Here Lies a Writers Soul: Tread Carefully

Twilight Rain

2008-10-12T12:28:00.001-04:00

It was nearing twilight, and the sky was turning purple as I left the house. A silver moon slowly rose to meet me. Only a sliver of its soft radiance shone above a chorus of dark clouds. Tonight, I knew, it would rain. My bare feet, prodded by the cobblestone path, carried me away from my porch to the edge of a field I once knew. The wooden fence, then standing tall uniformly guarding the field, now bends, meandering lazily across the grass. A swell of wind, cool and welcoming whispers, asking me to follow. Over the fence, the bristling of grass calls out my name. Guided by the moon, now carried high by a multitude of stars, I find my place atop a gentle hill to wait. The clouds roll closer, a rumble of thunder shakes my bones, a flash of lightning captures my heart, and I knew tonight, I too would know the rain.

Not Dead Yet

2008-10-12T12:27:00.002-04:00

Well, I’m not dead yet.
Romans are pretty good about that.
Beaten, bloodied, and broken.
But not dead.

Crack
Another strip of skin
Gone.
An Inch of life growing shorter
With every swing of the whip.

Crack
Flesh
Torn away,
But I’m not dead yet.
Why not?
Haven’t I suffered enough?
Just kill me.

Nothing
An untying of hands
A sword thrust into my hand.
“You’re next, boy, the lions are waiting.”

Gripping the hilt
I stagger to my feet.
Stumbling to the arena.
Well, I’m not dead, yet.

A Joker Is Born

2008-10-12T12:27:00.001-04:00

"Green," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair, "green is a good color." Looking up from his grungy sink, his own dark eyes peer back at him from a broken mirror. Called to the window by police sirens, his shoes scuffing the mildew-stained tiles as he approaches. A petty thief, caught and stuffed into a police car, swearing and shouting the entire time.

“Tsk tsk,” he clucked while scratching his chin, “ pathetic criminals these days. You know, Gotham, you deserve better class of criminal. Batman,” laughing slightly, “deserves a better villain, a challenge, someone to make him break his rules. He needs… a me!” Cackling he rushes back to his shattered mirror, “I need a face! A new face… a good face. The hair isn’t enough. No no no.” Rummaging through a cabinet missing its door he finds what he was searching for, a make up kit.

“Thanks mum,” he mutters under his breath, “now, where was I...”

“White, yes, white," he said, opening the mussed make up kit, "to cover this ridiculous face” Looking up momentarily, “I guess I should thank you both for that too, huh.”

Dabbing his finger into the kit and scraping a clump of white, he raised the pigment to his face, "goodbye you," he whispered to the man in the mirror, and smeared a gash of white across his forehead. Whistling a tune, his face takes shape. Closing his eyes to apply black around them, he opens his eyes to a new, complete, face.

“Well hello, gorgeous, what’s your name?” bursting into laughter, the face in the mirror replies, “Joker.”

"Blue," he grinned, reaching for a pair of colored contacts "I need..." pausing.

"No," he interrupted, "Keep the eyes. The eyes are fine"

“A wardrobe! I need a suit!” still laughing he wanders to a small closet, "Purple?" he asked, holding the only suit in the closet. “You know, dad, we were going to bury you in this suit.” Brushing some dust away, "and being that you’re not using the suit… I think I will.”

“Alright!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands, “time for the finishing touch.” Running back to the bathroom, he plucks a shard of glass from the mirror.

“Red," he said, licking his lips and sliding the shard into his mouth, "I need some red."

Natural Nirvana

2008-07-08T10:47:00.000-04:00

Nestled amongst roots and
Embraced by bark.
I lie
Gazing upward.

A cloudless blue
An unspoiled backdrop
A perfect canvas

Leaves
Raining
Crinkling drops upon
Awestruck eyes.

Limbs
Stretching
Probing fingers
To stroke my face.

A strength
Above and below
And within.

I curl
Amongst her roots
Buried in a blanket of foliage
As she sways me to sleep

What Am I To Do?

2008-06-02T22:18:00.000-04:00

What am I to do
Now that the
Season’s at end?

The end of
Hours of practice,
Days of races,
And weeks of work.

What am I to do
With this newfound
Time?

How am I
To rejoin the
Human race
As a normal person?

What am I to do?

Trying to remember
Dining with humans
Instead of silence.
Talking about things
Other than races
Not thinking of
Practices.

What am I to do
No that there’s
Nothing left?

Is it even possible
To remember,
To knot severed ties,
To live again as
Normal?

No.
I shall remain
What I’ve become
As the river flows by
Without me.

Brothers

2008-05-03T22:22:00.001-04:00

I have
Eight brothers
Yet,
None of us
Are of the same
Family

Eight of us,
Brought together
By a boat.
Baptized in Blisters.
Purified
By sweat.
Together as one.
We are.

While we are not
Brothers by blood,
We have become
Brothers through
Water.

So... it's be a while....

2008-04-20T22:50:00.000-04:00

Well, this is more just checking in for all you who may read this. I am still alive, I'm just gone from my house 16 hours a day, six days a week. So sorry for not updating much lately...

peace

A Good Day For A Funeral

2008-04-08T19:38:00.002-04:00

Today is a good day for a funeral. A pouring rain dripping off two black umbrellas made for a solemn occasion. Only the sound of mud sloshing onto polished oak accompanies the rain’s odd melody. A slim figure shifts, revealing his pale complexion under a contrasting black. A slender white hand protrudes from his overcoat, holding his umbrella.

“Did you know him?”

He looks over to see a young girl beneath the umbrella. Her eyes, smeared with tears and raindrops, peer at him inquisitively.

“No. I didn’t.” he replies in a glum voice.

“Oh,” she stutters, turning her face away, “I just thought…”

“You thought I knew him because I came to his funeral,” he interrupted.

“Well, yes, that’s the way funerals usually work don’t they? People who know the person show up.”

If that were the case,” he continues, “why are you the only one here?”

A roll of thunder echoes across the sky. “I guess people don’t like the rain,” she says finally.

“Aye,” he says, “that is why I am here.”

“I don’t understand,” she says quizzically.

“Let me ask you this. Would you go to a murderer’s or a thief’s funeral?”

“I doubt it,” She says.

“Exactly,” he replies, “I go to the funerals that no one else care about.”

