Jon Adcock

@jonadcock.bsky.social

6342 Followers 9766 Following

A lover of books and music. An aspiring writer with a handful of published short stories. Here to connect with fellow writers and music lovers. https://linktr.ee/jonadcock?fbclid=IwY2xjawGeAV9leHRuA2FlbQIxMAABHd9QrZ7zjG9BuGHm_aGWcBIJ61geUEHaAHsBn634_T7b-8

A fat cat laying on a bed

Do Not Quit

Someday You're going to be someone's favorite author

It rained on the morning of Lex’s funeral. Dane sat in the small church, surrounded by Madi’s children, grandchildren, and family friends. It had been three years since his homecoming, and he had visited Lex every day. She had her good days and her bad days, and most of the time, she didn't recognize him. On those days, he would sit quietly with her, holding her hand. But there were other days, the diamond days, when the spark of memory flared bright, and she knew who he was. On those days, the years melted away, and in her mind, Madi was still a child, and they were both still young.

Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flock of variegated feather and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world

An exhausted woman lying in bed with the caption: Writers trying to be their own editor, publicist, social media guru, graphic designer, photographer, website updater, IT specialist, newsletter editor, accountant, event planner, public speaker, and videographer all at once

all my pain is a spider
I've learned not to crush
with the heel of my shoe
but to guide with a page
of my journal
into an empty glass
I ask questions about
its life, its purpose
as I walk careful
out to the garden and rest
it down on the earth
My pain-how happy
it is to leave me
whenever I treat it
kind

The angel flew low over the swamp, the tips of his wings lightly brushing the water with each downstroke. He landed gracefully in a parking lot paved with crushed shells, where half a dozen cars were parked. The bar was built over the swamp, resting on thick pilings driven deep into the muddy floor. The walkway leading to it creaked and swayed beneath his feet. Both the bar and its deck were sun-bleached and weathered, looking as though it wouldn’t take more than a huff and a puff to blow it all down. There was something stronger than just nails holding everything in place.
Before entering, he leaned against the railing of the deck and closed his eyes. The night was peaceful and calm, but in a world of tooth and claw, desperate struggles were occurring all around him in the dark. Even the least of these creatures died in earnest, and the angel whispered words of comfort.
The bar was large, with over a third of the tables occupied. Blue Öyster Cult’s This Ain’t the Summer of Love played on the jukebox. At a table near the counter, a beautiful brunette was deeply engaged in a conversation with a young man. As the angel passed by her, she paused to take a sip of her drink. She smiled when she caught the angel’s eye, revealing extremely long and sharp canines. In the nearby mirror, she didn’t cast a reflection.

Andrew Tate being arrested.

British words I'm absolutely gutted not to feel British enough to use on a regular basis:
daft
posh
wheeliebin
fancy
bloody
chuffed
pillock
faff

when your little girl
asks you if she’s pretty
your heart will drop like a wineglass
on the hardwood floor
part of you will want to say
of course you are, don’t ever question it
and the other part
the part that is clawing at
you
will want to grab her by her shoulders
look straight into the wells of
her eyes until they echo back to you
and say
you do not have to be if you don’t want to
it is not your job
both will feel right
one will feel better
she will only understand the first
when she wants to cut her hair off
or wear her brother’s clothes
you will feel the words in your
mouth like marbles
you do not have to be pretty if you don’t want to
it is not your job

—”It is Not Your Job” by Caitlyn Siehl

Dane sprinted toward Chang, Ramirez, Diaz, and four other soldiers taking cover behind a volcanic outcropping. As he crouched down next to them, flechettes and high-velocity rounds began to chip away at their cover.
“I can’t raise C2 for air support or another transport,” Chang said with frustration. Dane, staring past her, slowly lifted one of the remote's arms and pointed. Fiery streaks still marred the reddish sky, but among them was a huge fireball. A ship was burning up in the atmosphere. What they had thought were meteors were actually fragments of wreckage.
“Fuck. The cavalry won’t be coming anytime soon,” Chang said. “We’re too exposed here. If they get up on the caldera's sides, they can easily pick us off. Sic the drones on them, Dane, and we’ll pull back to a more defensible position.”
Dane activated the combat drones and set them to berserker mode. The drones furiously attacked the Newts from the flanks, unleashing chaos. He then instructed the recon drones to target the nearest Newts and ram them at full speed.

