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Hello, and welcome to the chucktrevino.com Fiction Page, featuring links to chapters of a new pulp-fiction novel I've started called "Vignettes From a Dream," as well as a link to a complete fiction novel called "Carlos & Katrina", which I originally intended to be a tragedy. However, I eventually decided to scrap the tragic ending to that weepy pulper in favor of a happier one, due to the over-abundance of doom and gloom topicalities this website all too often peruses. It just didn't seem right, so I ditched what might have been the finest tragi-pulp ending the world has ever read, in order to keep public morale from falling too low. This "Carlos & Katrina" novel now has what I'd call a more "pulp-happy," though definitely not mawkish finale. These are not particularly mawkish times we presently find ourselves in, so why try to pretend otherwise? It is simply unconscionable; good people everywhere are being slandered, intimidated, harassed, attacked, robbed, slaughtered and worse, every minute of the day and night, so that clandestine players of highly-questionable integrity can reap bountiful, suspiciously-derived rewards at the pitiful expense of those aforementioned good people -- and all of us other people as well. Therefore, to avoid any suggestions of either mawkishness or doom-glooming, I have retired the original narrative I wrote for this fiction page; it seemed that it was banged out in a state of hopelessness and anger so sputteringly intense that I couldn't even see straight, let alone type straight. The whole thing was just too dark and overcast, like the overbearing times we are all now sadly experiencing... so I gave it the axe. I actually do write in that madly asphyxiated state of mind quite often, sometimes just throwing something up in a screaming rage all wickedly twisted and bent, having forgotten that it needed toning down. Unsurprisingly, these "write-'em-all-off" mass literary beheadings are often bitterly denounced by the incensed powers-that-be in their various media outlets. You will hear their shrill but weak tirades as they spit out vile, petulant-sounding whimperings, utilizing that pathetically insipid phraseology... and now I find out that it's all being written by good old Mr. A. Eye (artificial intelligence) himself! I forget exactly what vile offenses they're constantly attributing to me in their Times, or in their Post, or their Gazette; they'll even try to impart that I'm delusionally self-aggrandizing, to the point of insanity... which is like, complete bullpoop-rubbish, dude. Self-aggrandizing? Just more big-time propoganda whipped up by some of my less-cowed, eternally-yapping enemies. It's just the kind of flak you're expected to absorb in the brutal literary world, and I must say... in the face of very trying circumstances, I do it well. However, in the future I will try to bitch and moan about all the evilness surrounding me with more diplomatic aplomb. And perhaps that kind of angry rebel stuff doesn't really fit in too well with what was meant to be an introduction to a riveting novel, pulp or whatever. So I'll do it on some other webpage next time. Nonetheless, I must refuse to apologize for always stating the truth; in my defense, I submit that I've been expertly exasperated to the point of frothing lunacy by some of the outrageously criminal impositions mandated upon us all, at the cruel hands of a small coalition of shady but still very self-assertive non-elected leaders. I also take this opportunity to state that I strongly object to their endless global-war-for-profit campaign, which seems to have evolved into some kind of loathsome, self-perpetuating "arms-race" monster that devours people's lives and souls. And who is it that keeps insisting that all of this "arms race" doom-gloom is just an inevitable consequence of life itself, a naturally-occuring phenomenon that can't be stopped? The same people who are the most heavily-invested profiteers of all the death, madness and misery. Sadly, it only stands to reason. So don't worry, Charles will always be right on it! Whatever it is. When it comes to sniffing out evil-doers in their dark dank holes, chasing them relentlessly down with screaming elation, then delivering the final, mercifully fatal literary coup d'gras, there can be few finer proponents of sword-slashing knight-errantry in journalism than Charles. Also it must never be said that there exists anything even remotely mawkish about Charles, a rather serious bloke, who takes extreme umbrage at any such intimation... mawkish, indeed (what utter flibberty-gibbetiness). Let us dispense with such facetious notions in one fell swoop for all time. Mawkish means, quite literally like, you