“But why?” she asks.

“Because, everyone deserves to have someone at their funeral, no matter who they are.”

Meh

2008-04-08T19:38:00.001-04:00

I don't think the backwards poem is going to work out, sorry to all of you who were looking forward to the beginning... but your vigilance shall not be left unrepaid, I wrote a short story soon to be posted.

2008-04-01T20:37:00.001-04:00

But, these stars do not
belong to me and
It wasn't hard to steal them

2008-03-25T21:45:00.001-04:00

I simply
Reached to the sky
and stole them.

2008-03-24T19:57:00.001-04:00

And so
I have with me
A hand full of
Stars

The end

2008-03-24T19:56:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling slightly off this week so I think I'll write a poem backwards.

If you're just now catching this because I finished the poem already, now you know.

Morning In Paris

2008-03-21T17:20:00.000-04:00

An empty subway
With quiet streets above
Not a soul has stirred
And they will remain unruffled

Until the sun drifts
Its light fingers over
The Louvre
And glisten through
Notre Dame

Now
Even the swift Sienne
Lies dormant

It will not take long
Until the subways
Rumble
The streets
Bustle
And Notre Dame’s
Bells toll

But in the morning
The very soul of Paris
Is still

Gift to the River Gods

2008-03-08T14:35:00.001-05:00

Blood,
Sweat, and
Tears,
Were expected

Pain,
Blisters, and
Sleepless nights,
Were returned

They stole my body
And broke it
They pried away my mind.
And shattered it
But,
For my heart,
They needed only ask

Kamikaze

2008-02-14T22:26:00.001-05:00

“No second thoughts, ever.”
That’s what I was told
Before I sat in this cockpit.
“No regrets, and no looking back.”
Is what I told myself.

But traveling across the world has given
Me time to think.
Time to think all the dangerous thoughts,
Like “why?
And for what?”

For Honor
And Pride
We die

Our arrival is
Anticlimactic
No barrage of bullets
No shells to dodge

Just my explosive
Passengers
And I

This would not be
A beautiful death
But a lonely one

It’s too late
To turn back now
Watching my final target
Grow closer
I speed up
Grip the throttle
And close my eyes

Bus Ride Home

2008-02-05T18:35:00.000-05:00

Darkness outside my window
Streaks of cars
Flash by.

Beaten and tired
My head finds rest
On a frosted pane

My body is weary
But my mind races.
Lost opportunities and
Missed options
Torture me.

Memories play by
On a dark leather seat
Ahead.
They won’t leave me alone

You can break the body
But the mind
Never ceases
There is no escape

I hate this bus ride

Word Catcher

2008-01-30T15:49:00.000-05:00

I am the word catcher.
I snatch words out of the air
And pin them to paper,
They look so pretty there.

Rolling off tongues and
Flying off books,
They’re everywhere.

But I’ve already caught
The boring ones.

Instead I hunt
Exotic,
Interesting,
And new words.

The dictionary is my
Playground.
Letting me catch words as they
Float from the pages.

Pinned with pens
My display lies in
Notes and
Books.

Each of them
A part of me
Waiting to be free

Playing with Imagery

2008-01-28T18:58:00.000-05:00

Cool, dew-laden fingers
Stretch and uncurl.
Brushing lingering stars

Gentle breezes
Stir swaying hair into
A fretful ballet

Quiet sunbeams
Fall upon elegant eyes,
The first to see light.

Within dark curls
Striking flowers rest,
Waiting to unfurl.

She is
A morning silhouette,
A tree in sunrise.

Rainy Day

2008-01-26T00:27:00.000-05:00

It is a rainy day
And I have saved nothing.
But I’m fine with that.

For I do not save for
Rainy days.
Instead, I save them.

The puzzling rhythm of rain,
I tuck away.

The mournful groans of thunder
Echo in my bones

A lighting bolt
Carved into my heart
Its signature

I pity those who save
For a rainy day,
Because it leaves no room
To save them.

Yanked Heartstrings

2008-01-25T19:21:00.000-05:00

Well, through wandering around the internet, I found a rather sad comic.

Obviously it is not by Bill Waterson, to the best of my knowledge it is by a Jordan Fish.

There, now that the credit ness is out of the way. This comic is probably the most depressing thing I've seen in a long time. I personally see it as the transition from childhood. That our society has hit a point where being a child is no longer a good thing, where imagination is going out of style. I hope this comic hasn't depressed you as much as it did me. As a good thing, I'll continue to keep imagination in style, even if I'm the last one using it.

Feast of the Fire Gods

2008-01-25T18:42:00.000-05:00

Red walls
Adorned with
Scarlet curtains,
Smolder

Bright embers
Blaze atop
Grand chandeliers.

A scorched table
Outlined in candles,
Serves as the centerpiece.

Fiery invitations
Wrapped in crimson
Have called this odd assembly.

But,
The seats are bare.
The candles, drooped,
The food, uneaten, and
The curtains, only silver tails of smoke.

How was I to know
That the gods of fire
Dislike a flame.

I Is Person

2008-01-21T22:06:00.001-05:00

I is person
But you’ll no see
‘Cause you don’t see no person
Who look like me.

I is a person
Really, I’ll no lie
But why I ask,
Do you get that looks in yous eye?

I am person
But you not trust my kind, I know
‘Cause when I try and talk to you,
Rocks you like to throw.

I am a person
And I’m tired of your stuff
Finally, I’m deciding that enough is enough!

I am a person
And I’m taking a stand.
I’m making a new law for the land.

I am a Person!
And you shall not condemn
Because some day
Some day, you will see how beautiful I am.

Mother Moon

2008-01-19T22:15:00.001-05:00

The sun peeks
Through my window,
Again.
I loathe it so.

For it shines
Into my heart and soul
I am transparent
Before its
Piercing eyes.

No,
I do not like the sun

I instead am kin
To Moon.
A loving mother
Radiant,
Beautiful, yet
Dark, and
Mysterious

Like me.
Like I wish I could be.

Solitaire

2008-01-16T21:07:00.000-05:00

A naked bulb
An eerie glow
The ambiance is
Suffocating

Alone
At a table with
Painted squares before me
I ponder at this
Mysterious game

One card
Turns over
Memories follow

She left…

No matches…
Into the deck, I bury it
I’ll deal with it later

He died…

There’s its match…
The drug problems…
Put them in a neat pile
For everyone to see

And so on..
Memories erased
Memories returned
Memories focused on

The cards are gone
Memories gone
Except for one
My saving grace
Who I am

If only they knew
How hard this game is to play
Without a full deck

So I finally captured a photo of me that I like...

