Sample Chapter: Path of the Wizard

You know this dance by now. Here’s a sample chapter from another novella. Remember, all these sample chapters are rough drafts. They haven’t even been proofread yet.

All ideas and concepts and all that other shit by Will Truex — The Disfigured, 2013


“Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“The ground. It’s rumbling. Moving beneath our feet.” He gathered his robes and lifted them, looking at his bare and dirty feet. Pebbles had begun to move. “See? See? Look Ronah!”

Ronah looked below her, her robes shorter than her brother’s. Sure enough, the pebbles were starting to move, and the tremors started to become more intense. A thunderclap of footsteps approached from the west, and a train of birds flew without direction away from the disturbance.  The distinct sound of snapping wood got louder and louder.

“A giant?” Ronah said.

“A giant.” Her brother said.

“Is it headed towards Melgor?” Ronah asked.

“No, no. No. It’s headed towards the college. Look.”

A colossal humanoid crashed through the forest, causing the two siblings to run for cover. It carried a massive spine from an unknown creature as its club with thick bands of iron bent and jammed amongst the vertebrae, probably scavenged from the hull of a galleon. It reeked of body odor and dirt, its skin greasy with sweat and grime. It wore only a loincloth.

This was no ordinary giant.

Well over the canopy of the forest, the beast’s face could only be seen from the underside. The siblings watched in absolute horror as its loathsome nostrils flared, sniffing the air. It wasn’t long before they got a good look at the abomination’s face as it snapped its eyes to their hiding spot. The giant’s face was twisted in feverish anger, its lips curled back revealing two rows of tiny, blunt teeth in the front. Its eyes widened, the lenses glowing as the light shifted.

The siblings clutched at one another, paralyzed with fear. The giant new they were there it seemed, but couldn’t pinpoint where. A massive bead of sweat rolled off its nose, crashing to the forest floor. A plume of dust and pine needles rose before them not ten feet away.

“Geryl, we have to distract it.” Ronah whispered.

“How?” Geryl returned. “Be quiet.”

The giant crushed them with his hand. It ground their corpses into the dust, and then licked the gore clean from its palm. It stood erect once more, peering over the canopy, and saw the College of Demonic Studies in the distance. The giant screamed in fury and ran full speed at the structure.

The college was thrown into panic when the lookouts saw the giant coming. All except one. He crossed the courtyard deliberately, gently pushing the panicking students and faculty to the side. He step out from the main gate just as it closed, and started to walk towards the giant’s warpath.

His robes were black with silver hemming, the garb of a master. His face was stoic before such violence, and a hot desert breeze pushed sand into his graying beard. His eyes hid beneath his brow, the brim of his hat protecting his eyes from the glare off the bone white sand. He stopped moving about a hundred feet from the college’s front gate. He dropped his walking stick, and rolled his sleeves up.

It was a struggle to keep his footing as beast charged forward, its terrible club held high, its roar like demonic thunder. He winced at the sheer volume of it, but stood his ground. The wizard’s right hand balanced a turbulent sphere of energy that hummed and churned with unbelievable power. He cast his hand out, and a sphere flew from his hand faster than an arrow, aimed right for the creature’s right kneecap.

It hit home, making the beast trip and fall. The wizard did nothing, standing there. The chaos and screaming from the college had fallen silent. They were all watching this wizard fight the raw fury of nature, hand to hand- mind to mind.

The giant rose with alarming speed, and changed his target. It roared at the wizard, an object of its pain and fury. It swung its club downward upon the wizard. It lifted the club to see if his target was dead, but there was nothing in the massive impact crater his swing had created. The wizard reappeared on the beast’s left flank, immediately drawing its attention  and provoking another swing. The wizard pushed his palms out, clenching his teeth. A massive pillar of sand rose and flew forward like a cannonball, aimed directly for the giant’s fist clutching the club. It’s hand flew backwards with the force of the strike, the club flying backwards and down into the Abyssal Maw.

Now infuriated, the giant charged the wizard with its fists clenched, its eyes wide and vacant, its mouth foaming. The wizard lifted his hands into the air and ignited two double helix shaped pillars of fire. He clenched his fists, all the while the giant still getting closer, and smashed them together. The shockwave knocked the giant off balance, and when it regained its footing, the wizard launched a twisting column of searing hot fire from the middle of his outstretched arms. The smashed into the giant’s face, making it howl in agony and stumble away from the flames.