know... asinine! Foolish, fatuous! Vacuous? Nitwitted, empty-headed? Like, huh? Charles? Featherbrained, flighty, light-headed? Harebrained, rattlebrained... these sort of caustic expressions may themselves give rise to more malicous euphemisms, such as: dippy; sappy; wacky; harebrained, preposterous, absurd, loony, crazy... insane? I say, old boy, that's taking it a bit far, now... wouldn't you agree? That's why chucktrevino.com is hereby offering a million dollars to anyone who can make such patently false calumnies stick. You heard that right... a cool million, tax-free, to anyone who can prove that Charles is anything other than the sanest of dudes. And just where would chucktrevino.com get that million dollars from (since everybody's too mentally unsound to buy his artistic offerings)? The obvious answer is: from nowhere, man. Since no one would ever be able to prove such a thing, no one's ever going to win that million... therefore I don't need to scrap it together. So we can now just discard with any such ugly rumors regarding Charles's mental competence. And now it's time to reveal a ghastly secret: as some of you more erudite scoffers may have surmised by now, Charles cannot truthfully be called a "professional" novelist at all, and I never do refer to myself as such; writing tall tales is just another form of self-expression that I like to indulge in now and then, to the extent my limited abilities allow. No publishing deals? So what? I never really expected to earn one thin dime off of my writings... I just do it to express myself and piss people off. Big deal, who gives a flying fuh... um, notwithstanding anything I may have just self-effacingly stated, PLEASE NOTE: I do consider myself to be an important core member (founder, actually) of the hip new movement known as the "Creative Expressionists," the avante-garde organization of multi-talented artistic genius-madmen that I'm starting, which will be closely styled on the mad Impressionists, or the comparatively-crazed Neo-Expressionist painters of the nineteenth century (many of whom were, let us not forget, initially laughed to scorn -- but after they died, talk about getting big-time revenge, eh? Wow!) Okay, let's get serious again; enough of all this batty stuff. Here are your links to the various pulpy offerings. Download them all if you want, or just come and grab a quick chapter now and then. Its good for your ever-changing life perspectives, in a world gone literally mad as hatters. And as always, try not to get too offended by the amateurish grammatical mistakes and other bloopers; remember, it's all just pulp here! Digital pulp, that is. It's not supposed to read real good! 
Charles Adrian Trevino began contributing to the humanities immediately upon receiving his first non-electric typewriter as a 12th birthday gift, thumping out short stories about vampires and other sociopathically-inclined monsters, but quickly progressed to writing impeccably proper manifestos, and treatises, and expositions, (as well as producing a few documentarios) accusing just about anybody who's anything of doing everything and anything improper under the sun. Educated by some of the finest minds known to mankind (got their books free from the library), he has broken literary barriers in hostile frontiers where the brave dared not go, imparting valuable knowledge in dark, forgotten places where angels also feared to tread. His brash, firebrand writing style has earned him many admirers, as well as legions of dangerously scared enemies. When describing his writing intensity, critcs are often reduced to gushing superlatives such as: "Unencumbered genius, raging like a storm at sea!" Or: "Such explosively dynamitic psychophysical parallelism! Faint-hearted readers take heed..." Perhaps best known for snottily turning down numerous high-prestige literary awards and prizes amounting to millions of dollars, Charles is also accomplished and holds several awards in the fields of music, filmmaking, poetry, painting, bicycling, cooking, eating, and is also pretty good at washing dishes. His future plans? There is no future, he says... only for the philistines. He presently lives somewhere in the South Bay of Southern California, if you want to accost him; however, he does not sign autographs, for fear of all those brazen "thieves of your identity" lurking brazenly about these lawless days. If you want his autograph that bad, you can buy a "Special Edition" autographed copy of one of his completed novels (that's if you've got a cool 17 hundred thousand dollars or so just lying around); otherwise just forget it, dude. No autographs. Carlos & Katrina Fiction Page Vignettes From a Dream Fiction Page Click here to go back to Index All text and photos (except as otherwise noted) Copyright January 2024 by Charles Adrian Trevino. Thanks for your interest... this is chucktrevino.com. |