My Pokemon Nuzlocke, Chapter 3: THICK AS A BROCK

>>continued from here.

Hey guys!  Just plugging Jessica Staub's artwork again here because she does ALL OF THE ART for this and it is AWESOME.  Gooo here and give her work upboats or whatever happens on deviantart, I don't really know how it works.

Chapter 3: Thick as a BROCK

I had been flying through the next leg of my journey ever since Gail joined Goldie, Jade and I. Route 2 was pretty tiny. When I tried to catch a Rattata I found there, Gail ended up kicking it so hard that it exploded instantly.

That's something I'm not gonna forget anytime soon.

The only way to Pewter City from there was through Viridian Forest. Honestly, I don't understand how a simple road from one city to the next is so fucking HARD TO COME BY in a world that has computers that can digitize animals into complex online libraries.

My Pokemon Nuzlocke, Chapter 2: A dickbag among the trees

>>continued from here.

Chapter 2: A dickbag among the trees

As I explored Viridian the next day with Goldie on my shoulder and Jade at my side, I ran into a kid talking to some rocks on the ground. I tried to tiptoe past him but his freak-sensors apparently activated, shouting “HEY YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT TWO DIFFERENT KINDS OF CATERPILLAR POKEMON?”

Stunned momentarily, I backed away slowly, shaking my head and whispering “No... no thanks. I'm.. I'm fine.”

He turned his head back to his rocks, saying “Oh, okay then,” more to himself than me.

Kanto is fucking weird.

My Pokemon Nuzlocke: welcome, and chapter 1

Hello, all!  Lately, I've been playing Pokemon LeafGreen version (which is a remake of Pokemon Blue Version) with a very special set of rules that some of you may have heard of before: a Nuzlocke Challenge.

The basic rules are as follows:

1.  If any Pokemon is to be "knocked out" by anything,  they are then considered "killed" and you must release them and can never use them again.

2.  You may only capture the first Pokemon that you find in any new area.  If you fail or knock it out, you cannot catch any more.

3.  You must give every single Pokemon you catch a nickname.

I also added in one extra rule to help me out a little bit because I seem to be really uber unlucky with critical hits:

4.  The first time a Pokemon dies from a lucky, random critical hit, they can be saved ONCE.  Only once, and you cannot choose which event.  Only the first time it happens.

Aside from those stipulations, I will be playing it like any normal game of Pokemon--with the intent of writing a STORY about it!  Therefore, I hope you guys get as attached to my Pokemon as I do throughout this whole experience.  

This story is going to be incredibly melodramatic and it's meant to be a fun/sometimes sad retelling of the events of my game as I see them through the eyes of a character who isn't the normal mum hero of Pokemon lore (I don't wanna say it's me but it pretty much is).  Another cool thing about this project is that I'm getting my cool artist-ly friend Jessica Staub to illustrate some of the story! Here's a link to her DeviantArt page.  Awesome, right?  

I'll be updating with a new chapter of the story every week or so, right here on my blog.  Uhm.. I think that's about it, but I hope you guys like the story thus far and wanna keep coming back to the story!  

Without any further ado, Jess and I would like present you with my...

In a land very far away, people have learned to coexist with the animal side of the world—to count them not only as other living creatures but also as friends and partners. This strange land's name is Kanto, and those animals are called “Pokemon.”

In Kanto, it is customary for children in some families to leave with their beloved Pokemon in tow in the pursuit of bettering themselves and their animals friends. They become Pokemon “trainers,” creating teams, helping their Pokemon grow and learning about the birthright they were born into. Many of those children hope to someday reach the pinnacle of trainership: to beat the best trainers in the land at the Pokemon League and become the Pokemon Champion.

This story follows the path of somebody who had never had a chance to strike out on his own; a particularly jaded, foul-mouthed young man from Pallet town.

The bearded muse, day 5: A chronicle of No Shave November and NaNaWriMo

So I'm doing No Shave November, and I'm also attempting to do National Novel Writing Month at the same time.  Basically, this means I'm gonna be fucking nuts by the end of this month. 

Not actually, because my writing worth ethic is terrible and I'm gonna have nowhere near the huge amount of work that NaNaWriMo requires, but I decided to at least have some sort of writing piece ready every five days of this month along with a picture of the progress of my lack of shaving

Suffice it to say, the writing below is just a short story, but go ahead and take a look!  I pretty much did it all last night from like 4-6am, but whatever.

So without any further ado or bullshittin', here's a picture of the minor facial growth so far and the first thing I've written all month.  

Yarp.  Pic by my awesome friend Evan Chwalek, whose asskickin' photos can be found here and  here.

Unheimlich

Hello!  This is my first attempt at a horror story of this kind that I actually liked, and so I decided to throw it up on my blog.  Take a look at it, and go ahead and comment and tell me what you think!  I loves dah feedback.

It is currently Sunday at 5:00 pm. The last arrows of weak light from the dying winter sun are piercing through the gaps in the blinds of my bedroom window. Dust motes lazily float in the warm air inside of my house while outside already freezing temperatures begin their spiraling descent into the deep chill of the night.

Dusk is the worst time of day. With the setting of the sun, a peculiar emotion filters through my body. There is loneliness, to be sure—something about the light sliding across the land, away from the rushing darkness. I feel something else as well; something that I cannot put my finger on. Something that gives me pause whenever I feel it, though I do not know why. As if I am not at home—uncomfortable and peculiar—even in my own skin.

Everything in my house is quiet, save the low hum of my computer and the background drone of warm air rushing out of metal vents near the floor, like hot breath being expelled from some primordial creature. It is comfortable now—I've drawn the curtains, the grating sound of metal rings on rusty rod sounding out in the calm.

I choose to live a life of solitude. My deformity has never, and never will, garner any positive attention for myself.