Is anyone reading "Lost in Infinity"?

Link: Is anyone reading "Lost in Infinity"?

Tell me about it. What do you think? Did you find any spelling errors? Anything?

ALSO, if you don’t have a copy and want one, it’s going to be FREE for Kindle starting tomorrow, through Friday. If you don’t have a kindle you can download the free app for your iPad, iPhone, iPod or most smart phones.

If you do read it, review it on amazon. PLEASE. Then let people borrow it. Give it away. Donate it to the library. Anything. Spread the word.

on Amazon: http://amzn.to/lost-in-infinity

at Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/LostBarnesNoble

in the UK: http://amzn.to/LostUK

— REBLOG AT WILL —

Savage Imaginations Interview 9/2011

Link: Savage Imaginations Interview 9/2011

finallyhesleeps:

—Travis

Have you ever sat around at a bar with your friends laughing about things like The Dirty Sanchez, The Cleveland Steamer or The Donkey Punch and thought, “Man, I’d love to have a drink with the dirty bastard who thought up all this shit!” Well, Travis is actually that guy. 

The beautiful chaos of Travis’ mind transfers to page almost effortlessly, as in Harnessing The Spark, he takes us into a world on the brink of the zombie apocalypse. After being only eight chapters into the story, I’m still having nightmares about being trapped in my garage while zombie’s ransack my house. Travis is able to take subject matter from the far-reaches of the imagination and make it feel real in a way that most writers only think they can.

Even his short works are gripping. You can’t read Taking a Shot and not only identify with the characters, but also feel as though you are one of them. While Travis can make even the furthest fantasy of zombies seem real, when he writes about reality it seems to become hyper-reality; it’s like you’ve been in that situation before, you know these people, you know what they’re feeling before they even feel it and you feel it just as strongly as they do.

Travis is more than just a writer; he’s more than someone who crafts words into a self-contained story. He crafts entire realities and seamlessly superimposes them onto our pre-existing one. Whether they be love stories or apocalyptic war stories, if you read them closely enough, with an open imagination, you too, will be questioning which reality is real.

— Meaghan Hayes

QI: Inquiring minds want to know who you are—what makes you tick, what grinds you gears, and what inspires you.

Whoa, that’s a question and a half… I’ll do my best. I’m a 35 year old Industrial Designer who grew up too fast and was forced to make adult decisions at an early age. I had no childhood.

I started attending High School when I was 9, able to graduate when I was 14 and started college at 15. I got married at 20. Graduated from college at 21 and have been working for the same company ever since. It’s all very boring really.

I’ve always been heavily involved in art, whether it be music, painting, performance or writing. It’s what fuels me. I also believe that being an Apeirophobic has influenced my creativity more than any single factor. It’s my own internal muse.

QII: Continuing along that train of thought, are many of your writings based on reality? Do you imbue your pieces with memories and parts of yourself; are they entirely fiction, or a hybrid?

Depending upon the piece, most of my fiction is based on my own experiences. Using truth and my own history puts honesty into the work. Sometimes, the inspiration is real, but the plot is too far out there to have any solid footing in reality. Other times, what feels like fiction is closer to the truth than I’d care to admit. 

QIII: You’ve submitted several pieces to Tumblr Fiction, how long have you been writing for and do you see yourself having a career in the writing field, or do you simply do it for pleasure or therapeutic reasons?

I’ve been writing since I was a child. Playing a story out in my head has always kept me busy. My brain works constantly. It never stops. I must keep it occupied. When I’m alone or trying to shut down from the world around me, I tend to build a perfect world in my mind.

As a child, battling insomnia, I’d spend hours in a dark room, living out a fantasy of being trapped in a quarantined town. I could go anywhere and do anything I wanted. I could go to the mall and play with any toy I wanted. As I got older, I’d borrow cars. Eventually girls miraculously appeared in my quarantined town… we won’t elaborate on that though.

Point being, spending hours every day in a dream world, I decided it would be nice to start recording the stories. Reading them back to myself turned them into films in my head… At that early age, I preferred to read a story the way I wanted it to unfold instead of someone else’s fantasy. This led me to creative writing.

