It seems like this blog isn't accessed enough. After schoolwork is done, I'll try to post more things. Lately, life has been...well, let's just say interesting, but in a good. Firstly, my second novel, Letters Across Time, cowritten with a friend of mine, Sami C. Lovegood, will be released later this summer. Expect it around June or July. Actually, when I first start composing the novel, I was going to write it by myself. One day, while chatting with a friend that I attend school with a year or so ago, I mentioned the novel. "Mind if I co-write?" Sami asked, making a emoticon on the school messenger. Inviting her to help out with the story, we decided that the novel would be letters passed between two writers, one an Irish novelist while the other was a Japanese writer of sorts. The story progressed and slowly metamorphosed into this epistolary novella that runs about 120-125 pages in book format. Surprisingly, I am quite excited about the publication of my third novel.

Anyway, I post a story that I have been working on, following thus:

The Confessions of Augustus Zeigler

The quality of life has been distorted by the aging process.
Call me Augustus. My full name is Augustus James Zeigler. I was born in the dust ridden fields of Kansas in the year 1929. As parents, mother and father were of a different sort. Drunks, they would often beat my siblings with the farming tools that they used in the yellow fields of Roxbury Flats, the farm where my father grew corn and other such vegetables that he often sold in the market place in town. Roxbury was a quant hamlet of only three hundred inhabitants, a sleepy village of sorts.
Currently, I am sitting in this makeshift study that overlooks this abandoned college of sorts. This belfry smells of rotten bat piss and the shit of stray pigeons. Dirty old men like me often speak in a manner that if often akin to that of young street hooligans. Yes, I curse, but does it matter? I do not believe in God and therefore, I have my own jurisdiction. I am incapable of emotion. Completely devoid of the blasted thing. Sure, as a young man, I felt emotion, but that seems centuries ago. One could say that my life is nothing short of this novel that I have been composing for the last fourteen years in this study that is currently in shambles. For those who know of my work, I compose most of my novels in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado in this nonexistent campus that lies within this small hilly valley that is close to a ravine that passes through Estes Park. Of course, I may be lying, but why should I at this point in time?
I, A. J. Z., being of sound and mind, do hereby sign over my life to this entity that most people call death. What follows is my autobiography.
Now, I was born on October 13th in the middle of a field. From eyewitness reports, I was dragged from my mother’s womb by my bastard of a father who said, and I quote, “God, Virginia, get that shit out and get him cleaned up before midday peaks.”