding the highs of life and therefore drinking from its energy sources is a skill I believe most touch on in chunks but most of the time seek out and wonder how it is they got there in the first place.

Therein is momentum. Momentum is energy, and energy supersedes time as a valuable resource.

I wonder often if I could live with maximum momentum then would sacrifice become less painful, more natural, or perhaps not even necessary, for why would a wealthy person need to cancel their Amazon Prime subscription to save money?

TS

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Who The Hell Are You?

Not me. Nono. I’m a responsible adult who always carries through with that which he tells himself he will do.

Okay, there’s a ramble idea: on goals.

I hear a lot about goals in this world, and they are essential, but to what degree should they be flexible? Obviously not to a sit-on-the-couch-and-rot-because-fuck-it-tomorrow-I’ll-get-to-it-maybe extreme, but there needs to be some space for that.

This week’s been like that for me. It’s a busy season in my life, and I’m trying to juggle as best I can, though part of me dreads having to soon give up at least one of my endeavours to help the others grow. Like pruning tree branches to direct the energy to where one wants and beautify the whole.

I can now call myself a painter by trade. I’ve been selling some of my abstract paintings. I find painting easy and interesting and now have some cash coming in because of it, which proves to people I tell this to that maybe I’m worthy of some respect in the art world, kinda like the lower end of someone telling someone that they’re Vincent Van Gogh back from the dead and here for a progress update on their popularity post-bullet (side note: why would you shoot yourself in the chest if you’re going to kill yourself? Is it because his heart hurt?)

At some point I gotta bring this around. I mean, you can probably tell that I’m leaning towards sticking it out with the painting, so writing or YouTube-ing would have to go, and it ain’t gonna be writing because that would be like tossing my baby in the river because he was born a freak (movie reference anyone?)

Or at least I really hope writing isn’t the one because I’ve strived so much to even get good at the damn thing and do so enjoy the liberty of ramble it gives me. But so far the external world is complimenting my YouTube-ing and painting more than it is my writing.

Is this a test of perseverance or a signal from the divine/commerce to pivot?

But what’s the message of this post, if I may spell it out?

Actually, I won’t spell it out. I’ll ask you a question:

When have you given up something you love to focus more on something else you love,

and did you end up loving that thing/person/whatever more than you thought you would,

or less?

TS

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I Just Really Don't Give A Fuck

I’d probably right like this when things feel write

or when the wave summons me,

but same thing, right?

I think I’m funny at times.

I also thing I’m boring. Depends on when you catch em.

Me*

All of em can be hypocrites and at the same time beautiful, depending on when you catch em.

Me? Same.

I love to mess with my head and then talk about things that aren’t normal.

I probably sound insane.

But am I only saying that because I’m aware that people tend to give the benefit of the doubt to those who are self-aware?

Are you a psychopath in someone’s perspective but not your own?

Depending on who you ask, say maybe an ex-lover who was hurt by you perhaps unintentionally, the answer may be something you write off because you and your bros have deemed them bad.

When I said drugs, I may or may not have meant Tylenol.

The ancient Greeks had multiple methods of calendaring because they were a divided people. Obviously they didn’t say, ‘Hey, it’s three-ninety-six BC!’ because Big JC hadn’t come along yet (if he ever did). So one of the more common methods of calendaring was to label the years in correspondence with the Olympiad, which was every four years. On the first year of every Olympiad (meaning a cluster of four years) an Olympic Games would be held in Olympia.

The years of this story follow that method.

First year of the ninety-sixth Olympiad = 396 BC(E).

First year of the ninety-first Olympiad = 416 BC(E) because that’s five Olympiads earlier, which would be 20 years.

Second year of the ninety-first Olympiad = 415 BC(E).

BC(E) years counted down. AD years count up.

Remember: the higher the Olympiad’s number, the more forward in time we are.

This book took me over two Olympiads to write.

Gods bless.

PROLOGUE

FIRST YEAR OF THE 96^TH OLYMPIAD

Once upon a time, there was a princess who hated her fucking society.

And no wonder—holding her back from something like that. I heard that the Tethrippon was for men only and that people could get really hurt when falling off their chariots. Like, not just scrapes hurt, not just broken bones hurt, but, like, dead hurt. And she ended up with something way crazier.

- Woman of Rot at the center of the world

PART ALPHA

SECOND YEAR OF THE 91 ^ST OLYMPIAD

Blonde.

Cyniska had dyed her hair completely blonde like ‘some foreign whore’ as her mother would often tell her.

