Zero Vs One The podcast is waiting until October to do the five stanzas of I, Hastur for the Halloween season. After which, look forward to me reading Harmonia Mundi from Water and Glass. Then I will do The Greatest Potato Ever Told; the Ultimate Lord Potato Christmas Special. This will give me time to finish The King Is Dead which I will read next.
There may be a kickstarter for the final book and story of the Queen in Blue.
Meanwhile here is a poem.
In this latest installment from the “5th Letter from Rhombus Ticks to E.P. Blingermeyer” series, detective Quiescence Prow — a rationalist legend who has debunked the paranormal for decades — stumbles into something he can’t dismiss: real magic. It begins with a spitting cuckoo clock in a retro bowling alley, a snake-skinned man visible only in mirrors, and a masked woman under some unseen compulsion.
Prow’s methodical tests confirm the impossible. The “Quotidian Man” is a magical predator who uses a cursed mask to feed off his wife’s despair, while keeping her powerless to prove his infidelity. Against his own rules, Prow intervenes — unmasking a victim and setting off a quiet war. Months later, he finds the ex-wife in ruin, offers her a strange form of rescue involving cash, occult cleansings, and patient listening, and helps her rebuild her life from the ground up.
Along the way, coincidences begin stacking like fate itself is tipping the scales. The mask is sealed away deep underground. The Quotidian is framed just enough to keep him locked up. And Prow — still unwilling to call it magic — ensures no one else will ever suffer from it again.
This is a noir-fantasy collision: part private-eye grit, part moral fable, part supernatural cold war. The case ends without glory, but with just enough justice to matter.
Negative reviews, amature and professional assholes telling me to stop writing, people taking copies to read and becoming a black hole, writing for free and then having no interest in returning the favor, on and on and on I could stand and kept writing.
Calling my work AI is soul killing; the next time you see someone attacking AI know they may only care about their own art and not give a shit about anyone else. An already difficult task is near impossible. anarchs and anti technologists seem unethical and unempathetic as fuck
his isn’t just a poem. This is the spine-crack heard across the dreamlands.
In this episode of Queen to Rook Black, we go deep—deep—into the metaphysical engine room of the Queen in Bluemythos. Rhombus Ticks uncovers a poem so saturated with cosmic implication it rewrites the board: not just who’s playing the game, but what pieces mean what. The Black Rook stands revealed—not as a mere chess metaphor, but a literal necromantic waystation at the edge of death, memory, and myth. A cyborg warden, Blackjack, serves as its keeper. But today, he’s not in charge.
Because today, She comes.
The Queen in Blue arrives unannounced to rewrite the rules. And behind her? The Spirit of Humanity, skyscraper-tall, drenched in mourning, dragging a dirge of pipers to the gates of annihilation. She is ready to die. And she has good reason.
But the Queen isn't ready to let her.
What unfolds is no mere negotiation—it’s a showdown of archetypes. Dignity and despair. Mercy and judgment. Dream and entropy. The Queen reveals her rank not through force, but through checkmate. A single word—wait—freezes doom itself in its tracks.
In this episode, we bear witness to a metaphysical intervention: the literal salvation of humanity’s soul by a being whose only weapon is benevolence wrapped in unbearable truth. We explore the hidden laws of the dead, the forbidden contracts of the archetypal, and the strategic brilliance of the Queen’s play.
This isn’t horror. It’s prophecy.
And the game’s not over.
Have you thought about using AI to help you write or do art? Well brother let me tell you; why the fuck not? If I've learned anything in the last week, it’s that it doesn’t matter if you do or don’t—some fucking commie fuck will accuse your best work of being AI.
2011: I've written 4 novels and they're all shit but one. SFWA and Worldcon get me robbed, nearly stabbed, and told by professional writers that I should literally stop the fuck writing. I shit you not, I paid to have that happen.
14 years later I keep fucking writing and I've got 10 in the can and 3 more coming. I got good, only my editor backs another friend who stabs me in the back. Friends and family almost all stop reading my shit.
I don't got 3000 bucks. So I say fuck it—AI or stop writing. And I'm not gonna let those SFWA fucks get me to stop. So I use AI to EDIT... and it fucking works. WELL.
But I make damn sure not even one fuckin word is AI. Not even a comma. I get good at it, and I like using it, but I remember the artists and their struggle, so I keep it to myself.
SEVEN FUCKING ARTISTS I try to get to do a Kickstarter for The Queen in Blue. SEVEN. Cash up front or not at all. OK, I plan to still do the Kickstarter, but I'm a lot less sympathetic... so privately I start sharing AI pics with family and friends.
I get flack for it, so I say FUCK IT and start sharing. But even then, when I WRITE with AI, I use a specific alias in a specific blog.
So not only does a bunch of Politically Corrupt Anarchs gang-rape my account, but they keep stalking it and mocking it, among other anti-AI shitheads.
You can't win. They don’t care about you. They're gonna call what you write fake anyway. Do what you fucking want. I may even hire human artists for my entirely self-published projects...
But I'll expect 'em to stab me in the back. Do what you fuckin want. Doing the right thing doesn’t fucking matter for AI. And moreover, I look at the PIECES OF SHIT kicking my muted account even now and I’m like:
DO WHAT YOU FUCKING WANT. Standing or lying down, the anti-AI SHITHEADS will stab you in the back anyway. #AI #OPENAI #ChatGPT
My blog started in 2007. FUCK anti-AI fucks. FUCK them all. FUCK Anarchs. FUCK EM.
Anyone who thinks I write with Gen AI except on the one blog where it is pretty fucking clearly marked with the pseudonym I use it for is welcome to a live streamed video conference where I write a poem on any subject they fucking like...in 5 minutes or less, but if I do, then they go to a public urinal and scoop the water right in their filthy lying mouth.
by Emmit Other
You lined up the pawn
like ducks in a row
then you sent a human missile
and they put on a show
the Perils of Pauline
was just Ventriliquist's throw
but the target took a left turn
and started to go
So you upped the ante
and then you hit low
Using every quivver
unleashed cupids poisened tip bow
But the watcher is watched
And the puppets in tow
theres a meaning to recurisve
but I dont think you know
that the reaping you has planned
isnt going to sow
For you cannot trick the trickster
Who has bribed your own shadow
We dont need what you think
Or even what we allow