When it pulled his hands from its face, a charred skull grinned back at the wizard; the giant’s face had been completely burned off. It started to advance, and then collapsed face first into the sand. It wasn’t long before it stopped breathing.

The wizard pulled his sleeves back down and picked up his walking stick. “Fuck you, cocksucker.” He said, and walked back to the college.


Sometimes I think that the whole world is just one big sphere of burning shit, and we are all merely looking for a cool spot.

I hate everyone in the godamn planet, starting with myself. Therefore, I project my self hatred onto everything I see, much like the bullies that tormented me when I was young.

At least that’s what I should be doing. No, I’ve decided, because I’m a fuckin’ genius, that I’ll turn all my outward hatred inward, to add on top of all the inner hate brewing! Misery loves company, and I am my only friend sometimes.

Every day is a new excuse to hate.

Being a human, hate is my favorite thing in the world. I hate people I encounter that “wrong” me, I hate people that wrong others, and I hate myself. Especially when I am too fuckin’ angry and depressed to get off my ass and actually DO something to make myself feel better.

Let me clue you assholes in if you weren’t listening, or if you’re stupid. The world is basically a knot of bullshit, and life is you trying to untangle that without any help from anybody else (REAL help). When you’re dead, well then! Hope you got a straight fuckin’ chord to be proud of, because the only thing that’s gonna give two shits about your fuckin’ caracass in 50 years is the fuckin’ grave.

Every single day is an act in willpower to be civil. To be kind and turn the other cheek, to be mild and submissive, like all good little FUCK slaves should. Yeah, just open your fuckin’ mouth and let life shoot a nice thick bolt of semen down your throat, because that is essentially what waking up feels like.

There’s no inspirational message here! There’s no…happy ending! Life is a brutal fucking struggle to the day you die, and those of us who are rich? Fuck you. Fuck you for everything you have, and fuck your family too. Most of all? Fuck ME for allowing myself to even say and think these things for THAT is my greatest folly.

I’ve simply become a “unique” hybrid of everything I hate, and there is not a single fucking thing I can do about it until I can accept that.

Every point made in this blog is moot. There is no point. There is no message. Don’t fuckin’ listen to me. Hate me, because that’s what all men and women like me deserve.

My Opinions are Poisonous- But they are Mine

Here are my opinions. Hopefully I can spark some discussion among you all.

Most of the time, I write with gritted teeth and an ember of white hot hate in my heart. This world I view, I look at it through tired metaphors for eyes, and cliche comparisons to the aging process and how I’m becoming more and more of an adult. Every tiny thing that we are forced to bare witness to chips away at the very fabric of what we are. Television, movies, video games, books, magazines, commercials. You name it. In lieu of brainwashing theories I substitute hatred. Hatred in its purest form, unbiased except for my own disposition and belief systems.

How do you picture your hate? Hmm? Is it a burning fire, or a raging Goliath? Me? I picture my hate as an infinite puddle of black ink, unable to reflect its surroundings. It is sticky, venomous, and absolutely thrilling. I love hating. I love hatred. I love anger. Pain. I like to inflict it upon my enemies, and I like to feel it within myself.

Understanding such things are alien to most. I sit and watch as each moment ticks away, each moment grows longer and less defined and all I can feel is apathy and hate. Hate is always there. And anger is soon to follow. Know what I saw today? Angelina Jolie makes her first public appearance after she decided to have a preemptive mastectomy. And she was showered with accolades and praise. Fuck her and fuck her titties. It’s not news.

People in Turkey are getting fucked up. Some poor bastard overseas got run over and decapitated by two assholes hiding behind the guise of Islam. John Holmes’ insanity plea was taken, so he won’t be prosecuted like the rest of us. Michael Jackson’s parasitic family is trying to suck more money out of some hapless bastard that had contact with MJ before he died. Almost in the same month, another pedophilia accusation was placed up against Jackson. Why? Not for justice of course. The “victim” was seeking cash reparations.

Good people do good deeds nowadays. Donating to the poor, the sick, the discarded. Some people save other people’s lives in hospitals, on the street, on the job. Fuck em’. Know why? They see that god is watchin’. They see that god is watchin’, and the know that the great big karma train is coming around again to pick them up and take them to a better place. They live in fear, terrified of the world and all the evil and good in it. They are weak. And I despise them.