I’ve never intended to make a living from writing. I still enjoy it, but my motivation is to purge my brain. Getting it out of my head and onto paper is a release. I’d compare it to ripping off a band-aid and letting the wound breathe. 

QIV: Are you surrounded by other creative beings? Do any of them in particular fuel your writing?

I am always surrounded by creative beings, it’s part of my job. I’m the Director of Design for a consortium. My hands are in all sorts of products and services. Everything from architecture to advertising to medical equipment. Part of the responsibilities includes dealing with artists and designers fluent in all avenues of commercial creativity.

Artists, by nature, are the most interesting souls a person can interact with. They’ll drag you to rock bottom or sit you on a pedestal. They never disappoint when you’re looking for inspiration (good or bad). I think it’d be best to direct you to a post 

I wrote about working with artists…

QV: What other avenues of creativity do you embark upon?

Other avenues? Being an Industrial Designer, my hands are in everything. Architecture, product design, copy-writing, graphic design, photography, digital design, web design, etc etc. Figure in GetOffended.com and everything that goes with it, and you can say I lead a fairly busy work life.

Spending 12 - 15 hours a day wrapped in art, I tend to find solace in writing, twitter, tumblr, playing piano, and watching movies. Being a chronic insomniac, I’m awake 20 - 22 hours every day. You have to find many different things to keep yourself occupied and busy. Relaxing leads to thinking. Thinking leads to worrying. Worrying leads to less sleep. Keeping busy actually keeps me sane. 

QVI: What are your greatest challenges in writing? Do you struggle with certain aspects of transferring an idea from your mind to the page?

Greatest challenges… If I’m being honest it’s finding the time to write. My life is pretty full at this point. Working 15 hour work days, coaching soccer 9 months out of the year, I barely have the time to devote to personal ventures. I’ve actually taken the route of audio dictation on my 3 hour total daily commute, then emailing it to myself to clean up and post in the evening. I’ve considered quite seriously, taking a week or two, heading to our condo and just shutting myself off from the world to finish a few things. That would be perfect, but alas, the best laid plans and all.

My biggest struggle transferring certain ideas from my mind to the page comes from being most interested and creative when I’m most vulnerable to my fears and insomnia. This in turn, leads to long rambling diatribes that repeat over and over. There’s usually a good idea in there somewhere, but I have to allow my coherent brain to decipher and clean up at a later date. Often there’s too much pointless blather to sift through and I delete it all, like flushing a dying fish. Sometimes, I say fuck it, and post it no matter what. Then end up pulling the trigger on it down the road, after I find my way to a recharge sleep and spend the next 24 hours cleaning up my own messes.

QVII: When your kids grow up, would you let them buy and wear a “Welcome to America, Now Speak the Damn Language” t-shirt, which you’ve said you’d burn the entire stock of, if given the chance?

This is an awesome question. I have two boys, 6 and 10. I’m not going to go into how they’re smart and all that, every parent thinks they have the smartest kids in the world. I can confirm that my kids live a life oblivious to my exploits. When the time comes when they’re making their own decisions more so than they are now, I, as a parent can only hope that I guided them well enough to make the correct and appropriate decisions.

I’d never wear one of those shirts. I’d never wear half our shirts. I’ll admit there’s a few that I do wear that I probably shouldn’t but that’s another story. Would I let them buy the shirt and wear it? Yes, I would. Would I be happy about it? No, I would not. I see parenting as caring and dictating at an early age. Then moving to protecting and guiding at a middle age. Finally supporting and appreciating as they reach adulthood. So far this strategy has worked out. If it does, I shouldn’t have to worry about what they buy and wear. I’ll just be glad they’re doing what they want and not what I told them to do.

QVIII: Anything else you’d like to add?

The only thing I’d like to add is that I’m by no means a writer. I’m only someone who uses it as a way to change my brain’s oil. It’s like spring cleaning for my psyche. Being an Apeirophobic means that my brain never slows. If it slows I dwell on the fear and can’t function properly at all. Keeping myself occupied with writing is a great personal escape from the things that plague me. It’s my own private Idaho. It may all be shit, that’s kind of beside the point. For me, it’s therapy. It’s a means to tomorrow by working through today.

