In addition, there's something I just need to get off my chest:
Ignore the negativity - in life and in your writing.
I know, easier said than done.
But something happened to me, and I came to the realization that allowing negativity to influence me and have power over me makes ONLY MY LIFE worse. The person who's spreading it? His or her life is already in the crapper. They're also probably so used to it that they can't see the forest through the trees, if you know what I mean.
Let's metaphor this, shall we? Let's call the mean person a slug. A slug is a slug. It can't help what it is - a slow-moving, slime-trail-leaving garden pest. They are content to travel from yard to yard, eating anything that looks remotely tasty, leaving nasty little slime wakes and vegetable carnage. You shake your fists in a bout of exhausted rage! No slugs allowed! But still they come.
Why let it devour your lettuce crop? Why let the person have the power to undercut your hard work and sanity? Instead, put out your little containers of beer, or dance around your yard with some salt if you're feeling particularly aggressive! Don't let the slugs into your garden!
We alone have the power to enact change. This applies to our ability to shut others out who would do us harm. Put up your defenses and get rid of those slugs.
Life is too short for slime.
P.S. By the way, did you know there's actually a web site about slugs? Yup. Check it out here.
And now, your Tuesday Teaser of Aequitas, #4. Enjoy.
Undead creatures sure do bleed a lot, Themis thought as she swung her scythe, slicing one of the things in half and sending both pieces slumping to the ground. Others littered the city’s empty street in writhing little piles of dead flesh, spoils of her efforts. The artificial glow of the streetlights lit the blood pooling on the sidewalk and street. The sun would take care of that evidence.
Plucking a silver lighter from a hidden pocket in her cloak, she tossed the small flame onto the pile of body parts she dragged into a nearby alley and crossed her arms as the makeshift bonfire roared to life, the satisfying burn of acrid smoke in her nose. Snowflakes began to swirl in little dervishes, sucked toward the heat, and the winter wind blew wisps of her long hair around wildly.
No time to admire the carnage, though; the remaining vampire jumped on Themis’ back, attempting to sever her head from her spine. She dropped her weapon, burying the unbreakable blade in the strip of broken up asphalt under her feet before reaching behind her to dislodge the pest. Themis grunted under the strain, but finally the vampire’s grip on her cloak and leather armor faltered, allowing a shoulder throw. They sparred again, the bloodsucker landing more like a cat than a reanimated corpse. Watching the undead move had always fascinated her, Themis thought, as she flicked back her thick red braid and pushed the wayward strands out of her face.
The vampire hissed, baring its fangs at Themis and stepped forward. These things really have no sense of self-preservation.
“Frightening,” Themis said dully. The lack of recognition confirmed her foe was another newly-made vampire. The lack of experience was a plus for her, but the strength of a new vampire could not be underestimated. Both moved in a blur of blocks and strikes, showcasing their speed and inhuman strength. If Themis could grow weary, she would have. Lacking a biological imperative for oxygen had its advantages. Would either of them ever tire—
A searing pain lit her belly aflame, and she watched as the vampire withdrew a blade, now covered in a viscous black liquid.
That was Themis’ first mistake.