2008-01-14T20:55:00.001-05:00

I like it, don't you?

Prejudice

2008-01-11T23:48:00.000-05:00

I am an Atheist,
But you only hear “Heathen”
I am gay,
And you think “Fag”
I am homeless,
Bt you smell only Garbage.
I am African,
And you only see my Skin.

I am Irish,
So you think “Drunk”.
I am a woman,
And you see an Object.
I am deaf,
You hear Dumb as well.
I am blind,
And you think I’m Lost.
I say that I am Muslim,
And you feel Terror.

But,
I look at you,
And I see my parents world.

But mine is different.
Eyes are opening,
Ears are listening,
And hearts are changing.

My world is ready for change
The youth,
Have broken down the walls of bigotry
And are waiting,
Waiting for our parents to walk though.

Dandelion

2008-01-05T01:20:00.001-05:00

This one did not turn out at all like I wanted it to.
____________________

I am the thirsty dandelion tuft
Praying for rain.

Clinging to this sidewalk
Slowly dying

Living on memories
For I remember it
When love fell freely from the sky

From you

Rowers Prayer

2007-12-28T18:56:00.001-05:00

If they find my will too weak,
I give the river my soul to keep.
Should the boat toss and sway,
May we always find our way
Correct the lengthy paths we take,
And guide us from unhappy wake

Should the ergs sear our hand
Hope the time is short on land
When yearning for water may we will find
Our bodies strong as well as minds
When my time has come to die
Do not look into the sky
For to the river my soul is given
Pain we’ve bared has been forgiven

A Mind Shredded

2007-12-15T02:50:00.001-05:00

Shards of Imagination and Fantasy
Litter the floors.
Patches of Reality and Skill plaster decaying walls.
A consciousness untied.

Finally tired of the mess
Gathering scraps
Change may begin

With a needle of Reason
And a thread of Hope
Fragments are wholed
Slivers are pieced.

Jumbled, but together.
Dreams and Certainty woven
Chaotically
Spilling into each other.

Can you see the difference anymore?

Why?

2007-12-02T13:16:00.002-05:00

Why is it that I like to think of myself as being creative but can't even think of something to put in a post? Sure, I've got loads and loads of snippets of ideas written down, but nothing that could be really turned into a full out blog post... I hate days like these, where I can't think of anything witty to say, it makes it seem vaguely like I'm not contributing society, or that I'm somehow missing out on a creative idea that is waiting to be discovered. Bleh, this is a sorry excuse for a blog post, but it's all I've got today.

Happy Holidays

2007-11-23T11:25:00.000-05:00

Happy Mass Turkey Genocide Day.

What I Learned Today

2007-11-20T19:33:00.000-05:00

NEVER GET YOUR WISDOM TEETH TAKEN OUT TWO DAYS BEFORE THANKSGIVING

It's no fun

Epiphany De Vocaublaire

2007-11-17T14:11:00.000-05:00

Language is fun to play with. It's like a puzzle with pieces that have one side the same as every other. I realized how fun playing with words is when in English class we were studying the term "Allusion" which is a reference in writing to a familiar person, place, or event. I rolled the term around in m head and suddenly I had a short, witty, fun, thing.

Illusion of an Allusion: Making a reference to a person or place you think you know.

I like it, what say you?

Winter Rose

2007-11-05T23:09:00.000-05:00

Buffeted by icy winds
Probing every crevice
Chilling to the core
Beauty trapped under ice

Said to be out of time
Too early and
Out of place
Crimson on a white canvas

Light petals raining
Dripping onto a wet snow
Winds carry the scarlet crumbs away

Nosey brown nubs remain
Peaking out of the slush
Their color sapped

Snow capped thorns and
Crumpled leaves linger
Awaiting warmer times

Through the ice and snow
Through the wind
The rose remains
Because that’s the thing about winter roses
We survive

Originality

2007-11-03T22:35:00.000-04:00

You know, I once thought I had an original idea.
Turns out some dead guy thought it first.

An Intricate Dance

2007-10-26T21:51:00.001-04:00

“We don’t have much time left together do we?” I ask.

“No,” she replies, “I know I will be leaving you soon.”

I keep vigil over her, but she’s so pale, it’s as if I can see through her. “I can’t believe this is the end. Can’t I make it stop?” I plead.

“It has to be this way and you know it,” she whispers. With a shuddering breath she continues, “I can feel the darkness,” smiling now she says, “the stars are calling me”

I reach for her hand in desperation, but I’m too late. I whisper, “such an intricate dance we have, Moon. But come night, will you reach out for me?”

A Bookshop

2007-10-26T21:44:00.001-04:00

Alone in this bookshop, handling probably the last books of our time, I wait. I don’t even thin we have customers anymore. Drifting off to sleep behind the counter, the silver chiming of the bell above the shop door stirs me from my slumber. I look to see what unsuspecting soul has wandered into our shop. He’s young, maybe two hundred, his communicator has already been implanted and computer jacks take up most of his wrist. Wandering among the shelves, he looks out of place, lost perhaps. I don’t think he’s ever been in a bookshop before.

“Excuse me,” he inquires, “How do you work this?” The robotic drone of his voice surprises me and I stutter, “well… you open it, usually to page one, and read it.”

“Read?” he asks, “Is there an upgrade for that?”

“Umm no,” I reply.

“Oh, in that case I’m not interested,” he sighs.

As he exits, I hear him mutter, “I wanted entertainment, not some stupid book.

Dreaming in Another Language

2007-10-22T18:18:00.000-04:00

When I was a freshman in high school I had five years of a Spanish class under my belt and was frankly tired of it. So I instead took French. My teacher was quite spectacular, she spoke five different languages fluently and was easily the best language teacher I've ever had. She once said that when she lived in France for a few years she would in fact dream in french. This seemed absolutely absurd to me until last night, I had a dream completely in french. It was half really cool and half kinda creepy. Unfortunately I no longer have said awesome teacher, and instead I'm stuck in a class with a teacher who does not enjoy teaching I'm in fact riding on my first year of french... two years after the class!