Maiden Embrace

He shuffles his feet side to side and watches the hoards pass him by with their own agendas driving them forth like cattle crossing a stream. Each face that passes bears its own emotional story. He looks at all of them and none of them as his mind wonders, floating up and mingling through the hanging florescent fixtures. He fumbles in his pocket again for the cell phone that runs his life, shifting weight to extract it from his khakis. He drops his backpack to the ground beside his leg and brings the screen to life.

He lets out a breath. The time has changed. The moment grows nearer but not near enough.

Back into his pocket he shoves the phone with a huff. He’s not angry, he realizes that. He knows it’s just nerves. The moment approaches and he waits. The hustle and bustle of the flowing travelers picks up and dies off as if there were invisible traffic lights at the top of the escalators. He pulls the phone free for the hundredth time and checks it for messages.

Nothing.

He readjusts his luggage and gathers his belongings as he looks around for a place to sit. Movement and relocation takes his mind off of the coming events but only for a brief second. Down against the wall, he feels the breaks in the tile against his spine. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. His hand, holding the green plastic bottle he’d picked up on his layover starts to twitch. The taste of cotton balls and cobwebs gets washed away before he screws the lid back on and straightens his legs. A new herd of travelers hurries down the escalator each pushing through the next with someplace they’d rather be.

He recalls the break in monotony when he moved to the wall and decides to change the lull once again, this time venturing back to where he began so he can have an unobstructed view of her arrival. A new rush of people halts his migration so he scopes his present locale and takes up shop. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

“What time is it now?” he asks himself aloud as he goes fishing for electronics once again. Before he can awaken the screen he catches a glimpse of her hair as she walks by. His heart starts to pound so loud she must be able to hear it. He takes a step then remembers his luggage in a moment of clarity brought on by the fear of being without clean clothes for the next few days. He turns on his heel and collects the Samsonite montage as the sweat beads on his forehead. His hands start to shake under the weight of the carry-on or so he rationalizes against the butterflies building in his gut. The only thing audible is the rush of blood through his ears as the sea of blank faces rages and crashes all around him. The whole of the world slows, but he, unobstructed, presses forward toward her flowered dress. 

Three steps separate them as she turns to read the sign behind him. Their eyes meet. He quickly looks past her at the sign overhead showing departure and arrival updates. The three steps become tow, then one then quickly three again as they pass each other. He exhales and steadies himself, taking a glance over his shoulder at the girl he nearly grabbed. She was not his.

The embarrassment avoided calms his nerves. He gathers his worldly possessions again with ease and starts on the familiar path back to his perch at the end of the escalators. One more check on his iPhone followed by another five clicks of the analog clock hanging overhead and his pocket starts to vibrate. He pulls out the cell and fumbles with the touch screen.

“I’m here,” it reads.

As he shoves the phone back into his pocket with his right hand he looks up to scan the approaching crowd with renewed purpose.

Through the mass of weary travelers she shines, desaturating the rest as if she were stuck in film noir. Her smile radiates below her massive sunglasses. The flash of teeth in her bright smile seems to scream out against the soft pattern on her summer dress. Time slows as he takes in her brilliance flowing down the stairs inch by inch. He wants to remember this moment so he can relive it when he closes his eyes and beckons the dreams to bring them together again. He sits the luggage down and plants his feet, willing them to hold so that she can come to him, out away from the crowd.

She reaches the floor and pauses, looking left then right. His smile draws her attention to his gaze only to be dwarfed by hers in comparison. She changes directions and walks quickly toward his trembling figure. He watches her fight each and every step, trying to maintain her form and refrain from breaking into a run. Breathe in, breathe out.

Their worlds collide as he takes her hand and she reaches for his arm. The sound of the crowd surging by falls away as they wrap each other in their maiden embrace. He can feel her heart pounding through her chest as he presses her close. Not a word is spoken as they relish the moment and control their excitement to socially accepted levels. His hand leaves the small of her back and gently moves her hair from her ear. Their eyes lock, her lips part and in that one caress he gives her a piece of his heart.

Encounter

Link: Encounter

His heart’s racing. In this moment the need to wrap his arms around her and take in her essence outweighs even the need to breathe.

She stands by his side quietly, the anticipation of contact flashing in her mind, but the fear of the outcome holding her shy.

