Brent Hill Keeper - the bold, depraved trucker. The Viking-esque conqueror of America’s highways. The cigarette smoking, head banging, black wearing, lead-footed gas fiend, finally parked the enormous metallic beast and I was actually quite happy to step out and stretch my legs. We had been blasting and barreling through the states like a cannonball of death and pain. Death, because of the death metal he constantly played at full throttle while we screamed along at insanely excessive speeds, scaring the shit out of me, driving right through and over countless - helpless furry little creatures; squirrels, snakes, stray dogs, coyotes, and a few baby deer. I think we even had some pigeon carcasses impregnated into the front grill of the truck,
God forbid I keel over on this here island one day by accident without having documented the story of the Greatest Party in all of its glorious detail. Existing only in my consciousness. Deceasing with my corpse. Buried in a sandy grave on an isolated isle of the Caribbean. For this reason, I feel compelled to tell the story. Almost as an obligation/service to my fellow man. But before we begin, you must prepare yourself both mentally and physically. Mentally, because after reading this story your mind will be
When I came upon that huge pile of trash with the broken furniture legs sticking out, it was quite dark outside and I thought one of those wooden legs was going to reach out and attack me. As if it would morph into a living branch arm thing and the nails and sharp splintered ends would pierce my helpless pedestrian flesh. Injecting me with tetanus and other horrible diseases or possibly end me right there on the sidewalk by a stabbing or slow strangulation.
I’ve been living in Colombia for several years now and I have a lot of stories to tell about this region, too many actually. Today, I’ll be writing about one of my wildest nights out in a lesser known city called Bucaramanga, which is home to an infinite amount of gorgeous Latinas. So readers, lend me your ears, get comfortable, take a few shots of your favorite whiskey or tequila and enjoy the tale. A tale you won’t soon forget! Let’s begin… I arrived to Bucaramanga alone, it was my first time in the city. A city that is located in the department of Santander.
How many of us remember our grandparents, our great-grandparents, or those further back in our family’s history? In my family, I would say that the available knowledge on my ancestors, their roots, their personalities, their likes and dislikes, the mark they made in the world, is very slim. I wish I could learn more about them and know what they were really like, but time has washed over things and taken away most of the details, leaving behind only a vague memory of their existence.
Writing is just like one of those strange, elusive cats that stalk the outskirts of remote jungle villages in the heart of Papua New Guinea. While tribesmen munch on roots inside thatch huts and reminisce about hunting campaigns, smashing clubs on bamboo floors, and shaking shells ritualistically in harmony with the calls of nature that can be heard just outside their primitive homes, the cats growl from the thick bush, filling any listener with great wonder...
I sit in the cafe and see everyone looking down. I stand in the metro and see the same. I stroll down the city streets and watch as everyone walks around with devices in their hands. And I am currently writing to you from such a device, attempting to get you to put yours away for several hours a day… Instead of looking down - Look Up. Look at the amazing world you live in, not the digital world that exists in S-C-R-E-E-N-S.
Writing is a purely magical experience. The way it seems to be born from nothing, floating in from out of the blue. Words appear on a page, and ideas, concepts, and visions take shape before us. Writers use conscious and subconscious powers to weave words together until they form a complete whole. Analyzing and judging each letter - every punctuation mark. Their precise placement upon the page. Their overall appearance. Some artists paint with oils, acrylics or watercolors, but writers paint with words. Words which generate images within the reader’s mind.
We all know that it takes time, money and resources to create good, lasting art. Whether we’re talking about filmmaking, publishing a novel, or building a great architectural marvel like the Basilica of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona. But where would our art be if life and this world were absolutely perfect? If food fell freely from the skies.
Are you a jack of all trades and master of none? Moving from one hobby/profession to the next, in a never-ending whirlwind of wonder and glee, until you become bored, then switching to something new, as if it were a piece of out-of-date fashion. I know people like this and I also know professionals who are still employed at the same job that they got into since they were in high school
I remember when I was a wee lad there was a cool commercial on TV attempting to promote education and such. The message was: “Knowledge is Power!” At the time, I thought that it was a wonderful idea and of course, I think there’s something to be said for learning and knowing a lot of stuff. But nowadays - things are different. We have an infinite amount of knowledge in the palm of our hands
It's the most precious thing. Nowadays, we all look at content online and before clicking judge how much time it will take to consume. If it's long, we analyze its worth, using reviews from other consumers as a guide. Whatever is most popular (has the most clicks/hits/reviews) will surely be worth our time, right? As a budding writer, my goal is to express myself in a manner that doesn’t make you feel like you wasted your time.
What is this thing that curses the minds of countless ones? The thing that stalks us and follows us wherever we may be? Closing our eyes and paralyzing our fingers. Preventing any form of creativity to be released from within. Holding it there. Almost like a prisoner within a cell... There he is inside, begging, screaming, going absolutely berserk at this thing. This entity-like nuisance smacks him in the face, breaking his teeth, pushing him down.
I really can’t stand clickbait. When I see something online with an eye-catching image and headline that entices me to click on it, to unravel the seemingly indispensable life-changing content, I become disgusted. Because after clicking such a link, I realize that I was essentially tricked and cheated. The folks that employ clickbait into their arsenal of web-promoting business tactics are the worst to me. Duping countless ones
When we embark on the long and winding road of creativity, it’s only a matter of time until we create some duds. Call them what you will; flops, sinkers, stinkers, abominations, failures. It doesn’t matter what your medium is, you will make them. I will make them. Everyone, at some point will spawn a great and terrible disaster, even the so-called “masters” and ones who have “arrived” will make them.