I am all for abortion. I am all for gay marriage. I’m all for more background checks and less gun control. I’m all for legalizing all drugs. I am all for vigilantism. And I am a staunch supporter of road rage. Militant Atheism is more close-minded than ANY religion, and intellectualism never existed because humans are able to shove body parts together and exchange fluid. I believe that suicide is cowardly and selfish. I believe that bullies should be prosecuted as adults, regardless of age. I believe that those being bullied should stand up and fight back, and not by telling their parents or teachers, but with a quick punch to the throat and then a knee to the face.

We are alone in this world. All of us. We marry, we date, we get roommates. We find fuck buddies, friends, acquaintances. But will always be alone. We come into the world alone, and we should all die alone. In violence. Not in illness or of an old, peaceful age. But one of violence. A car crash, a gunfight, a nasty bar room melee. The world…the whole world has gone soft. It’s not the violence we commit, or the destruction we bring. It’s not the fear, the cowardice, the back room politics.

We, all of humanity, is a race of cowards. We stand up for nothing, and we ignore injustice. And we do finally make a stand, it is typically with a petition, or a fuckin’ protest sign, rather than with a fist and our guts filled with fire. All the figures that have stood as an inspiration to so many are full of shit. There are no idols. There is no ONE god. There are no good causes, or bad causes. There are merely people inflicting pain or pleasure on one another, and we just choose sides. Morality has become a massive grey area that we all fall prey to. We know what is right and wrong. We are not products of our environment, we are products of our soul. We all commit evils. We all commit good. But we no longer have a spine.

Weakness and ignorance are the two greatest threats to this planet and the “peace” that can never be achieved. There is no room for compromise because all opposing sides are so desperately trying to be right. But there’s one thing I can say with certainty. One thing that I can take a stand on, and allow it to guide me. But I realized something quickly after writing this last paragraph.

…I never came up with anything. So what does that make me?

I don’t fucking care what it makes me. All I care about is what I can do in spite of it.


Intensity has followed me since I was a child. Focus not so much.

Time comes, and time goes. But when we exist within it, we can truly make our mark. Motivation, skill, talent, understanding, knowledge. These things come if we are open to them, and willing to work for them. And I am starting to see that many of my problems, personal, professional, you name it, stem from myself. Myself and how I react to different situations.

I am not proud do say that I am petty and bitter. Angry. Unforgiving. I am proud to say that I am kind, compassionate, and peaceful at heart. I exist in constant contradiction, which causes conflict that is not welcomed, or unwelcome. It is accepted. So here comes the question, what the FUCK is this asshole writing about? Focus. That’s what I’m writing about. Focus.

Determination and focus should go hand in hand, and eventually, they should lead you to a zenith where they can both slice through any problem, any excuse, any qualm. And expose your true path. If you read my last entry, I’m shifting my focus a little bit. I still very much want to complete Blestemul, but my mind…my mind gets bored very quickly. Being locked in a shifting prison of haphazard thought has pros and cons. Fuck, now I’m rambling.

I wanna try something different!

I am going to start my own legitimate business very soon. An engine that serves all aspects of my life as a writer. Whether or not I make money is irrelevant at this moment. The point is, I want to try something different.

But this entry isn’t all about me and my new business venture. No, that was just a launchpad for the true purpose of this entry. Focus. Every single one of you have tremendous power within you. And I don’t mean that “YOU’RE SPECIAL” kind of power. No, you have cognition and awareness. When paired with human ingenuity, curiosity and mortality, you are able to create and destroy at a moment’s notice.

So what are you doing with this power? As for me, I was wasting it. Maybe I still am, but I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna at least try to tap into the gifts of humanity. Not my personal “gifts”, no. Gifts that we, Homo sapiens, are created with, evolved to have. Each of us is an infinite well of creation and destruction, and each action we commit to the Earth changes us.

With all that power, how could you fail? Better yet, don’t answer that. Just act.

New Projects, Old Ideas

I have an idea.