Until a drag queen walks into a school and beats eight kids to death with a copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" I think you're focusing on the wrong shit" _ Wanda Sykes

$Writer's clock: Write coffee review edit start over drink heavily cry consider a new career more coffee\write submit wait$

A man holding a book up and saying “I find this book offensive” the librarian responds “ cool. Give it back so I can lend it to someone who doesn’t “

in the morning before anything bad happens
the sky is open alll the way
workers upright on the line like spokes
I know there is a river somewhere, lit, fragrant, golden mist, all that
whose irrepressible birds can't believe their luck this morning and every morning
I let them riot in my mind a few minutes more before the news comes

dressed in costume at the beach

A picture of a bookstore with the caption: every time I walk past a book shelter I remember that I can’t adopt them all. But every visit, I try to rescue a few. It’s the least I can do

OK, but did your dad have a giant binder of burnt cds??

My dad? My...DAD?

If I ever feel bad about spending $ on books, I just tell myself I’m supporting a writer whose parents told them they’d never make money

A spoof on the classic meme where the guy walking with his girlfriend checks out another girl. Only this time, It's the Grim Reaper walking with Mitch and checking out Lindsey

“Take him back to his cell and give him a change of clothes,” he said to the guards. He gave me a long, complicated look. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”
“On your feet, hands behind your back,” one guard said after unlocking me from the metal bar.
“Give me a moment. I’m still feeling the effects of that stunner,” I said.
I slowly rose to my feet, swaying slightly. Just as I was almost upright, I pitched forward, and the guards reached out to catch me. Quickly, I ducked down, rotated, and slammed their heads together. As they collapsed, I grabbed one of their stunners.
My interrogator surged out of his chair, scrambling for his sidearm. The stunner made a satisfying crackle when I jabbed it into his chest. After he fell across the table, I dialed it up a few levels and jabbed him again on principle. I took his gun.
The corridor was empty, and I cautiously made my way down it. I had no illusions about my situation; I knew I wasn’t leaving the base alive. However, I was determined to create as much havoc as possible before they snuffed me. A door slammed open behind me, and I spun around. A woman stepped out.
“They’re coming, Jason. You need to give me the gun.” She hurried down the corridor with her hand out.
It was her—the woman from my memories. She looked leaner and harder now. Her long blonde hair was sheared down to an inch-long stubble, and a jagged scar ran across her right cheek. But her eyes—their brilliant blue— remained unchanged. An elevator door rang and opened, followed by the pounding of metallic boots.

My best tip for anyone trying to get back into reading is to remember that you can read books to avoid other responsibilities in your life, and it can become a vice if you play your cards right

Jack Sparrow

"You should never say bad things about the dead, you should only say good...Lindsey Graham is dead. Good."

Bioengineered from bear DNA, the recom was a hulking presence as he sat on his haunches, adjusting his weapon harness. Twin Devastators were mounted on the harness, each capable of firing a barrage of flechettes that could shred anything in their path. The recom was twice the size of an adult male and was covered with coarse fur beneath his combat armor. He looked formidable, and if necessary, I was counting on him to punch a hole through to the extraction site.
“Too easy. Don’t like it.” The recom’s voice was a low rumble.
“You’re too pessimistic, Junior. We’ve had this conversation before. You gotta try being a glass-half-full kind of person.”
“No way it’s this easy, Loot,” Martinez said as he joined us. Junior looked up, gestured toward Martinez, and then returned to adjusting his harness.
“First, we’re not out of the city yet. Second, don’t jinx it.” I took a swig from my canteen. “How’s the package?”
“Creepily docile,” Martinez said. “It’s not struggling or resisting in any way. Just stares at us. To be honest, it’s giving me the willies.” As we talked, the condensation of our breath swirled and danced like apparitions at some spectral ball.
The rest of the squad came up. The package was an emaciated man dressed in tattered clothing, barefoot despite the cold. Blake and Lopez were on either side of him, each gripping one of his arms to guide him forward. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, and he was gagged. Additionally, a mesh muzzle was secured over the lower half of his face for extra safety. Lee followed closely behind, aiming his rifle at the man’s back. When they finally released him, our captive fell to his knees and stared at us. I stared back. The parasite rode its hosts hard. The most striking feature was his eyes; there was no white left. Instead, they were bright red from the blood pooling in them. There was no trace of fear in those eyes, no trace of anything human, but it wasn’t like looking into a void. Something was looking back.

The grim Reaper at one of those claw games saying "Lindsey Graham? I mean, OK...Is the orange one even in there?"

Hell's waiting room with Lyndsey asking Mitch who the third chair for?

I just learned a group of fireflies is called a sparkle…and now the world feels a little more magical

it has been brought to our attention that a story in Issue 153 of Apex magazine, "Vigil of the tenth Air," is suspected of being written with AI assistance. After careful review, we have decided to remove the story from our website, and will send amended copies of Issue 153 to all readers free of charge.