Similarly in unfortunateness (I hope that's a real word) the teacher I have now is actually slowly killing my interest in the French language. So I have a solution! I'd like to take german at some point. Luckily I've always been rather good with languages and if my thrill for french can not be rekindled, I fully intend to take German instead. If said thrill is returned, I will probably take German anyway.

(Insert catchy sign off phrase here.... I'll work on it)

Untitled Fear

2007-10-18T22:03:00.000-04:00

I must admit, I have two major fears in life, death, and being lost beneath the waves of obscurity. I believe that this fear of obscurity is related to me wanting to be a writer when I am older. I sometimes get the feeling that my writings will never achieve any recognition and I'll just be another writer who didn't make it. I guess this fear helps sometimes in driving me to scrutinize and improve my writing. I just want to leave something behind that I could be remembered by, something that would withstand the tests of time. Something to "live on" after I'm gone. Everyone wants that though, so as with everything these days, there is competition of avoiding obscurity. A competition of avoiding death.

"Never take life too seriously; after all, no one gets out of it alive."
-unknown

Crazy Much?

2007-10-14T17:10:00.000-04:00

I've been keeping a notebook of random bits of things that I think of throughout the day. Some stuff is rather insightful, while other bits are completely ridiculous. There is one bit, however, that has thrown me for a loop. I like it, but I'm afraid that it will only make sense to me. So I turn to the collective intelligence to tell me what I think it means. This often happens to an artist, they create something and it people don't perceive it like they hoped it would be. A situation would be

Artist: It portrays the suffering of mankind and it's futility to move foreward

Little kid: It looks like a pony!

Teenager: It looks like (lewd joke)

Adult: Look at the spectacular colors, I wish I could do that.

Artist: But don't you see the human sufferings?

All Others: No... why?

Anyhow, I'm worried that something like that is going to happen with this writing blip.

This is the text.

Cells: The building blocks of life.
Cells: The blocks of building life.

I think it's somewhere along the lines of the first definition meaning what it says, but the second one I imagine as being prison cells being the blocks (like in a city) of building life (the prison)

Does it make sense? Could you get to it without me telling you what I think it means?

Sneak Preview

2007-10-13T19:56:00.001-04:00

This story is nowhere near done, but I'd figure I'd show it and try and get some feedback....

Entitled, Born of Moonlight: An Assassins Tale

I was born of moonlight, raised in darkness. Night is my only friend. I wander the streets in a perpetual black; a dark umbrella hides my face. The umbrella, a precaution, shields me from any moonlight that may cross my path. Clad in night, not even the knives on my belt dare glint. I am but a simple assassin, violent, but elegant in my ways. Never has a drop of blood brushed against my skin, in spite of the knives.

Crowds divide at my approach, a steady path opened by terror. Faces turn away, instinctive. No one knows my name, but all know who I am, and all fear me. I have hundreds of deaths to my name, and remember each one of them. Respect for the dead you could call it. No victim I have chosen has ever eluded me. I’ve killed in all manners, poisoning, stabbing, suffocation, and have used every weapon known. I have even created a few of my own design.

I kill objectively; I indiscriminating in my choice. However, the last one was different. My prey expected me. He was sitting on his bed, watching the through which I entered.

“Good morning,” he said, unconcernedly. “I was about to give up hope and go back to bed.” His eyes were a cold grey and did not move. I realized then he was blind.

“Are we going to get this over with yet?” he asked, “I was hoping for something painless, like a dart. But I guess I don’t really get a choice do I?” he said with a sigh. His casualness baffled me; I lingered in his window. “I’d like to die here, please,” he said motioning to his bed, “You know, it has been almost twenty years since I left this house. I know every crevice and room by the smell and feeling under my feet. However, this house only has so much to offer. Lucky for it, I only have one last request of it, to be my final resting place.” His head swiveled around the room as if he were taking a last glance of what he’s leaving behind. Upon this he laid himself in bed and whispered his final words, “Through death, perhaps you will see as I do.” The room became dreadfully silent, only his quiet breathing interrupted. Soon after, even that ceased to disrupt the silence.

Alone atop a roof I sit. Pondering the mans final words. A small black cat wanders over, “meow?” it calls. “Hello Shadow,” I say, scratching its head softly, “Nice to see you again.” Shadow was but a kitten when I first saw her up here. I watched her as she struggled in the rain, against the small rivers threatening to us her off the edge. I did not stoop to help her, I merely sat and thought, “I can relate.” Each night we meet here, our secret rendezvous. After the killing, after the muffled death, there is serenity, just Shadow and I under a forgiving moon.

Crack

Someone’s here, immediately I am one with the darkness. Hidden under a roof ledge I see them. They are inefficiently armed. A large dagger hanging on his belt, to bulky for someone his size, and he has a knife in his boot. I wait for him to come into view, and I pounce. The man was on the ground and disarmed before he knew what hit him. My knife on his throat I ask him the simple question that no one seems willing to answer, “Who sent you,” I inquire. The man looks at me, and refuses to answer. “I would rather die,” he spits.

Alone again, I look for a new rooftop to accommodate Shadow and I. I left the man with a message to his superiors; he is dead, with a knife through his throat. My signature.

Numbers

2007-10-13T10:14:00.001-04:00

Did you ever stop to notice all the number combinations that you know that would be completely useless without context? I personally know 4 different locker combinations, 7 phone numbers, 4 combination padlocks, and tons of passwords that are completely numeric. Now if we take away the association with these activities look at how many numbers I've taken time to learn

Eight three-digit combinations

Seven ten- digit combinations

Uncounted over six-digit combinations

I would think that without the association these numbers have we would find it impossible to memorize and use these numbers without jumbling them up. It's similar to those tests where you're told a series of numbers and told to repeat them back. Most people have trouble with them, but ask them their home phone number and cell phone number they can rattle if off with little to no problem.

Curious how many numbers we know that without context we wouldn't bother with isn't it?

Regatta Results

2007-10-08T19:04:00.000-04:00

Well yesterday was our first regatta.

Our boat did 2.8 miles in 22:20:45 with the current against us the entire time and we were actually up a class higher than what we usually would have been. We placed 5th out of 6 boats and had the best novice boat time out of our organization. Overall it was a very good experience and I'm betting on a good poem coming up sometime because of this. Wish me luck.