Her smell lingers in the air as she makes her way into the room ahead of him. He stops, closes his eyes and steadies himself for the steps he’s willing himself to take. One foot in front of the other, he follows her through the door. Her scent parts like a tide, then rushes back, clinging to him like butterflies in the rain. He closes his eyes once again and draws in a calming breath full of her. One foot in front of the other. He opens his eyes only to be mesmerized by the sway of her stride and the rise and fall of her ass as she saunters past the bed and on toward the window.

She reaches the window and looks out at the city below. She pretends to admire the architecture or appreciate the activity below, but it’s only a front. Her mind is running circles around the situation. She dares not move or look back at him. She realizes that he has to take the first step or she’ll feel like she pressured the situation. She hugs herself and directs her emotions inward. He’s behind her, she can feel it. She waits.

He walks past the bed, and slows as the distance between them becomes manageable. He draws out every step and lets the gravity between them close the gap itself, pulling him to her on an invisible thread. Looking down he notices her turning her left foot inward until her toes meet.He looks down and behind him for her sandals, he hadn’t noticed her take them off.

She enjoys the tickle of the carpet on her bare skin as she curls her toes through the berber, kneading it with her tiny appendages. She glances down to admire her handy work and sees her own reflection in the gloss of her toenails.

He takes the last step toward her before a flash of sunlight glimpses his eye, reflecting off of her green toenails. The distraction takes his mind off of the last few inches and he presses his torso against her back without pretense.

The warmth of his body against hers is inspiring. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and a smile she didn’t know she was suppressing. The moment she feels the first beat of his heart, her body shivers and the butterflies in her stomach explode upward and outward, leaving her to cling to him.

He leans his face into her hair and enjoys her bouquet. The moment takes over and he touches her bare arms tenderly, their fingertips dancing along each other. He continues the touch around until he has her wrapped in his arms. Back her head goes, resting against his shoulder, giving herself over to his charm.

Tighter, he squeezes. Safer, she feels. They live in that moment as time stops and the world falls away to nothing.

Stepping into Darkness

This originally appeared on my old blog…

——————————-

The edge of nothing. Carefully, not that it matters at this point one way or the other, I curl my toes south, feeling for the concrete line in the sand. Straight forward, my eyes open and I feel his gaze upon me. Judging curiously behind tinted glass, frozen in the moment. His slack jawed awe fuels my inner concession. The papers in his hand slip from his grasp and free fall to the berber below, catching a ride back and forth on the resistance of the very same concoction I’m about to brave. My brain hiccups, my throat tightens and my lip curls to a smile in anticipation of the freedom before me.

“Step forward into the vast abyss,” my mind prompts me. I obey.

I close my eyes and the final song starts to play. Building slowly from a faint steady rhythm of 16th note high hats… bass on the downbeat…. blackness engulfs me and an army of butterflies stir to life… snare on the upbeat… the ocean tide crashes in my ears.

I open my eyes at the crescendo and focus on the papers across the chasm, still drifting helplessly to their next destination. My feet find their way above my head as my inner soundtrack nears the first break.

Refocusing toward my own destiny and the finality of my decision sets in. Time halts and only my stomach contests the change of direction. My smile falters then continues past it’s obligatory equator. The music stops. The ocean grows louder.

Closing my eyes again I feel my stomach twist itself into slip knot. The black returns, welcoming me inside with the promise of salvation for my bad decisions. Something tugs on my shirt and before I can turn to see, I hear the voice of my son.

“Are you ok, Daddy?” He sits down on the floor in front of me, smiling a toothless grin. I try to answer but can’t. The words are stuck, fighting to break free, tearing a hole on my throat… yet there effort is pointless.

Sitting up on the couch I swing my feet to meet the sand below.

The waves continue to crash in a steady drum of confusion. I stand up and take the first obligatory step in their direction. Emerging from the crashing waves, her salt water locks of vibrant red brilliance silence the thunder rolling in on each wave until all I can focus on is the beating of my own heart. Pounding harder with every thrust of blood to and fro I feel like my chest is going to explode. The intense pain and panic curls me in on myself. I close my eyes to escape the siren’s gaze and find solace once again in the black.

