http://www.sffworld.com/forums/blog.php?24068-Task-Force-Gaea en Thu, 23 May 2013 06:26:17 GMT vBulletin 25 http://www.sffworld.com/forums/images/misc/rss.jpg http://www.sffworld.com/forums/blog.php?24068-Task-Force-Gaea http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?8891-NEW-Glossary-of-Immortals-—-FREE! Sun, 21 Oct 2012 03:37:34 GMT To help readers of Task Force: Gaea with knowing more background of "who's who," they can download a FREE PDF download of [URL="https://docs.google.com/open?id=0B4AApYWlF024MUc1NzhkakxLLWs"]Glossary of Immortals[/URL], a brief overview of just who the gods are, complete with pronunciation guide.

If you encounter a problem downloading the document, please email me at [email]tchrofengl@gmail.com[/email]. ]]> tchrofengl http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?8891-NEW-Glossary-of-Immortals-—-FREE! http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?8539-Pssst-Teaser-from-the-sequel-Memory-s-Curse Wed, 10 Oct 2012 01:43:34 GMT A swirling blackness, Nyx moved and shaped herself in ways that would stagger the mortal mind, collapsing into eddies of dark, living clouds, ready to bear her offspring implanted in her by Olympos’ adulterous king. With the catacombs of the dead for her nursery, Nyx wanted to bring forth her... A swirling blackness, Nyx moved and shaped herself in ways that would stagger the mortal mind, collapsing into eddies of dark, living clouds, ready to bear her offspring implanted in her by Olympos’ adulterous king. With the catacombs of the dead for her nursery, Nyx wanted to bring forth her daughter in the company of the agonized, pitiable souls of those who had never made it beyond the gates of the underworld; they had much to offer her child. Suddenly, almost as if she had forgotten her role in the cosmos, her surging form shot forth toward the exit of Tartaros, a cave entrance kissed by the air that mortals breathe. As she neared the opening, bright Hemera, the day itself, descended into the deepest Hadean depths, and both [I]Protogenoi[/I], the primordials, touched ever so briefly before Nyx bubbled forth into the air, becoming the blanket of obscurity over part of Gaea—Night and Day in a forever dance.

Taking her place in the sky, Nyx felt it was time: her daughter would enter the world in a way no other elder god had.

• • •

Megara, Greece. 1000 B.C.

Screams of torment and railing pain cut at the air like talons, ripping apart the peace of the healer’s tent in the cultist’s sanctuary, a humble place here in the mortal world where those afflicted by madness came to embrace the darkness of Nyx. A woman, crazed with murderous thoughts and tortured dreams, reclined on a woven grass mat, her wrists and ankles bound with worn leather straps anchored to the ground to prevent her from hurting herself—or others. Her eyes as black as Erebos, the darkness itself, she became the ideal choice for this birth, a living receptacle for Nyx. Her madness would mix well with the darkness. Ancient primordial entered her human host and the body took on the pregnant form, bloating the abdomen with life.

Soon, echoing cries interlaced with unintelligible mutterings escaped the woman's lips while the healer, his white chiton stained from years of patient’s blood, knelt ready to extract the newborn, eager to come forth; he was certainly ignorant of what would come. He preferred the crimson patches on his garment, to help him remember each forced amputation or sutured wound, usually brought about by a stony fragment or stick used during an arcane ritual to Nyx. This cult was bound by anarchy, it would seem, and spontaneous fights were common. Night incarnate had selected well, largely to reflect the chaos within, but also to see what it would feel like to push her progeny forth as a mortal would. That connection to humanity would prove so very useful.

Following a pain-induced shriek, a volcanic spray of blood and placenta erupted forth as the part human, part primordial being pushed her way into the world of Humankind without the benefit of the healer’s aid. Wiping the sanguine discharge from his face, the healer caught a glimpse of this child, and as he felt his psyche melt, he gouged out his own eyes with his fingers, mumbling as his intellect fragmented, foaming at the mouth like a rabid beast. A mortal mind could not comprehend such a primordial in her true form. Soon, he lay still, and the entity hovered over to the lifeless body, draining it of whatever soul still remained as a child takes sustenance from its mother. Not even Hades would want the remnants of the empty corpse, as it had no spirit to wander the underworld.