Erasing Memories

2007-10-06T12:23:00.000-04:00

In Preparation for a rowing regatta tomorrow the entire team took the day to clean the boats and and make them suitable to present. There is one boat that we were cleaning called "Faith's Fury" (named after a coach) when I noticed that where the name was written on the bow, there was the same name but in different faded lettering. I asked my coach about it. She said that when she rowed in this organization, they named the boat and used electrical tape to write the name on it. When they peeled off the tape, a residual remnant of the name stayed on the boat, later to be written over. Myself and the others cleaning the boat were then told by another coach to simply scrape the residual name off the boat. While we were doing that I could not shake the feeling that I was erasing memories off the boat, stories that the name held. By the time we had finished the residue was off but where it laid the white paint under it had not faded like the rest of the boat. so in a vague white outline you could still see the original Faith's Fury written on the bow. Sure the same name is written on the boat, but it was just different. However knowing that the faded white outline would still be there, made it a bit better.

That's life isn't it, you store up memories, keeping them in hopes of never losing them. But over time the memories kinda fade and eventually get peeled away leaving a residual idea of a memory. Even when the residue is worn away, it seems like you just can't get rid of them.

My Boat

2007-10-02T22:04:00.000-04:00

Well, my ego has been inflated quite a bit and is now on the verge of explosion. Today after rowing one of my coaches came up to me and started asking my opinion of how things were going in the boat today. This usually doesn't happen so there's a bit of inflation there. But here's the big one, after a bit the coach asked, "Who do you want in your boat this sunday for the race?" First off, the whole idea of it being my boat was incredible, and the second bit, having a choice for who'll be in my boat, fantastic. I'm amazed I could fit in my car, it was just a huge ego trip.

I'm hoping the swelling will go down by the time I wake up tomorrow.

The Death of Hope

2007-10-01T22:01:00.000-04:00

Hope
It never dies quietly
Never peacefully
It is torn away
Kicking and screaming
Painfully

Hope
Hidden in the deep recess
Of the heart
It is the last to leave
Never on it's own accord

Hope
When it leaves
Nothing can replace it
Emptiness

Hope
The roots run deep
Forever it seems

Hope
Whoever said it is always there, lied

Hope can die

Oy! I forgot my Haiku!

2007-10-01T21:16:00.000-04:00

The first one is entitled glasses, the rest are untitled... I might have a few more poems floating around somewhere

I can see so much
But much is taken away
Blinded within glass

The setting sun falls
Into the dark horizon
But I will return

Eleven o’clock
Never heard during the day
The icemaker clunks

Just a Little Haiku From School

2007-10-01T21:07:00.000-04:00

The florescent lights
Glow unnatural colors
And now, I do too

A Writer Who Rows? Nonsense.

2007-09-29T20:33:00.000-04:00

Yes, the rumors are true, being that I was the one who started them. I participate in crew competitively, and have the blisters to prove it. While this bit of information is relatively useless to the you, the reader, it will hopefully explain a few poems that might be coming down the road. While I'm rowing, other than trying to ignore my muscles screaming for relief, I'm thinking of the material that rowing provides for writing. I think I have an idea for the ending of a work, "We finish and the water is ours." I think it would be a good ending.

I figure I'll share the extremes of this and show off my blisters. (warning this is not for the faint of heart)

I have a grand total of 28 blisters between two hands. Yay me!

American Studies Writing

2007-09-20T21:33:00.001-04:00

I am currently in an American Studies class and we were instructed to write a bit about our views of Ellis island, it's workers, and its role in immigration as a whole. This is what I wrote. I know it's rather rough.

Ellis Island no longer stands for open arms and welcomes into America. Instead, the tablets held by the statue have been changed into forms, restrictions, and bureaucracy. The torch no longer guides the way for travelers to America; it now is used as means to scare them away. Those who worked in Ellis Island damned those who they felt were unworthy. Chalk markings deciding their fate. During war, the borders grow tighter around he throats of those hoping to be granted access. When bigotry and superstition run rampant, out of fear we lock others out, safe for a few chosen refugees. Those who are deemed worthy enter in a dimmed light, looked down upon, Outsiders in a land of immigrants.

French Class Writing

2007-09-20T21:32:00.000-04:00

I was in my french class a bit ago, and inevitably I began to daydream. When I came around, I was struck with this thought and decided to run with it. What do you think?

The word “pretend” is such a strange word when you stop to think about it. It does not appear to fit its definition at all. Once could not define the word by looking at it such as with “bicycle” or “tripod.” Pretend is similarly strange because it is one of the only harmless things that we are told not to do. Never do you hear, “you should pretend more,” or “I like how you’ve been pretending so much.” But why is this? What is so wrong with pretending? Is it because those who dissuade pretending never could and don’t want other people to? Or is it something else? In my opinion pretending is one of the most important thing in life, without pretending, creativity dies. Children are being weaned of their creativity, as Picasso said, “All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up” Overall we to encourage creativity, in every form.

I Have An Idea (This Is The Part Where You Run Away)

2007-09-20T21:26:00.000-04:00

Often I end up writing in my classes, and sometimes I like what I wrote. So I'm thinking that I'll begin posting some things that I end up writing in my classes. However, a warning, if I indicate what class it is from, it I think it is necessary to point out that the content will not always mesh with the class.

So I Learned A New Word Today

2007-09-09T19:49:00.001-04:00

The word is erinaceous and it means "Like or pertaining to a hedgehog"

Isn't that cool?! Now that I know the word, I've been desperately trying to find some place to use it. Like describing someone, "He can be so erinaceous sometimes," or something like that.

Where Were You on 9/11/01

2007-09-09T13:46:00.000-04:00

Well, before the modern media exposure on tuesday makes me want to throw up in my shoes, I thought I'd bring up this subject and tell you my own story.

I was in fifth grade, science class. We were just beginning a lab, when someone got called for an early dismissal. It was not unusual, it had been a while since someone got dismissed early so I thought nothing of it. But then, more and more people were getting dismissed. This was strange, and I had no idea what was going on. I looked to my teacher for some sort of sign, I could see that something was wrong, but she wasn't going to tell us, after all, we were only fifth graders. Finally my name was called, I almost expected it. So I gathered my things and went down to the office where I saw my mother, obviously frazzled, she hustled me out the door and into the car. We were almost halfway home before my curiosity got the best of me and I finally asked, "Mom, what's going on?" She sort of half looked at me, half drove, and said in a shaken voice, "Do you know what a terrorist is?"