The ocean waves are crashing louder. My heart seizes. Silence befalls me.

I risk my sanity and force my eyes open. The sting of 32 feet per second squared bites at my pupils. The flash of concrete racing toward me makes the feeling of freedom experienced only moments before a surreal reminder of how fast I’ve fallen both figuratively and physically. My eyes close around tears, either from the flight or the fear I do not know. It matters not. The black is my new home.

“Welcome home…” drifts in on the last wave, “we’ve missed you.”

“I have no fucking clue what just happened! I was walking to my window about to file today’s Z490 Day Sum when I looked up and saw him step up on the ledge… He… he fucking looked right at me. He smiled. Fuck. He fucking smiled! Who the fuck does that? I’m never getting that image out of my head… FUCK! I mean, c’mon… he just stepped off and pheweeeeewwww down he went. Why the fuck was he smiling?”

I can finally see

Always watching… contemplating… discovering… In this vast empty hole that is life, why do I strive to know the reason why? Before I can answer “why?” I must first uncover the motive… for a question without motive is lust without a target. In my mind’s eye, I spy the reason why. The reason for my search for absolution. However the explanation comes at the expense of sanity, my own… the meaning of life is right before me, in my mind’s eye… open it and I shall see. The meaning is the question. The question is the reason. The reason is the motive. The motive is the end. Opposite the end, there was a beginning, and in the beginning let there be light, the bright light that blinded the eye. Now, here in the vast darkness, I can finally see.

Taking a Shot

This originally appeared on my old blog… reposting here

Sitting at the bar, nursing a Guinness and a shot of Bailey’s & Jaimeson… This place sucks ass. I only came here because it’s on the way home from work, but that justification is quickly losing merit. I look down into my drink, my third drink… normally about my limit. I lean forward and reach down to grab my wallet, but as I turn my head to the left to facilitate said movement, I catch a glimpse of green highlighted hair. As she walks directly behind me, I twist to my left even farther to try to catch a better look at the body connected to the hair and end up doing a very awkward spin on my barstool. Which, I might add, says anything but “cool”. One hand in my pocket, my head twisted over my shoulder, spinning the squeaking bar stool 360º counter clockwise… I assume I look handicapped at the minimum. Half hoping I missed her as she kept walking on by, I reach the full arc of my rotation and find her sitting on the stool next to me, staring at me like I just grew a second head out of my shoulder.

Our eyes meet and I can tell she’s trying her hardest to refrain from smiling, which, on her soft face, is as adorable as it sounds. I pause, mid motion, realizing at that moment I probably look like I have cerebral palsy. She looks away, the smile growing as she turns toward the bartender. I sit motionless for 10 seconds, the proverbial deer in headlights, trying to figure out how to right this catastrophic sequence of events.

I leave my wallet in my pocket, straighten back up to the best of my ability and try to look as normal as possible. I finish my Guinness, chase it with the shot, then call Dave, the bartender (and a close friend) over. As he gets closer, I say “Dave, my good man, can I get a bottle of water and another Guinness with a chaser? Then please get the woman to my right, whatever she likes, on me, so she’ll stop looking at me like I lost the genetic lottery.” I turn her way as I finish the statement, hoping she heard.

“She must know you Nick, genetically imbalanced just about sums you up. What can I get you?” Dave directs the latter in her direction. She looks up and says, “Jack & Coke. Thanks.” Then she turns my way, “Thank you as well. Not escaped from the asylum then?”

The only way to describe the reappearance of her smile is heavenly. Just enough teeth to let me know it’s sincere, a curl of her lip twisting it into a slight smirk. I’m drawn in to her lips, until the movement of her eyes behind the frames of her glasses begs my attention upward. She rolls her eyes as her smile widens a little more. Her eyebrows raise and her beautiful eyes (what color are they? impossible to tell in this light) widen in a gesture of “what?”. I’m staring. One step forward, two steps backward.

“I’m sorry.” I find myself recovering from dumbfounded slack jawed awe for the second time in 2 minutes. Not looking promising for me at this point is it? “No. Not escaped, they let me go on a weekend pass… I don’t even know. Never mind.” Then I turn back to my drink… I’ve fucked this up royally.

“I hate that.” She says, turning back to the Jack & Coke now waiting for her at the bar.