I’ve been working a lot on Blestemul, but I’ve never undertaken a project this big before (it’s a long book, that’s all) and I find myself getting bored. Not to the point where I want to stop, mind you. No way. But I need something different to occupy my brain. I need to create something new. I don’t know why, and maybe? I don’t wanna know. But enough of that. Here’s my idea.

I’m thinking of creating a book, or a series of novellas, based on one character that is untouchable. Not invincible, untouchable. Undefeatable. And a whole shit ton of more -ables to come. Don’t think about the character, though. Think about this instead. What would you do if you could pursue any personal objective/mission/quest and know that you could not be stopped? I am creating a character that has no physical flaws, none, and can literally achieve any objective he puts his mind to.

Where’s the fun in that? Well. That’s the second part of my idea.

I plan to use this character as a way to express protest against modern issues and ideals for my own personal satisfaction. Think about all the travesties in the world. Think about all the people starving, dying, murders, rape, abuse, war, killing, destruction, etc. Think about how powerless you feel sometimes about these issues. Now imagine yourself being able to tackle these problems, alone, and solving them however you wished. Knowing full well that your agenda cannot be stopped. That’s the kind of character that I making, and that is the “lofty” goal I wish to achieve.

Say this plan takes off. I have a few more ideas that I want to put into play to see what happens. Just to find out how things will end up.

Humans for the most part cannot change the world. Activism, protest, petitions. They do good, true, but there aren’t enough well wishes, likes on facebook, donations, or philanthropists to solve the biggest problems we face everyday. War, for one, cannot be stopped by anything. But. What if you were the only thing that could stop it? What would you do?

That’s what this new book(s) will be exploring. The will of one man and that cannot be stopped, and how he can change the world. Am I writing it as an inspiration piece? Not really. In all honesty, I just really want to write about killing and maiming the enemies of humanity.

Boston and her Pain

The violence committed in Boston shouldn’t have been a shock to anyone.

Our world is churning with hate, and violence is inevitable in a planet where everyone is on top of one another. The bombing in Boston shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone. Why? Because violence is everywhere, and when we think we’re safe, we’re punished for our lack of attention.

Do I believe Boston deserved this attack? Absolutely fuckin’ NOT. 

I just don’t understand why we thought we were invulnerable.

I watched the news you know. Listened to people talking about the attack, hearing people say “is nowhere safe anymore?” I’ve also heard of people were looking for a scapegoat too dig into. Oh you name it, police, military, the president. It’s all their fault for letting us get attacked. For not seeing this happen. Not stopping it. The fault lies with the bomber.

That being said, when do we take some responsibility for our own safety?

I got news for you. The world isn’t safe. And this isn’t a modern day thing either, the old timers sayin’ that the world was a calmer, more gentle place in their time don’t know shit. Since its godamn inception out of the burning cosmic asshole that was the big bang, Earth has been a place of violence, terror, and death. When people say, “is nowhere safe anymore?” I find it so…tragic. No place was ever safe. Not anywhere. And the bombing in Boston proves it. Fuck, name any major attack (foreign or domestic) on the United States, they all stand as proof. And this shit happens daily in other counties, so how can we even think that this planet is safe?

Humans exist on a foundation of violence. It’s all we know. And it often takes such a terrible act of violence to open our eyes, and get each other to work together. Like 9/11. But oh, oh how quickly we forgot our patriotic duties once the hurt dissolved and time buried the event in the ethereal graveyard of our collective memories. And soon, Boston will pass away as an unfortunate event too. And we, humanity, won’t learn a godamn thing.

So here’s my fuckin’ lesson for you:

Stay alert. If you think you’re safe, you’re not. But don’t live in fear. Live in vigilance. Live in confidence. Be ready to fight, protect, or flee. Be ready to respond to crisis and violence. Be responsible for your own safety because we all don’t have a personal bodyguard at our side 24/7 to protect us. And when there is no one to protect us, who can we rely on? Stop thinking you’re safe because it will kill you. And when you hear someone say, “is nowhere safe anymore?” you can reply with confidence: “No. There isn’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to be afraid.”

May all those who died in the attack find peace, and may those who were hurt in the Boston bombing be of swift recovery, and may all of those effected by the bombing outside of the tangible victims find peace and understanding as they come to accept the new life that was forced upon them.

Writing with a Weapon

Events in the world today make me fucking sick.