"No" I said regretfully, I felt guilty that I didn't. It was as if I was deprived of information that could allow me to grasp the situation.

"A terrorist is a bad person who does evil to hurt an scare people," she said.

I left it at that until I got home, the television was already on, all I saw was the planes crashing into the twin towers. But somehow it was unreal to me, as if this event did not affect me. I couldn't even find emotions to feel during this tumultuous time. Everyone I saw was shaken at the thoughts of what happened. But for some reason I wasn't, and felt guilty about it. Guilty about not being able to share the same feelings as my fellow human beings. I kept watching the video clips over and over, hoping that I would feel something, anything. But nothing came. Not until years later did I realize the implications of what happened that day, but by that time, any emotions possibly there were so deeply hidden that I felt nothing.

I wish I could have felt something that day. Sadness, despair, even anger. Feeling nothing at all I think might have been worse than anything else that I could have felt that day.

So while every other aspect of September 11th is defiled by the media. Let us keep intact our memory and what that day meant to us.

War Drums

2007-09-09T13:26:00.001-04:00

My favorite musical instruments have always been the war drums. Stronger than a heartbeat, fiercer than thunder, they precede the threat of an impending doom. Heard before seen, the rhythm shakes the earth, as if the entire world shudders at its approach. The oceans ripple to the footsteps of this giant. Stirring the soul, the body trembles at the sound. The power rattles bones and shakes the spirit. However, the drums carry another noise. Footsteps. Each falling to the unending beat, a looming destruction. Anticipation floods the mind, doubts fall upon even the bravest. No one is ready for the beat of the war drums.

Wandering Thought

2007-09-09T13:25:00.004-04:00

Disappear. Vanish. Poof. Out go the lights, pulling the veil of darkness over you.

You don't even know who I am, do you? I would remove my hat if I had one and I would bow if I had the body to do so. Since I have neither I will settle with a simple hello and you may call me Jack. I see you're looking at me, you don't believe that I'm real. I assure you, I am as unreal as it gets. I am merely a wandering thought, a thought that no body wanted. I'm nothing dirty or painful, Nothing violent or hurting. I'm just the thought that you have when you're not thinking. I am the thought you have when you think you're thinking nothing at all.

Piano Blues

2007-09-09T13:25:00.003-04:00

"Hand me that piano," she said. Carefully, I lifted the grand piano and began the painstaking task of fitting it through her front door, because the house looked rather on the small side I just had to ask, "If you don't mind me asking, madam, why do you need a grand piano in your house?"
"To go with the fireplace of course." She responded.
Looking around her slightly bland house, I saw that it was completely bare of any fireplaces I replied, "But madam, there is no fireplace here…"
She said, "I know, that is also why you are here, I need you to build me a fireplace, right there," pointing to a rather difficult looking region of the house.
"Right there?" I said in shock, "there is no way that I can put a fireplace there. The angles are all wrong, and there seems to be a rather large hole in the floor on that spot.
"Oh, that's ok," she said, "You can fix that while you're here too."
"Madam," I said trying to keep control, "I refuse to become your personal slave for your own gain. I am merely a piano salesman. I reject in every way to have to patch this hole in your floor, build a fireplace on it, then put a grand piano next to it."
Knowing what was coming next I quickly stormed out of the house with the woman screaming out my name and yelling, "I will be calling your supervisor!"
Screaming back I replied, "Go ahead, I don't care what you tell him, just be sure to tell him about what you wanted me to do!"
As I got back in my service truck and started the engine, I knew at once what I had missed and banged my head on the wheel a few times, I had forgotten the piano.

Forgotten

2007-09-09T13:25:00.001-04:00

Hidden from the world.
They look but cannot find.
The world,
Will forget me

Shielded from the world.
No one can find me.
Friends,
Forgot me

Left behind by the world.
No one wants to find me.
Even my family,
Has forgotten me

Abandoned from the world.
Who would want to find me?
Even you,
Have forgotten me

Stricken from the world.
I don't want to be found.
Even I,
Can forget myself

Tiled Floors

2007-09-09T13:24:00.001-04:00

Tiled floors
Why do they follow me so?

The uniform of the floors
Wherever I go, the tiles are there
Sometimes they may change their cloak
Colors and shapes
Eternal shape shifters
I tread carefully
So as not to fall in their trap
For I know dark tiles hold hidden death

And so I hop
From tile to tile
Across the floor
Of course people stare
But the tiles aren't after them

Once I almost fell through

The faces stare at me
Whenever I see their eyes,
I stomp on them
Whenever I get the chance

But they always come back
For this reason
I never take off my shoes

I even hear them
Whispering cruel threats
Irony spews from the cracks
"Watch your step" I hear them say
"It'd be a shame for you to fall" feigning concern

I see them sneaking about my house
Waiting for me to trip up
To fall
So they can gobble me up
They fold themselves over trying to trip me

And so, I will remain here
Perched on this windowsill
No longer trapped in my house
And embrace the security
Hidden in a straightjacket