When they saw each other.

Which was, thankfully, next to never because Cyniska was out of the house most of the day, most days.

But when their paths did cross the princess would ask her mother, Eupoleia, a short-haired Spartan woman, ‘What do you think?’ whilst combing her shining hair forward with her fingers.

This trick had a very high rate of tightening Eupoleia’s jaw.

Usually also made her lash out at Cyniska’s three friends, of whom she had a similar opinion.

They would all stay silent during those rants and giggle with Cyniska after Mama stormed out.

It was times like that when a good old street flaunting felt like the appropriate follow-up.

Nothing attracted the eyes of envy and lust like four twenty-something perky girls strutting down the street. Especially ones that still had long hair, as they did. Meaning they were unmarried and therefore extra glowy with an (at least perceived) added purity.

Glowy also were their mint-scented blonde locks.

Oh, that got them—Cyniska, Ethalia, Demetria, and Harmion—cut-eyes from the women their age and older. Remarks made: ‘Grow up’; ‘For shame’; ‘At your age?’ That kinda crap.

Counter jabs at their ‘boy heads’ and stretch-marked arms were made in good cheer by the Cyniska troop.

Men who liked women would stop and gawk. It was part of their adventure’s itinerary. And hey, if the right catch made himself known…

‘Stop, by order of the general!’ commands a playful voice.

And stop the girls do, which feels curious to Cyniska as her body seems to decide by itself.

Behind the man are probably six soldiers. Doesn’t matter. Because you know when a person seems to be beaming with an unseen energy? That was this guy…

beaming to Cyniska.

Most Greek guys have black hair (and too much of it). This guy’s blond. Like, golden blond. And it looks natural. And those cheekbones are just below those tree-green eyes. And his face is smooth-shaven and shows his angular chin. Almost girl-like, it is. As are those grinning red lips.

‘You’, he says to Cyniska with a point and a fuck-me grin. ‘You want me’.

Laughs, Cyniska does along with her friends.

She glances at his smooth chest peeking from under his tunic. And that tunic, damn, is one unlike she’s ever seen: berry purple with so many golden embroideries of people, creatures, and ships that to understand it she’d probably have to take in an entire epic.

One image is of a man spreading a woman’s legs.

‘General Alcibiades, at your most sexual service, my lady’, the extravagant tunic-wearer says with a bow.

‘You’re actually a general or just desperate to stop us?’ Cyniska asks.

‘My apologies’, he says, then bows again. ‘Shamed and disgraced former General Alcibiades, my lady. At your most sexual service. May I kiss your hand incessantly?’

He’s already holding and pecking her hand before she realizes she should probably pull away.

Cyniska’s friends make girly sounds; Ethalia holds out her hand.

‘No, no, no’, the general says as he swats Ethalia away. ‘This one’.

He feels Cyniska’s hand with his thumb. ‘Who are you, what are you doing here, and how do I get to know you more?’

‘She’s a disgraced princess’, Harmion says.

Cyniska and her friends laugh.

‘Possible soulmate’, the general says. ‘Possible’.

He curls up some of her hair with his finger.

Ethalia leans over the princess’ shoulder and says, ‘Fuck him’.

Cyniska turns red.

This Alcibiades character takes a step back. ‘The pompous presumption!’

Wow, Cyniska thinks.

Harmion asks, ‘What do you mean?’ She smiles too. They all are, and trying to hide it by looking away when they can.

The feel of his lips linger on Cyniska’s hand.

‘Are you drunk?’ Demetria asks.

‘Here?’ Alcibiades looks around. ‘I think Dionysus got bored with this place’.

‘You’re not Spartan’, Cyniska observes. ‘Too few scars. Too girly’.

He raises a brow and grins. ‘From the land of Athens, city of drunks, I come’.

‘Kill this guy’, Demetria tells the general’s guards. They look Spartan with their long hair, mustache-less beards, and scarred bodies.

‘Oh, I’m sure they’d like to’, Alcibiades says. He points. ‘That one’s been clutching his hilt a little too tightly’.

The girls all laugh again.

All six of the guards straighten their backs and pull back their shoulders. But their eyes shift around.

‘But I’m here to buy property, food, and wine with my Athenian secrets, and some would much rather see me make that purchase than die, so die I think I shall not for the time being’, Alcibiades says. His dimple indents with every other word. ‘Now—I’m in want of the third item, being wine. Some guy told me that you Spartans only drink one cup per night! Missing a fingertip, standing on some block’.