As humanity drags itself along a shattered glass highway, leaving a trail of shit and blood for us all to follow, I cannot help but feel a glimmer of rage that burns until nothing but hatred is left behind. Hate is a strange thing. Directed, it can change the world. Unsupervised, it can destroy it- but let’s not talk about hate right now. Let’s talk about what we can do in a world that wants to keep us all under control.

The pen is mightier than the sword, I’ve heard. And I think that’s bullshit. A sword is something that we can all understand, a symbol of violence and death, or a symbol of order and justice. Or pick your own meaning. No, the pen isn’t mightier than the sword. They are both tools, and the sword is clearly the better tool. The writer is the real lethal weapon. Rather the mind, the human mind, so hopelessly complex and always changing, always shrouded in mystery. There is the true weapon. Creation. Imagination.

One could read into the above phrase and discern what I have said, but at its bare face value, I’ve always hated that godamn phrase. It’s so…one sided and ambiguously frank. Why write with a pen and ignore the sword? Why not write with a sword?

Write with a sword.

I like to wield writing as a weapon. I like to administer punishment for the people who read my work. Force atonement. Just once, just once with one piece of work. As I peer into the abyss that is this planet and all the humans on it, I find that the inky black soup that has become our collective soul as a species churns with violence and anger. Opinions, words, thoughts, they are lost in that abyss.

Me? I don’t think I’ll change the world. Or maybe I’m being humble. Or maybe, changing the world is my goal, but I don’t think I’m up to the task. Or maybe I’m just blowing a thick column of smoke up your ass. Smoke that comes from a special source- a pile of burning bullshit.

Who knows. Who cares? Not me.

Wield writing as a weapon, godamn you. I see too many writers censoring themselves, lacking confidence, lying to themselves, procrastinating. It makes me sick. Writers used to be hard and desperate people, not the elevated “literary” pseudo-intellectuals that enjoy the sound of their own voice, a voice that sounds to me like a sloppy shit.

Teachers, professors, literary agents, publishers, editors. They all tell you to write a certain way, to be refined, to make changes where you don’t want to make changes, to write what they want you to write, all the meanwhile, you are dying. Your creativity is dying. Why be refined? Why submit to format? Who gives a flying fuck about MLA rules? Citing your sources correctly? Who fuckin’ cares if my essay doesn’t have a godamn intro, body, and conclusion? Who the fuck are you to tell me how I should be fuckin’ writing? Nobody, that’s who.

Fuck the teachers. The professors, the literary agents, the publishers, editors, bosses, friends, acquaintances, proofreaders, police, politicians, fuck ’em all! They all seek to stifle your voice with formatting, rules, and/or censorship. No, no, no, use your writing like a weapon. Wield what you write, don’t read it! Where is your spine as a writer? Where has your fucking fire gone?

Get dirty! Write violence, fucking, dying, breeding- write what you feel and only what you feel, and if someone doesn’t like it, who. Gives. A. Flying. Fuck?

My next project is going to be just that. It is going to be a piece, or pieces, of writing that will be written with a sword. Too long have we all conformed to what our “teachers” and “leaders” have told us. I am writing a piece that will attack, that will punish, that will make people think differently through personal connection, or by completely hating me.

Do I want attention? I don’t know. All I know is I’m going to write without boundaries anymore. Without rules. I’m going to strike this planet with my words, and inflict the pain and anger that I have screaming inside of me that I cannot let out. I am going to write like a savage, and there is nothing this fuckin’ world and all its bullshit can do to stop me.

Don’t let it stop you, either.

Approaching the Zenith

Anticipation builds as I approach the most climatic moments of Blestemul.

As a writer, I find these feelings difficult to deal with. Sometimes, I can accept them. Channel them. Sometimes, the thought of finishing a book, or writing along to the end is very intimidating. It’s not the size of the project (a book is done when it’s done) its the…well fuck. I don’t know what it is. It’s a weird backwards anxiety that wants to be embraced and ignored all at the same time.

Writing hand to hand combat scenes, gunfights, large scale battles, these are things that are well, once again, intimidating. The violence and intensity, and the utter intimacy of combat is difficult to capture. And I still don’t know if I am doing it well enough. And it’s not just action sequences- there are many large and powerful plot points that are coming up, ones that will completely change the face of the book and allow it to go into a different direction. There’s a lot of pressure there, but then again, all I’m doing is tellin’ a story.

