August’s Son of Pictonaut effort ended up being very “stream of consciousness” on my part, as I mashed together bits and pieces as I wiki stumbled down a rabbit hole from Fukushima’s Wikipedia entry. As bizarre as it might sound, I actively encourage you to google snippets of the story as you encounter them and see how everything fits together. Or don’t. I’m not a cop.
This month’s “Son of Pictonaut” very nearly didn’t happen, devoid of inspiration I was conent to let it pass me by. At least until I was seized by an idea 3 days after the end of March.
This month’s image was “Person Going Through a Broken Wire Fence” by Zachary DeBottis on Pexels. On some level I felt a bit like I was channelling John Darnielle. Not necessarily in terms of style, but more in terms of “vibes.” I did after all, finish reading “Wolf in the White Van” last month. But what we have is a stream of consciousness piece that heavily references information I scraped from Wikipedia articles on historical events. Which events should hopefully become rapidly apparent once you start reading the story.
At lot of things have happened since the last post I made here, back at the arse end of 2016. I had a small nervous breakdown, my dad died, I bought a house, I got married. But one thing that there hasn’t been a lot of is writing. At least not fiction. I’ve got a short story of about five and a half thousand words that I started in the wake of my father’s death from what I have been quanitly calling “MEGA CANCER,” but it remains unfished. His suddden, but not unexpected beefing of the coil mortal isn’t really to blame for the lack of words, merely one of a myriad of other contributing factors. Other things have been the focus of my attention: my wonderful wife, picking up art again; fiction just hasn’t been a priority. Although I did release an RPG back in 2021 based on a setting I helped write , that was pretty neat. You can find RoadSpire here.
However, at the start of this month my good friend Sam resureccted the Piconaut Challenge (with my permission) under the name “Son of Pictonaut.” It would have been rude not to participate. So here we are, image in hand; the work of Caspar David Friedrich, the iconic The Wanderer above a sea of fog.
The story is a prequel of sorts to both Yogic and Shaman that I have cheerily titled “The Old Ways Must Die.” Enjoy.
It has been 107 days since I called the Pictonaut Challenge to an end. Since then this blog has remained eerily silent; dead, but dreaming; trapped in an uneasily and restless slumber. This is because I decided that I needed a bit of a holiday from writing. After three and a half years of constant self-imposed deadlines I was getting a little burnt out and my mind had begun to fray at the edges. Writing had become less than easy and less than rewarding. So what have I been doing with myself? Not a great deal that could be counted as productive, that’s for sure. It’s been a delightful spell of general pottering, television, computer games and reading. All without the looming spectre of deadlines and expectations. The rest has done me good, and although I don’t expect to restart the Pictonaut Challenge any time soon it has made any writing I’ve chosen to do a lot easier. Instead of staring at a screen for an entire day, battering my brains out and only having 200 words to show for it, I’ve actually gotten things done. Only last week I managed to knock out 1,800 words over the course of a day without so much as breaking a sweat. It was a refreshing change and reminded me that writing doesn’t necessarily have to be hard. Once I’m satisfied that my convalescence is at and end I might even find the time to finish those bigger projects which have been living on the back-burner for far too long. But in lieu of any actual new content, and being a scientist at heart, I thought I’d dig into some of the statistics from the Pictonaut Challenge.
It is over. It is done. The end is here and upon us. We have reached our terminus; our final destination. Please remember to take all of your personal ideas with you when you leave the blog. Stories left unattended will be removed and destroyed by security services. It’s been a hell of a journey, but we’re done now. I’d offer you a timetable for the resumption of service, but I don’t have one. You’ll have to keep a weather eye on the horizon and listen to the whispers on the wind; watch for signs, portents, omens and anything that just looks plain weird. Because no matter how hard you may try, some things just won’t stay dead. Some things will claw their way back up from even the most Stygian bowels of the underworld. Although we might have reached the End of the Line. It is not necessarily The End. Opportunities and wonder abound to those will to find them.
With the arrival of February we enter the last vestiges of winter. The sharp green shoots of spring have already begun to break through the chill, dead earth. With the end of winter within our sights my thoughts turn to one of the uncomfortable truths of life: “There is an end to all things.” Nothing is eternal and nothing will last for ever. So it is with mixed emotions I’ve decided to finally call an end to the Pictonaut Challenge. At least for now. I’ve been throwing myself at this challenge for three and a half years, and this month’s will be the 42nd iteration of the challenge. This being a most auspicious number I though now would be as good a time as any.
I want to quit while I’m ahead, to get out before I start to feel bitter and before writing starts to feel too much like work, or a resented obligation. The Pictonaut Challenge will more than likely rear its head again at some point in the future, but for now I just want a rest.
So here we find ourselves, at The End of the Line.
How quickly January has gone. The passage of time continues to confuse and mystify me. I mean, how can January be over already? Where’s all that time gone? It’s relentless, it never pauses for rest of respite, it just keeps on coming; an unstoppable temporal juggernaut. But gone it has, and the dawn of February will soon be upon us. Tradition dictates that I now talk about the weather. There has been a lot of snow. Most of north-east of America was recently buried under numerous feet of snow. The same is also true for the United Kingdom. Except where I live. I didn’t get any snow. I’m feeling quite bitter about this if I’m honest. I like snow.
If like me you feel betrayed by the weather, please feel free to assuage your sorrows with some short stories.
The New Year is upon us, and with it comes the advent of new beginnings, of something fresh, vital, brimming with raw potentiality and the opportunities for outrageous shenanigans. But most of all the air is filled with the smell of hope. It smells of soap, and mint and freshly baked bread. The hope that maybe this year will be better than the last, or the hope that we’ll finally get round to doing that thing we’ve been meaning to do for years, or perhaps that this will be the year you “finally get your shit together.” A new year is ever a time of strange, unexplored frontiers and of terrifying unknowns. So strap on your sturdiest boots and prepare to venture into the land Beneath a Square Sun.
It’s time to shut it down, pack it up and box it away. 2014 is done and finished. Christmas is over and there remains only the hurdle of new year’s eve before it is finally over. For better or worse, 2014 happened. There were highs and there were lows. But regardless of a geopolitical shitstorm(s) threatening to swallow us all, I remain resolutely alive. Any day above ground is a good day. I have recently returned from a brief sojourn to the frozen north and once again masterfully avoided the yearly rail meltdown. December has left me tired, strung-out and worn-down. Because that is how December rolls. Yet despite this, there is as always, stories to be told.
The weather outside is not as frightful a popular song might lead us to believe.It certainly isn’t snowing, it’s just a bit damp. Nor do I have access to a fire. My heating comes from an oil filled radiator and the stove is electric. I also have quite a few places to go, like work, or down to the local shops to buy milk. Grossly misleading songs aside, we are no firmly into the realm of the festive season. Out comes the gaudy and functionless frippery, we commence our decking of the halls with symbols of fertility and eternal life, and then ensconce the fresh corpse of a tree in the corner of our living room, assumedly as a warning to other trees and forestall there plans for revolution. But while many of us gather to celebrate this Christian festival, let us not forget its distinctly pagan roots. The height of winter, the fear of the long night and the darkness out there, a time of spirits and mystery. A festival where you did not wait for the arrival of a jovial old man in a red suit, but a festival where you await a visit from a Shaman.
The Rogue Verbumancer 