“What?… Hate what?” courage kicking back in.

“When someone starts to say something, but doesn’t finish. Just fucking spit it out already. Drives me wicked nuts.” She brings the drink to her mouth and I find myself staring once again as she takes the first sip. The whiskey meets her lips, but my eyes are fixed on the green nail polish playing in the neon bar light. “You’re doing it again.” she says, never even looking in my direction.

“Staring… yeah I know.” I look back to my own drink, trying to figure out how to fix this before it spirals out of control completely. I take a deep breath, then turn to face her. “Here’s the deal.”

She turns to meet me, drink back to her lips, eyes curious. Our knees brush, but I force my brain through the touch. “I was going to say that I was a little awe struck when you walked by but I thought better of it, because it sounded like a total line…” Breathe. “I’d rather tell you the truth and it sound like a line than you be aggravated that I didn’t finish what I was going to say. So, there, I caught a glimpse of you, the green in your hair, you took my breath away, I didn’t know what to say, I froze. Total awe, at it’s finest. Beautiful green locks, the sweetest smile in the whole bar and I’m a total sucker for a woman in glasses. Sue me.” I turn back to the bar, completely pleased with my performance.

She instantly blushes, lowers her head and lets the smile engulf her face. She brings her hand up to her mouth and slowly raises her head. She turns slightly to her left, gives me a little smirk, and a look like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar… then follows with “That IS the worst line ever.”

“Not a line. Total truth. I never lie. It’s usually easier and more effective to just speak the truth and say what’s on your mind.” Feeling this isn’t going anywhere, I turn back to the bar, drop the shot into my Guinness and take the whole thing as an Irish Car Bomb. I stand up, grab the bottle of water and leave $40 on the bar for Dave. “Her next drink’s on me too, Dave.” I turn in her direction. “It was very nice stammering and kicking myself in the face in your lovely presence. We’ll have to never do this again.” Maybe it was the last car bomb taking over, who knows… I grab her hand and bring it to my mouth, a soft kiss and a smile before laying her hand back on the bar and I’m readying my stride for a smooth exit.

“Elphie. My name’s Elphie.” Her smile more than let’s me know that I may have turned this around. She stands up and looks down at me. It’s at this moment I realize she’s about 2” taller than me. Score. Nothing sexier than looking up at a gorgeous woman.

My eyes never leave hers, but my head leans slightly as I call to my left, “Dave, keep the change and see ya tomorrow.” She takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the exit. I trail through the wake of her perfume as we slink through the crowd toward the night.

I follow her through the door to the street beyond. As soon as the cold air hits us, I turn the corner and stand up against the wall, out of the wind. “Nick. My name’s Nick. Very nice to meet you Elphie.”

My right hand still holding her left, she stands in front of me and raises her right hand slightly. My left hand meets hers so that we’re now completely connected. “Well Nick, what now?”

“Coffee?” I suggest as I straighten my arms and will them to my sides, drawing a few inches out of the gap between us as I bring her hands with mine.

“I’d rather have more Jack & Coke.” She steps a little closer to relax the tight muscles between us. Now only 3” separate our faces.

“I have a new fifth of Jack at my place.” I bring the 3” to 2”.

“Anything to go with it?” The 2” becomes 1”.

“We’ll get something on the way.” 1” becomes a graze of flesh.

“Sounds,” our lips touch briefly, “…good” she lets out slowly.

My hands draw hers closer and a little behind me, the brief touch of lips turns to a kiss. The kiss grows deeper and I feel her head twist as our lips part momentarily. The playful way our fingers intertwine and our palms meet in a gesture of long lost lovers, allows us to draw out the first kiss to an unheard depth. My left hand breaks its grip and I wrap my hand around her back, pulling her closer yet. The kiss lasts longer than anticipated until a sharp cold gust robs us of our will to breathe. “This way,” I say as I pull her closer and direct the scene in the direction of my car.

The connection between us was instant and explosive.

The book comes out today! If you haven’t picked up your copy yet, do so today at Amazon.

http://amzn.to/lost-in-infinity

If you haven’t reviewed it yet, do so as well. Thanks guys for all your support. WIthout you, I would have never finished this project.