But that point is trivial. The feelings are still there.

Big moments in books come in many shapes and sizes, and they are all a little scary to face and actually flesh out. You name it: love scenes, loss scenes, pivotal parts where your protag meets your antag, killing important characters, dialogue, oh the list goes on and on, and every author worth their salt meets these challenges head on and the good ones execute with precision and merciless vocabulary. And the gravity of these plot points can be daunting to anyone that means to tell a story. But it must be done.

I guess the purpose of this entry was mostly confessional. I talk harsh, violent, and to the point, but I’m still a human wrapped in a greasy shell of meat, and I can still feel fear. Anxiety. Sheepish. And…I think that’s okay. Such vulnerabilities makes a better author, which in tern makes a better book. What about you?

How do you deal with such pivotal points in your stories? Novel or no, you’ve faced these challenges in fiction, and in different forms with non. Confess to us all. You’ll feel better.

And you’ll be a better writer for it.

Some Fantasies are Lived

My Aunt died over the weekend. She was a poet, in addition to many other things. I wanted to honor her, and share her skill with others.

I give you all the 2nd Place Winner in the 1979 New World’s Poetry contest, written by none other than Beverly Giambrese:

Some Fantasies are Lived
By Beverly Giambrese

I took a midnite boat to Corsica
where the Mediterranean
below cliffs of pink chateaus
carried the whore queen Cleopatra
safely to anchor her naked breasts
upon the shores of Caesar

Five miles out of town
where the people’s promenade
stretches toward Atlantis
I backpacked to a cove
where the fishermen
were unloading octopus and starfish
they told me strange stories
of slave traders from Afghanistan
whose teeth flash switchblades
at white women from America

The empty bottle of wine
rose in my cheeks
as I waited from my sleeping bag
to be sold


Rage and hate burn away all other emotions, but they leave behind toxic ashes.

One day at a time. Each day drags, one day at a time. Substances make time pass faster, make life more bearable. Wondering always if there is one more thing to worry about, to feel. Guilt. Regret? One more bolt of regret. A dagger skins the conscious being, never letting it feel peace. Piece. Chunks of it.

Every day the rage grows. It isn’t always at the forefront. Screaming, punching, breaking, slamming. It’s subtle sometimes, like an inert volcano. Magma bubbles beneath until that breaking point, that breaking point where there’s an eruption. I can feel you death. Your claws reach but can’t catch yet. Staring into the hollow pits you call eyes, beholding the horror of beyond.

What about death? What about it? Consider the moment of death, knowing that it’s coming. There is no cure, no one to help. Only death. Do we feel death arrive? Does it make a grand entrance, or does it merely stumble backstage as we live the last few moments of life, waiting like a proud parent when out performance is done?

Death and pain are friends, but they have separate lives. Death teaches us one lesson, but pain teaches many. Death and pain. Rage. There is nothing but anger and there aren’t enough places to scream on this planet to lose it all. The killing comes to mind, right? Stab wounds, gunshots, crushing, beating, burning, hanging, strangling, drowning, bleeding. All normal. All feelings that are valid. Every piece of it all fits into place.

One cannot be expected to sit here and read such ramblings.

Rage, flowing forth as a molten stream of ire and vigor, hotter than any star. Blood, pain, death, rage burns them all away. Happiness, acceptance, kindness, rage burns them too. Anger incinerates, and leaves behind a greasy, sooty mess that stains the godamn soul to its core. Not even blood taken in retribution can wash the ashen marks. The scars of hot embers.

Anger always has fuel. It’ll eat all I feed it, and I have too much to give. I am a furnace, and this world hates my anger. Peace. Peace is the way to go, but what if one is not peaceful? What if one is prone to violence, pain, hate, and death? What place is reserved for those who resist peace, or who cannot accept peace, or worst of all, is unable to accept peace?

Each moment of peace is perforated by guilt. Guilt of lost time towards important things. Each moment of peace is corrupted by the passage of time, one second ticking away after the other. Blood leaks, time passes, and death swings his scythe, one loping swath, clear-cutting, grisly bounty. Harvest.

I am tried. Tired and angry. Cold. Energy used for staying awake and being polite wants to be transformed towards more active imaginings. I am tired.

So tired.