‘You mean my brother?’ Cyniska asks.

Alcibiades glides his fingers along his exposed shoulder. ‘Said he’s king around here, though there was a distinct lack of scars on his body. Might be a charlatan trying to get in my underwear’.

‘Agis didn’t enter the Agoge’, Cyniska says.

‘Right. Boring. I’m going to be shown to my new home now. You can join me, and your friends can continue sexying up the streets’.

‘We can take the girls out for a walk’, Harmion says.

‘If you do want to go off with this drunk’, Demetria says.

‘Soon-to-be’, Alcibiades says.

Cyniska’s mind tries to be all adult again when it says, But you never miss your afternoon practice.

‘Your kiss-afflicted hand, please’, he says to Cyniska, holding out his own.

Cyniska slaps it away (which is also a nice excuse to feel his skin again).

‘Be worth my time’, she tell him. Then to her friends, ‘Go ride the girls. I’ll be home soon’.

She walks passed Alcibiades’s still-held-out hand but has to slow down for a moment. He strides up beside her to lead the way.

Demetria yells out, ‘Be nice or Alexandros will bite off your cock!’

‘Alexandros’, he says, feeling out the name as he strolls beside Cyniska. ‘Molossus guard dog?’

‘Look at you with the lucky guess’, Cyniska says.

‘I don’t expect you Spartans train men to bite off cocks’.

‘Maybe ‘Alexandros’ is what we named our pair of scissors’.

‘Scissors aren’t a very useful night watchman’. His bare arm leans against hers. ‘Group of girls clearly all living together do need some protection’.

She raises a brow. ‘Lots of asshole men in this world’.

‘Oh, so many’.

‘Odds are you’re one of them’.

‘Clearly! Look at this fuckboy approaching a group like that and whisking one of them away for a day stroll and touches’.

He fingertips her arm.

‘What are you doing?’ Cyniska asks, smiling.

‘Touching. Clearly. Are you paying attention?’

‘Why are you touching me?’

‘To see’.

‘See what? What are you talking about?’

‘Ah, what’s this?’ he asks. But he’s not asking anything about her.

He’s beholding the wide open city space.

‘The Agora?’

‘Ah, fancy!’ he says.

‘Typical Agora’. Cyniska shrugs. ‘Statues, more statues. Of kings, Gods. Market’.

By ‘market’, she means the few bored-looking vendors standing by their kiosks.

When Alcibiades sees a woman hand an iron rod to one of the vendors, he says, ‘The legend of your money is real’. He leans again on Cyniska’s arm. ‘Long, hard iron’.

‘Wow. Athenian wit?’

‘Your hair’, he says, again touching.

She lets him.

‘Your papa isn’t around to disapprove of such playfulness’, he says.

Cyniska looks down. ‘He passed when I was young’.

‘Hmmm’. Alcibiades taps his chin. ‘Papa’s gone. Disgraced princess…’

Cyniska frowns. ‘You still haven’t asked for my name’.

‘Princess Cyniska Eurypontid’.

‘Another lucky guess’.

‘What luck? Deduction!’

‘Okay. Sure’.

‘So now a rather boring dolt stands on your father’s block’.

‘You’re insulting my brother not even an hour into knowing me’.

‘It’s okay’, Alcibiades says as he rests her hair back onto her shoulder.

She has to turn away to hide her smile.

‘We allusively insulted each other multiple times in our first meeting’, Alcibiades says. ‘Necessity will keep us allies’.

‘The shamed general of Athens is here to betray his people?’

‘And here to have you come inside, listen to my tales of victory, and caress my arms as you do’.

‘Sure’.

Cyniska realizes she’s been led to the front of some house. Looks like any other in Sparta’s grid of pale orange roofs;

however, this one makes her body hum.

‘War victories don’t impress me’, Cyniska says.

‘How about one Olympic?’

‘Wait. What?’

Then he says the thing that gives her a little tingle down there: ‘I won last year’s Tethrippon’.

Cyniska’s face does that stretchy thing where the brows go up as far as possible from the bottom of her jaw. ‘You won the Tethrippon?’

‘Heard of it?’ Alcibiades asks.

She punches his arm with a ‘Shut up! You won the Tethrippon’.

‘Guess you don’t keep up with the chariot races, then’.

‘I haven’t since—’ Since Papa passed, she realizes, ‘—since that boring guy on the block forbade me from racing’.

‘Also, you’re not invited to play’.