Nyx exited the woman’s spent body—now a lifeless, vacant shell—and coalesced around her daughter, ready to take her back to Tartaros where the newborn would mature among the imprisoned Titans, Gaea’s children buried beneath stone and Zeus’ curse, and there she would feed off ancient energy originating from Khaos, the mother of the cosmos herself. In such a place of despair, this child would find solace near yet another tomb, a place no mortal could ever see, and no god would ever go. She would grow accustomed to the dead chill of whose presence no one spoke, for fear even mentioning the name of he who was buried there would rouse him—Kronos, the Titan king.

As the Moirae wove the fate of Humanity and the gods, so too did they forge the path of those who outranked them. Part of Fates’ tapestry would form a path for the daughter of Nyx, whom she called Lismonia.

Bony fingers on the loom, bound by duty and a yearning, trembled with each pass, and the fabric it brought forth for Zeus' daughter bore the color of blood.

• • •

In Tartaros once more, Nyx awaited the return of Hemera, bright Day, so she might become the night sky, an eternal balance she had struck when Gaea was young. While Lismonia drifted around the Titans’ rocky tombs, she absorbed even the faintest traces of energy from within the encasements, energy tainted by hatred of the other Olympeian gods—especially Zeus, her father. She felt their rage, their unremitting, seething rage against the youngest son of Kronos. Like mother’s milk, this life force leached through the stone into Lismonia, and her cloud-like, tentacled form roiled like a storm-battered sea with every acerbic drop. Each of the Titans, left alive but entombed within Gaea’s shell, remembered the day Zeus’ scythe took their lord’s life, returning his energy to Khaos. Each remembered the sacred pact of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, the one that turned their own mother, Gaea, against them. Mother Earth was nothing if she was not loyal to prophecy, the very one that foretold of Kronos’ demise by his son’s hand.

Lismonia glided further away from her mother, tumbling over the rock-strewn floor until even she felt the gelid tomb, the one place in all of creation not even the gods visit. Surrounding the earth sarcophagus, she waited to feel that familiar electric sensation of life, but... nothing. Her frustration subsided as she comprehended what she had learned from the Titans: Kronos, the son of Gaea and Ouranos, the king of the Titans, truly was no more.

After her feeding, she wanted to explore her new home, like any curious child, and found the path to the place where she knew she could find the one she needed to meet, the one she needed to see, the one she needed to kill—Zeus—for he not only had abandoned her mother, as he had so many others, he was despised by the Titans, and it was their hatred that fueled her. The journey to Olympos from Tartaros, even for Nyx’s daughter, would take time. Immune to mortal constructs, she could not be bound by chain or rope, by solid or ether, but time had neither shape nor form, matter nor mind—and it could affect her. No matter, however. She would eventually reach the sacred mountaintop, and she would ensure that Zeus understood what it meant to abandon her. Making her way through Hades, though, would teach her much, if nothing else, how nourishing souls could be.

Through the fields of gray asphodel, Lismonia wended her way, rolling like a black tide. Spirits of the dead—pale mist swirling with no human resemblance—paid her no mind, neither knowing nor caring who she was, and they continued to wander through the fields as the billowing daughter of Nyx wafted around them. Near Hades’ palace of inky marble columns, striated with wispy bits of white, she stopped, looking like a storm cloud that had lost its buoyancy. This was Hades, she thought, the underworld where the dead found their solace or their suffering. She had already felt the deep, aching torment from the Titans, raw emotions able to carve into the densest stone, and now she felt at home. Onward she moved, undulating, rolling across the realm, finding her bearings, until she saw her kin. Hovering on scaly black wings behind the Hall of Judgment, their arms and legs entwined with serpents, three sisters tormented a human soul not yet ethereal, but not corporeal. Having drowned his newborn child, this once mortal would go to Tartaros, forever enduring punishments not fit for humans to comprehend. Such was the will of Rhadamanthys, Aeacos, and Minos, the three judges of the underworld. Each had been a son of Zeus and mortal, rewarded for his good deeds with this post, and so they spoke in one voice, “[I]Tartaros shall lay claim to you, and none shall discern your screams amid those whose voices you join.[/I]”