Where they can never find me

The doctors say that I am paranoid
They say it's in my mind

But I know the truth
They're after me

Bus Child

2007-09-09T13:23:00.000-04:00

There's a kid on my bus, no one really knows anything about him. He's the first to be picked up, and the last one to be dropped off. Every time I see him, I wonder if he ever gets off the bus at all. He can't be much more than seven years old. He looked at me once. His dark glare chilled me to the bone. There was no emotion in his cold gaze, not even a sign of recognition of the world around him. He just sits there, every day, listening, silently taking in his surroundings, almost as if he is solely taking on all the worlds' problems.
Someone said he spoke once. They might have exaggerated a bit. They said that his voice was like a rusty doorknob, rough and jagged. They said that he never got off the bus, he lived off the used candy wrappers lying on the floor, and if the bus driver said that he was good that day he would be let off the bus for a few minutes to see what he could catch, and they continued on and on about what they each thought of him
Hearing all this, I looked to that child in the leather bus seat, and saw a single solitary tear begin to well up on the corner of his eye, and I watched it as it slowly made its path down his cheek.
This was why, I thought to myself, he always sat there doing nothing. He had always been the target of ridicule when he would speak to people. He sits there so silently because he is facing the cruel world around him alone, no one to come to his aid, no one to save him from his ridicule, and no one to share his burden. He found sadly that even if he said nothing that he was still targeted for who he was.
Looking around, he seemed to be searching for someone who had caught him in his weakness. When his gaze met my knowing eyes his eyes were suddenly filled with fear. He looked at me in desperation hoping with every bit of him that I would not point him out, to show off his moment of weakness, to expose him to the world waiting for the moment to crush him.
Silently rising from my seat, I decided that I would go and talk to this odd child, perhaps try and comfort him, help him in his time of need. What would I say? I didn't know, but it was too late to turn back now. Trying to maneuver myself down the aisle of the bus, and disregarding the bus driver telling me to take my seat. All I could think every step is what will I say? What if he doesn't talk back to me? What if everything goes wrong?
I took the seat next to him, and heard a silence come over the entire bus, all of them waiting to see what would happen. The child looked at me in awe that I would sit next to him. I looked and saw that his cold, steeled eyes had changed and now held hope. When I saw his eyes, nothing else mattered anymore, I needed to say something, so I mustered everything I had, took that leap of faith, and said hi...

Fear of the Dead

2007-09-09T13:22:00.000-04:00

The tragedy had already occurred; it was all set in stone. There was no saving him. He had died, now all the family could do is watch and wait for him to be collected. It wouldn’t be long. The collectors remove the dead quickly and remove their memory even faster.

Suddenly, the lone candle on the table next to the deceased unexpectedly flickered and went out, emitting a thin tail of silver smoke. Quickly the family scurried off into a different room, tugging along a small child who was trying to catch a last glimpse. With a swift flick of an iron key, they locked the door and waited.

“Mommy, what’s happening in there?” whined the small child.

The mother gathered the child close, rustled the child’s black hair reassuringly, and whispered, “He’s being taken.”

Confused at what her mother had said, she asked, “Doesn’t anyone know what happens in there?”

“No, we never go into that room when they’re collecting”

“Why doesn’t someone go in there to see?”

Looking at the child, the mother answer “There is too much fear in that room.”

“What is there to be afraid of? Doesn’t someone know what goes on in there?” innocently said the child.

“We don’t know what there is to be afraid of, all we hear are the rustling footsteps and low mutterings. When we come back in, the dead is gone, and six hooded figures carry a black wooden casket away.”

“Mommy,” whispered the child, “Has anyone seen them…. the hooded ones?”

“We’ve only seen their eyes.” She shuddered. “They have deep red eyes, piercing through the shadows of their hoods.”

“Mommy, If you don’t know what they look like, why don’t you just peek through the keyhole?”

The mother gaped at the child and tried to say, “You don’t understand, it’s not that simple…”

However the more that she stared at the child’s innocent face, the more she saw that it really was that simple, and she slowly made her approach to the door.

As quietly as possible, she placed her hand against the door for stability, knelt down and moved her eye closer and closer to the small keyhole below the brass doorknob, closing her eyes in fear of what she might see.

“What’s in there?” whispered one of the family members in the room.

“Nothing yet” answered the woman. And slowly opened her eyes.

The image that met her through the peephole to the unknown revealed six hooded figures. They had moved the furniture and had placed the body in the center of the room. Crowded around the deceased, muttering what she assumed to be prayers, the mass of cloaks circled around the body, like hungry vultures moving in. Then one of the figures came her way. The eyes were indeed a deep red, and the mouth had rows of teeth shaped like talons. Each tooth was gnarled and yellow. The robes they wore were tattered and hung in shreds, and each of them had remnants of chains wrapped around their wrists and necks.

The woman gasped. That was, however, all that was needed: they had heard her. One of the creatures turned quickly towards her. With a flare of their red eyes she heard it mutter, “Kill them all, they’ve seen too much”

The mother’s eyes widened and shoved herself away from the door just as the door bent inward as the creature slammed into it. Hastily she grabbed her child and rushed toward the cellar. They needed only enough time to leave, she didn’t know where they would go from there, but they needed to escape.

Again the door almost buckled under the weight of the creature’s poundings. The entire family rushed from the room, “We need to go to the cellar!” she yelled over her shoulder to her family. Dodging through doorways and around chairs, they scrambled to the cellar. The sound of shattering wood told them that they did not have much time left. Dashing down the old wooden stairs, they managed to make their way through the musk and found the door that opens to their freedom.

It was locked.

Fumbling for the keys she heard the creatures above tearing through the house, searching. Trying to concentrate, to find the right key she heard the monsters reach the cellar door.

“You know you can’t hide; we will find you,” said one of the creatures as it slunk down the steps, “You have to sleep sometime.”

Finally she found the right key. Shoving the heavy cellar doors outward, they were met by a shower of sunlight.

As they raced from the cellar the monsters followed with inhuman speed. They dashed across their front yard. Suddenly one the men in the group tripped on some badly placed rocks and fell. A swarm of tattered blackness immediately engulfed him. With a ravage of screams, the creatures tore at him.

“Daddy…!” cried the child clutching the bouncing shoulder of her mother as they made their way across the grass.

One creature ascended from the gore with bloodstained teeth and hissed at the remainder of the family, “You are next.”

So they ran

It was evening by the time they had reached town. Dashing through the streets her mind finally caught up enough to check if the creatures were still following. Finding that they were nowhere in sight, they finally slowed to stop.

Gasping for air, she wheezed out, “We can stay at my uncle Drac’s, he lives on this street.”

She peeled her daughter from her shoulder and started off.

Wandering down the alleyways, they came to a dark green door with red trimming.

“This would be the place,” she said as she trod up the grey cement steps. She lifted the golden knocker and let it swing. Before it even hit the door, the door opened swiftly, but only a few inches. A single eye peered out at them from the darkness.

“Hello?” boomed a deep voice.

“Uncle Drac?”

There was a few seconds of silence and the voice replied, “How do you know my name?”

“Uncle Drac, it’s me, your niece, don’t you recognize me?” she answered

“No, you can’t be my niece, she died this morning.”

With that the door closed, accompanied by clicks and slides of various locks being put into action. Leaving her standing at the door stunned.

“What does he mean I died?