He’s referring to the fact that Sparta is currently banned from the Games. Olympia is in Elis, and Elis is friends with Athens, so yeah, stupid war politics.

And that war is dragging oo ooo oooo oonnn nnnnnn nnnnnnnnn.

But still—to Cyniska, all this is just adding to him. He’s like a venturer to a mystical land, who won its ultimate spoil: the Wreath.

You need to go practice, Cyniska, the guilty voice says from a recess in her mind.

But he’s a Tethrippon winner, another part of her thinks.

Yes, they are still standing before that house into which he was inviting her.

And his guards are fidgeting from impatience.

But you can see him another time.

But the way he talks, his voice so playful and deep, and his movements, effeminately graceful like he doesn’t care one smidgen what anyone around him in that land of brutes thinks, just makes her go a bit closer…

…a bit closer.

Shit, I’m kissing him.

When he sucks her lower lip and grazes the bottom of her boob with his fingers, she makes herself pull away.

‘Bye’, she says.

Off she walks down the street.

While licking her lips.

‘Come to my royal dwelling anytime, my Princess!’

. .

.

She rides her chariot. Wind touches her face and tingles her lips.

Where he sucked her.

‘Turn!’ Cyniska calls out to her mares despite knowing that talking to them is a silly habit when not in the moment.

Cyniska bites her lip to rid herself of the lingering feeling.

But the slight caress of his fingers on her tit, the way he lifted it just enough to fall back down with a jiggle—that lingers too.

She has to pull over.

Horniness is such an annoying distraction at times.

And the Hippodrome’s empty,

which makes the feeling worse. That open naturey feel makes her want to go lie in the middle of the track and pleasure herself, imagining so many people watching from the hills.

And that’s it for training today. No way is she going to risk the safety of her loves because some guy got her wet.

. .

.

Back at home, and the first thing Cyniska hears is moans of men and women.

They’re in the andron.

Cyniska peeks inside the room, which smells like sweat and wine.

Her three friends are with five guys on the couches. Tunics and underwear are on the floor.

Cyniska yawns big. ‘I’m going to sleep’.

Then everyone stops moving and moaning. ‘Ohh, nooo, come join uuuss!’

Cyniska waves them off. ‘No, no, I’m tired. You girls have fun. Damn, that’s a big one’.

She walks over and gives Ethalia’s man a few strokes. He feels her hand as she does it. All the naked people cheer.

‘Okay, really, I’m off to bed’, Cyniska says. ‘Good night, babes!’

Lots of ‘goodnights!’ holler after her, guys’ included.

She gives Alexandros, their onlooking pet Molossus, a couple of pats on his meaty body. ‘Make sure they behave’.

‘Broof!’ Alexandros barks.

. .

.

Who knows what hour it is.

She lies in bed and asks herself why she didn’t join her friends. That one sure was nice. Long, thick, just the right amount of foreskin. Bit of a stretch would’ve been nice.

She’d had that before. Many, maaany, maaaany times. Finest men of muscle in the world. Grabbing handfuls of their triceps while getting her legs held aside. Damn.

‘You want me’.

No.

Why waste one more moment thinking about some Athenian? He has no scars, or barely any.

But he is muscly though.

His exposed shoulder. Tight, smooth flesh.

The line going down alongside his abs.

I wonder if he has that.

He knows how to use his hands.

She feels her tit, the one he touched, and thumbs her nipple, imagining him doing it. Oh, she squeezes her legs together. Then squirms and arches her back. She uses the hand that stroked that big one downstairs.

She moans…

Come to my palace anytime.

…and moans.

His green eyes. His grin. Fingering her nipple in little circles.

Footsteps outside her bedroom.

‘Cyniska?’ an excited voice whispers—Ethalia’s.

‘What?’ Cyniska whispers back.

Both can’t help but laugh.

I was probably moaning like a horn.

‘My guy’s still here. Do you want him?’

. .

.

One morning at the breakfast table over figs, cheeses, honied barley buns, teganites pancakes, and wine, Cyniska says, ‘Your tits are getting fatter’.

Ethalia and Harmion try not to laugh the food out of their mouths.

Demetria keeps behind a strict smile as she turns away to squeeze/examine herself.

Cyniska flicks another red grape into her mouth.

My powers of observation are uncanny.

‘Come on, give us a look!’ Ethalia says.

‘We like fat tits too’, Harmion says.

Demetria laughs. ‘They are not fat!’

‘Motherhood’s coming’, Harmion says.

‘You think?’ Demetria asks.