Despite lacking a corporeal body, this former human felt every talon strike ripping through what remained, every snakebite and the venom each released, every contemptuous gesture, and he would never again know peace. One of the three winged goddesses, Tisiphone, took perverse pleasure in bringing anguish to him, the murderer of the innocent; the other Erinyes, Alekto and Megaera, assisted in his torment. Daughters of Nyx, by Ouranos, and sisters to Lismonia, they only relented when their cloud-like sibling moved closer. With only thought, she conveyed her contempt for Zeus and all of Olympos, relaying how the god of the sky had abandoned their mother. She was going to Olympos for a reckoning, to tear down the oligarchy of the gods one by one, starting with her father who had wronged the Protogenoi. Lismonia had few emotions known to her for one so young, but the Erinyes saw her pain, felt her yearning. To demonstrate her desire, she swirled around the tortured soul before them, exacting her own revenge on him for his heinous crime. None who knew him would ever remember he existed—such was her power—but his spirit would remember the egregious harm he had done to his infant girl. How fortuitous, Lismonia thought, that he had tripped on a stone after committing the deed, cracking open his skull. As his blood leached into the earth, Hermes dragged his soul to the underworld to face judgment. And now what was left of him went to Tartaros, to endure whatever agony he deserved, knowing no one would ever mourn him or feel the finest shred of pity.

Lismonia took her leave of her sisters, heading directly for the caverns that stretched out beneath Mount Olympos. Magaera and her sisters followed. ]]> tchrofengl http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?8539-Pssst-Teaser-from-the-sequel-Memory-s-Curse http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?5223-Goodreads-Giveaway Sat, 01 Sep 2012 06:31:41 GMT Half an hour until this Giveaway begins! TEN books! http://bit.ly/PL5HZI Half an hour until this Giveaway begins! TEN books! [url]http://bit.ly/PL5HZI[/url] ]]> tchrofengl http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?5223-Goodreads-Giveaway http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?5193-Redefining-Horror—Can-You-Face-It Mon, 13 Aug 2012 03:48:26 GMT How do you define horror? The dictionary defines it as *An intense feeling of fear, shock, or disgust* OR *A thing causing such a feeling.* In truth, is that all? Can you look at movies of demonic possession or nights of the living dead and call that horror? What about Friday the 13th movies... How do you define horror? The dictionary defines it as

[B][COLOR="Red"]An intense feeling of fear, shock, or disgust[/COLOR][/B] OR [COLOR="Red"][B]A thing causing such a feeling.[/B][/COLOR]

In truth, is that all? Can you look at movies of demonic possession or nights of the living dead and call that horror? What about Friday the 13th movies or I am Legend? Of course. But, there's much more to it, I believe.

I've never been a fan of the horror genre—it scares the hell out of me. But, what I've seen or read has more to do with what we see: demons, monsters, vampires, etc. Those things do frighten, but mostly because they're aberrations to our eyes and our imagination. But, horror goes deeper than the things that go "bump in the night." This fear we feel is more than just a reaction to what our eyes and ears tell us: it has to do with what our mind perceives.

Imagine looking in a mirror and seeing your face, but you have no idea who it is. It doesn't even look remotely familiar to you. No matter what reflective surface you use, you can't escape this person—ever. If you were never able to see your own reflection, never able to know how others truly see you, that would bring shock, I'd think. Paranoia, too. Levels of anxiety that would be almost impossible to measure. Madness. Violence.

