Ground Xero Blogs.

This is perhaps the story I've spent the most time on. I enjoy he story and characters. I just don't know what the story really is. A common problem of mine it seems. I like the effort. Just not sure where to take it. Only time will tell. Forty year-old Oliver Lightfoot walked into his home. He closed the door behind himself. He entered his bedroom, pulled out his 30mm Remington pistol, turned out the lights, and ended his life. Oliver wasn’t the only person to do this. There were others, several throughout the world that had done the exact same thing that day, in fact. Oliver’s case however was different. He was one of the most respected men in the city of Ghinny. He had made it rich in the oil industry and had what seemed to be an ideal life. ‘Money, power, a happy relationship with his wife, why would he want to throw all of that away?’ was the question on everyone’s minds. His wife had arrived home and, upon witnessing the sight, called the police. They arrived ...

I began this while I was in Afghanistan. I didn't hate the idea, but, I didn't know how to continue, finish, or what to do with it. It's an idea I want to toy around with a bit further, but, I think it needs a better writer then I am. “ I’ve never had a problem with fighting. Since I was young violence has been the one thing I was good at. In my primary school years I got picked on, though after I beat Marty Johanson within an inch of his life for calling me... What was it that he said... Ah, right, it was Fart-knocker. I nearly killed that kid and that told me how great it was to hold the balance of life and death in the palm of my hand. After that incident people kept their distance so I had to take up hunting to get the same feeling that I would from the fight. Hunting, skinning, and fighting. One would say that these traits are good for little more then a killer, that some would be right in my case. “ I live outside the city and I own a small cabin in t...

The last thing I wrote while in the military. I wrote it in 3 days. I know the end needs work. I burnt out. It needs edits and a rewrite, so consider it a finished Rough Draft. There I sat in the Lone Horse Inn, it was a small inn in a quiet town, though the towns people had one thing on their lips at the moment, murder. It seemed that an assassin of sorts came into town and slew a woman, wife to some man named Kaito. Kaito was said to be a powerful man, though an older one, and, recently in the habit of making powerful enemies. The village knew that this had to be someone powerful, someone Kaito had angered. They continued to mutter, about the blood splattered on every surface of the house, the limbs hanging from the ceiling, and the fact that the head was laid on the dresser, bloodless and horrified stare pointed toward the entry door, underneath it was a note, which read, “We have him” Kaito was going to his home right now. The people were talking of this too. I sip...