But they all wait for her to react first,

and when she finally can’t hold in her smile any longer, a gushing girls’ scream-fest explodes right there in the family room. Hugs, feeling her tummy with their hands, looking for that bump.

And bump there is. Small but there.

‘It was that one guy she let finish inside her!’ Harmion says. ‘Guy was scared limp passing by Alexandros after’.

Ethalia turns her head with some drama. ‘The fear of the chomp’.

Harmion makes a jaw motion with her hands, ‘The fear of the chomp!’

‘Demetria! Why?’ Cyniska asks.

She asks it so loudly and seriously that silence falls once again.

Shit, do I sound like a bitch?

Should I continue?

No.

Wait.

I don’t like this feeling.

She asks, ‘You want to be a mother?’

Harmion looks at her fellow Helots. It’s been a long, long while since any reminder of the hierarchical difference between themselves and the princess,

and now an obvious question lingers in the air.

They’re wondering if you’re going to allow a baby in your home.

They all know I’ll be generous with them forever—

—but they also know about the drama with your mama.

Should I just reassure her?

That option feels something like tightness in her gut.

‘Do you?’ Cyniska asks again. ‘Mother. Do you want to be a mother?’

‘Well, really…’ Demetria ventures with mouse-like bravery. ‘I just wanted to feel his seed inside me’.

Cyniska’s hard face softens.

Laughter livens up the room again.

When they can breathe again, Cyniska stands up from the table and waves Demetria over. Both squeeze and cradle each other side-to-side.

The princess whispers a promise to Demetria: ‘Whatever you and your baby need, okay?’

‘I love you’, Demetria says as the tears begin.

‘I love you’.

‘We love you too!’ Ethalia says as she and Harmion join in for squeezes.

. .

.

Who knows what hour it is.

Cyniska lies in bed and can hear Demetria in her room hymning to probably the Pregnancy Goddess.

She thinks back on the day she went to the Helot village of Amyclae and met what were now her best friends.

‘I’ll buy her’, Cyniska told the man.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Sorry. My apologies, my princess. I only mean—’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Apologies again, my princess’.

‘No. What do you mean by that? I want to know’.

‘It’s just that—she’s just unable to get pregnant’.

Cyniska looked at the girl, his daughter, who shook her head just the slightest but most noticeable bit and rolled her eyes.

‘What business is that of yours?’ Cyniska asked the man.

‘I just mean—’

‘And now you’re talking back?’

‘Sorry. My apologies. I sincerely apologize’.

‘Hey, Hun’, Cyniska said to the man’s daughter. ‘Do you want to come live with me for a while? See if you like it?’

The girl turned and took another look at her father, but not to check with him, per se, but more like to assess the situation, judging by her expression. ‘This is a real choice?’

‘This is a real choice’, Cyniska said.

She glanced again at her father, then asked Cyniska, ‘I don’t have to get pregnant?’

‘I’d honestly rather you not’, Cyniska said.

Both smiled, and the girl said, ‘Okay’.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Demetria’.

No, wait, I’d never write just for the money. A hack, I am not (yet).

I’m doing this for the craft, the brevity of spirit moving through me.

All this is just hooplah so my first post isn’t just excerpts from my book, presented coldly without formally introducing myself.

I’ve been calling myself T.S.

Not sure how I feel about it.

Yes, those are my initials, but like any great artist, I second-guess what might be working.

Stupid Grammarly’s trying to correct the soul out of my post, fuckin thing.

Hey, so, wanna come for a ride? It’s called Starving Artist. Sometimes I make art, and sometimes I starve myself in the 21st-century healthy style known as fasting.

We’ll see if I can make some people who respect me give me money so I can continue making more stuff that they respect me for.

Oh no, wait, I’m supposed to act like it’s all for the craft.

I’m crafting a starving artist’s life, and you get to bear (bare?) witness to the manifesto.

This year I’ve got at least one novel I plan to release, and I’ve currently got a YouTube channel going wherein I analyze film and TV stories.

Here’s one of my latest shorts:

https://youtube.com/shorts/6vF-oXxStUY?feature=share

The book will be unlike anything you’ve ever read. I’ve certainly never seen such a thing. And I know the tired old BS of ‘there are no new stories’ (debatable).

This book will be a historical fiction told in a style that combines, I’d say, David Szalay, Quentin Tarantino, and the classic Rocky.

Spatial syntax is my jam.

I’ve been told

it also reads

like poetry.

You’ll see. Next post.