rogueintellectproductions

Here you'll find some of my writing over the years. In order to keep the page from taking OVER THE WORLD, I've put a little preview of each story and a link to the rest, should you be interested. My favorite authors are W.P. Kinsella, Andrew Vachss, and Neil Gaiman, and you can probably see a little bit of them in each of my stories.

(This is the original version of the story I had submitted for the Otakon 2006 program guide.)

“Ten years later, and here I am, back at the scene of the crime. I can’t help but be drawn to this place, this sleepy little community at the end of the Light Rail. My palms are sweaty, my breath short, my heart skips a beat. The ghosts of my past haunt me, compel me to pay homage to the events of a decade prior.”

The rest of the story.

And though I shall ever walk the Valley of Shadows, I shall know no fear, for I know my Goal is Just, and Good, and Right.

And neither shall I look to the right of me, nor shall I look to the left of me, for I shall only see the Shadows of others.

Nor shall I look behind me, for I shall only see my own Shadow.

The rest of the story.

Pastiche 0 - The Shadows Run

Darkness fell hard like a wobbly drunk, and brought its old pal silence with it.  These streets that were so full of salarymen trying to flee the monotony of their careers to the monotony of their home lives now played host only to our merry little gang of misfits.  We brought our Nikons and Sonys, our Pentels and Staedtlers, anything we could find to record our machinations and misadventures in the concrete canyons known as Wall Street.  We sought quick thrills, cheap laughs, and the perfect pose all for the sake of art, and like so many things in my life, I was along for the ride.  My talents lay not with the image, as they did with my art-school co-conspirators.  I was the wordsmith, or rather, I fancied myself so, so I spent much of the time on these jaunts trying to burn the sights into my brain for later recall.  And while I did project a pensive, distracted air, I also proved to be quite distant and detached, even to my closest friends.

Or is that too self-indulgent a way to introduce oneself?

The rest of the story.

Uncle Bunny hates his life,
His screaming children, his nagging wife

The stack of bills that's a mile high
(and still his family charges all they buy!)

The rest of the story.

July 12, 2004 8:30 AM

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

I’m not sure which two words more accurately describe how I feel right now.

Let me start over. It’s so hard to focus on what I want to say. After all, this is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to write.

I’m afraid this is going to be my last journal entry. Tomorrow I’m being admitted to the hospital, and I won’t be able to update this blog any longer. My body is on its last legs, so to speak - okay, I know, bad joke, but bad jokes are all I have left to offer.

The rest of the story.

Hank waited impatiently in the drizzling rain for the taxi to arrive; he carefully gripped his battered suitcase, protective of its secrets...

For the past three months, Hank had worked day and night on his thesis. Today he had the opportunity to present his theories to the preeminent scientists of the nation - if only he could get to the lecture hall in time. A body can only suffer so much sleep deprivation before it revolts against its owner, Hank mused; after all, only rational numbers repeat infinitely. The irony was that chaos would choose to enter his life this particular day.

The rest of the story.

"Whenever the word of baseball is brought unto the scene, something happens.  You can't go out under your own power, under your own light, your own strength, and expect to accomplish what baseball can accomplish."           
                                    Eddie Scissons
                                    Shoeless Joe by W. P. Kinsella

    There was a time when there were only two leagues, eight teams each.  A time when a western swing covered St. Louis and Chicago, for  American League and National League alike.  A time when teams played during the day on real grass, when the pitcher batted ninth and home run hitters were the toast of the town.  A time when the average major leaguer earned less than ten thousand dollars a year, and had to take a 'real' job during the winter.  A time when soda was served in bottles, peanuts were roasted in the ballpark, and 100% pure beef hot dogs were served fully-cooked and ready to eat.  But most of all, it was a time when baseball's magical powers were at their peak, and somewhere, somehow, a new conjuring trick was performed every day.

The rest of the story.

You wake up.  The clock radio is playing a concerto.  Mozart.  It is one of your favorite pieces of music, superb both in technique and emotion.  You lie still, listening to the cheerfulness of a viola attempting to uplift a lamenting cello.  The music brings tears to your eyes, but you cannot understand why.

The rest of the story.

It was another beautiful summer day at the beach, the kind that romance authors dream of.  Hardly a cloud in the pale blue sky, thermometer holding steady at 75 degrees, the distant cry of a lone sea bird drifting along in the slight breeze.  Off to the north, one could see Rehoboth Beach, with the red-and-white Dolle's Taffy sign standing out like the landmark it is.  To the south, there was only miles upon miles of nearly empty sand, and to the east, the Atlantic Ocean, at once both tranquil and turbulent.  If one looked long enough, he might even catch a glimpse of a dolphin breaking the surface of the water just a few hundred yards offshore.

The rest of the story.

You are listening to music from the Witch Hunter Robin OST.