Close your eyes and think about darkness. What if that very darkness, the absence of light, was itself an entity, one that could surround you, suffocate you, without ever truly touching you? Instead of the darkness simply being a condition, it was a creature beyond shape, beyond true comprehension. Where does it end? You walk outside surrounded by it, embraced by it, yet it never seems to touch you. It does, however, play tricks on you because your imagination is being fed by your paranoia, your prior history with the darkness, and even your most irrational fears.

We create our own horror, too. Our assumptions can come to life, especially when we're vulnerable, and we let our mind and thoughts give way to our unthinkable ideas. If we just think it, it's not true, right? If we don't voice the idea, it can't hurt us, right?

Perhaps this: you encounter an evil so incomprehensible that, when it approaches you, you offer yourself up as a sacrifice willingly. It's not that you become its servant or host, you become its sustenance. Imagine wanting to give up your life to something so, so malevolent. You let it disembowel you, or slit your throat, or eat your head. What would drive a person to be so self-sacrificing in a way that simply yields to a greater power?

Creatures emerge from the underworld, or the sea, or the sky, and—with supernatural ease—prey on you, devour you, drain your life's essence, all while you're conscious. Perhaps this entity is so vile, so beyond your brain's capacity to understand, that you rip out your own eyes at the sight of it.

We always assume darkness is evil because it obscures things, hides the hideous from us, until it's upon us and we can do nothing. But, what if the light was what we had to fear? What if the cover of darkness was our solace, and the sunrise made us shriek in fits or made our heart race because we knew we had nowhere to hide, nowhere to avoid that which comes for you?

Horror goes beyond the visual and auditory; it's more about perception and deep-rooted anxieties of ancient cultures that we carry with us throughout our life. Millennia of stories have taught us to fear that which we do not understand, but perhaps that which we do understand could bring more destruction to us.

Be ready for what comes, because you just might not expect it when it does. ]]> tchrofengl http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?5193-Redefining-Horror—Can-You-Face-It http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?5176-Sometimes-you-have-to-say-goodbye Tue, 07 Aug 2012 18:31:55 GMT to something you're writing. Tell me if this sounds familiar:

You've had ideas floating around your mind for days—you set up the place you're going to work in, grab a cup of coffee, turn off your cell phone, and begin writing, pouring out all of the images, words, catchy phrases, and greatness you're thinking you've just given birth to. You spend hours, maybe even days, on this treasure you've brought to the surface, only to find out (when you go back to edit) that it's crap.

Drek. Merde. Garbage. Fecal matter.

It's not that the ideas themselves may be entirely rotten to the core, but the execution was. Maybe it's both. What you thought was divinely inspired was just purple prose. You try to convince yourself that there's something salvageable about it, but the more you read it, the more your heart hurts. It happens. So, you do the thing that makes you ready to cry: you open the document, highlight the text, and... hit Delete. Painful, isn't it.

The other scenario is no less frustrating: you offer your story up to someone for feedback, and he says,

[I]"This chapter wasn't for me, the reader. This was for you. You needed to work out the kinks of the character (scene, plot, tension, conflict, etc.). So, now that you know this, you should just cut this."
[/I]
That means the pages or chapters that you thought were the most inspired words only served to be literary calisthenics, prep work for the real deal later on. Again, you delete the text, demoralized and ready to grab a shot of whiskey.

A dear friend of mine, who read my novel before it was published, told me that chapters of my novel were unnecessary for the reader. So, I did what any good writer should do: I sat in a dark room for a while, wallowing in my self-pity for — oh — about an hour, and then I took a deep, cleansing breath before re-reading those chapters, seeing if it was even remotely possible that my friend was correct.

And he was.

I rewrote sections of my novel, excising parts (saving them in another file!) that I had truly loved but realized were not going to advance the plot. But, I found that by doing that, I actually freed up soooooooo much space to develop the ideas that really mattered. The pain diminished, the despair went away, and I felt much more pride in my work.

Saying goodbye to part of your own soul is hard, but when you know you can replace with it with an even better part, the farewell isn't quite that bad after all.

Until the next time it happens... ]]> tchrofengl http://www.sffworld.com/forums/entry.php?5176-Sometimes-you-have-to-say-goodbye