“Incoming!” The synthetic's warning flashed across our HUDs an instant before a Hellfire drone exploded overhead, its cluster bombs raining down on us. I sprinted for cover. The Exo propelled me in long, leaping strides toward a partially intact warehouse thirty meters away. One bomblet detonated nearby, and I curled into a ball, hoping the Exo would absorb most of the shockwave. The blast hurled me into one of the rusted wrecks that littered the street. There were more explosions. I hugged the ground and tried to make myself tiny.
When the explosions stopped, I crouched behind the car and quickly assessed. Physically, I was fine; all my limbs were intact, and none of my lacerations were life-threatening. Equipment was another story. Multiple warnings flashed across my HUD: both shoulder-mounted weapons were inoperable, and my power unit flagged. The command link was out, either hacked or jammed. The cavalry wasn’t coming anytime soon. The local network still functioned. Damage reports for the rest of the cohort scrolled in the corner of my display. Many of them were in worse shape, if not dead.
Smoke and dust filled the air, severely reducing visibility, but I could see the weapons platforms a klick to the north, firing as they advanced. Streaks of light converged on them, and a burst of radiance and noise followed. As they blew, the platforms briefly illuminated the area like twin suns gone nova.
Afterward, silence enveloped everything like a shroud. A low rumble began to resonate as the minutes passed—initially imperceptible, but gradually growing louder. As the dust settled, the enemy became visible: at least fifty soldiers, each equipped with their own version of exoskeletons and carrying large force shields. They moved in leaps and bounds, resembling gigantic grasshoppers.

The best part of getting older is aging out of the demographic that gets killed in horror movies. I am now the age of the kooky local at the gas station who warns the band of college kids not to go to Camp Murderblood.

a flamingo standing on one leg

Why bother?

because right now there is someone out there with a wound in the exact shape of your words

My 18-year old coworker; "you write in cursive?"

Me: "yes, my formal education began in the late nineteen-hundreds."

A wind started to blow—at first soft but gradually gaining strength—lifting trash and leaves into the air as if they had been given wings. The debris swirled faster and faster in a circle between Eddie and the cats. When the wind finally settled, a figure emerged before him. It stood seven feet tall and resembled a giant cat, with yellow eyes that seemed to pierce through Eddie’s very soul like a mounting pin. He stared at it, transfixed, initially thinking it was a man in a Halloween costume. Then the creature crouched, hissing, its teeth long and sharp in the yawning mouth.
With a whimper, Eddie turned and stumbled-ran into the woods. Over the sound of his panicked breathing, he could hear the heavy, loping footfalls of his pursuer. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie saw dozens of small dark shapes moving through the trees, keeping pace with him. The fog wasn’t as thick here, and he could see the faint glow of porch lights from a house somewhere up ahead where the small grove of trees ended. With his knees aching and his breath coming in wheezes, Eddie tried to run faster toward the lights.

Nurses at Mitch mcconnell’s hospital bedside say they’ve yelled “ there’s a black president trying to fill a Supreme Court vacancy “ and he didn’t stir at all

“It’s a job, Niamh, and I already registered it with your guild. The pay is very good,” Gabriel said and named the amount.
“That’s very enticin’, though maybe a bit too much so. Look, nothin’ changed since the last time we worked together. I won’t murder or maim, least not more than some light maiming. There’s those that will, but I gotta draw the line somewheres.”
“It's not like that. Someone stole something very valuable, and the owner wants it back. There’s a bonus if we hand over the thief too…alive.”
“Seems simple enough, so why a caster? And why pay so much for ‘em?” Niamh took a swig of her beer.
“ Well…it’s where we have to look for her.”
“Och, don’t tell me she’s in the Shatter.” She abruptly placed the tankard down, sloshing some beer onto the tabletop, and stared up at Gabriel.
“That’s why the pay is so good.”
“Can’t I just murder someone instead?” Niamh asked. She dipped a finger into the spilled beer and, absentmindedly, drew runes on the surface as she considered it. Wisps of darkness flowed over the edge of the table, forming small human-like shapes several inches high on the tabletop. She watched them cavort for several minutes and then quickly waved her hand. The shapes vanished. ‘I’ll do it. When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow, two hours after cockcrow. I’ll meet you in front of the guild house.”
“I'd buy ye a beer, Gabriel, but I’ve me got a barmaid to seduce,” Niamh said as she got up. “If I’m goin’ into the Shatter, I’m gettin’ laid tonight.”

I submitted a story to Submission Pit's June monthly contest. Didn't win it, but a few days later, the winner was disqualified after Pangram showed AI had substantially written his story. His bio shows publication in "Strange Horizons, Macramé Literary Journal, Cohesion Press, Zoetic Press, Bindweed Magazine, Graveside Press, HorrorTree, Plott Hound Magazine, and Consequence Forum, with further work forthcoming in other venues."
It's definitely frustrating to do the hard work only to have someone else cheat and be successful from it.

I was a nerd before it was cool (with different logos of popular sci-fi shows and movies).