Once again, she rapped on the door, and was met my no answer.

“Uncle Drac, it’s me,” she shouted through the door. “I’m not dead, I’m your niece, don’t you remember? Ages ago, you took my sisters and I on that hike, and we saw that deer, you always were fond of animals. You pointed it out and told us to be quiet.” Becoming more delirious she screamed, “You said if we’re completely silent, it might come closer. Don’t you remember!” she said pounding on the door, “The deer came right up to us and you let us feed it… it’s me!” falling to her knees, crying to the door, “It’s me… please remember.”

Seconds passed, however those few seconds were stretched to an eternity. Finally with clicks and whirls, the door opened and a giant of a man, wearing faded blue overalls, stepped out of the doorway. “Lucy? Is that really you?”

“Yes, Uncle Drac, it is me, or what’s left of me.” she replied

Lifting her chin, she looked into his soft green eyes, “I remember,” he said, “Please, do come in, I’m sure you have quite a story to tell.”

Sitting around the small dining room table the family was silent until Uncle Drac emerged from the kitchen doorway, carrying a small silver tray with delicate flowers engraved in it. Upon the tray there were small teacups filled with steaming liquid. “Here,” he said, passing out the tiny cups, “It’s coffee, you look as if you could use it, and some hot chocolate for you,” he said as he gave the last cup to the small child. “Now, tell me everything that’s been happening.”

So she told of how their lives had been turned upside-down in just the one day, constantly on the verge of tears. Lucy broke down towards the end of her story when she described when her husband had fallen. At this uncle Drac left and retrieved a box of tissues, subtly offering them her way. Taking a tissue and wiping away the streaks that her tears had made on her cheeks, she had finished.

Silence overtook the table, each reminiscing over their own account of their story. Uncle Drac finally broke the silence and began to speak. “Those hooded figures… they are called collectors. Long ago, when the gods still walked the earth they were banished to hell by a great hero. The chains bound to them are what remain of their restraints. Even though the links are rusted, they are unbreakable. Their eyes glow with the flames of hell of which they were tortured. For millions of years the collectors were never even heard of. However, they've somehow found a way out, and now they are seeking revenge upon the bloodline of the one who banished them. You are the last descendants of the banishers of the dead. They’re after you."

“How do you know all this?” asked Lucy.

“Because,” he said in a terrified whisper, “They’re already here. They visited me this afternoon, they told me if I wanted to live, that I’d tell them if you came. I told them you were here after the first time you knocked.”

“Uncle Drac, how could you do this to us?”

“Shh!” he said frantically waving his hands, ”You can still get out, there’s a back door that goes to the center of town, you sure you could find your way out of this place from there.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” whispered the child.

“Not this time, young one. I intend to see you later though.” Replied their uncle.

“Now,” he said turning to Lucy, “I’ll hold them off for as long as I can, you run right through the kitchen door and on your left there will be a blue door with a stained glass window. Go through there and take the alley on your right.”

“Will you be alright on your own?” Lucy asked hopefully.

“We’ll see Lucy, we’ll see. Now skedaddle, you’re wasting time.” Swiftly picking up the silver tray off the table. He followed after them.

Scurrying through the house the group made their way towards the alley. Just as they had opened the door to the alley a collector burst through the wall behind them. “You,” it hissed, “you’ve betrayed us! However we will let you live if you step aside now. What are the lives of these humans to you anyway?”

“Those humans,” he spat, “are my family, and they mean everything to me.”

With a great heave, he swung the silver tray upward and caught the collector in the neck, sending it soaring across the hallway where it crumpled against the wall.

“You know,” he said wiping the black blood off the tray, “You will die today, and if I don’t make it out,” he said raising the tray to strike, “I’ll see you in hell.” and brought the tray down upon the creature. The creature let out a blood-curdling screech, but was cut short by another swing of uncle Drac’s unforgiving arm.

Letting out a heavy sigh, uncle Drac strutted toward the door and hoped that Lucy and the group hadn’t gotten too far yet. Without warning, a whirl of arms and fury of teeth, a group of collectors came flying through the doorway and barreled into uncle Drac.

Sprawled across the floor, uncle Drac staggered to his feet. “This is your last chance,” said the collector, “step aside now and we might make your death quick.”

Waving the tray at the collectors he replied, “ Until you have to haul my body out of this house, I will not move.”

“Very well.” Said the collector, with teeth gnashing and eyes flared, it launched itself at uncle Drac’s chest. Uncle Drac preparing for this, with the small tray whirling, leapt forward.

Meeting in midair, uncle Drac smashed the tray into the collector, who was sent flying across the small room. “Take him!” screamed the collector, trying to grapple to it’s feet, “but do not kill him, I will do that myself.”

With that the group of collectors hurtled at uncle Drac. Each taking one of his limbs, they pinned him to the wall. As much as uncle Drac struggled, he could not break their iron grip. Each of the collectors laughed quietly and grew exited. When the last collector regained it’s legs, it advanced upon the sprawled uncle Drac and ran it’s rotted finger across his cheek. “You do realize,” it whispered, “you’ve merely delayed your family’s death. They all will die, and I intend to be the one to rip into your dearest Lucy’s throat.”

“But first,” it said stroking uncle Drac’s twitching skin, “I will kill you.”

Uncle Drac began to chuckle and stared at the collector, “you have no idea what you’ve done.” With a great roar he crashed his massive head into the collector ahead of him and ripped the collectors from his arms, tossing them aside like toys. Grabbing the collector by the throat, he slammed it into the wall. “You will not lay a hand on my family. Because after I kill you,” raising his fist, “You ain’t coming back,” and crushed the collector’s head with a blow from a monstrous right arm. Immediately the remaining collectors overtook him in a pile of blackness.

Rushing through the alleys, Lucy and her family weaved their way through the house-lined maze. Finally reaching the center of town they stopped to catch their breath. “Do you think uncle Drac will be ok, mommy?”

“I don’t know dear, but we can always hope,” said Lucy.

A noise rose from the depths of the alleys, coming from all directions. In a swarm of black the collectors surrounded them. Red dots lined the rooftops, each one staring at them in anticipation. As silent as a shadow, the collectors encircled them.

A deafening silence overcame the crowd as a lone figure exited the indistinguishable mass of black, and came to the front of the crowd.

The child immediately recognized the figure and yelled out, “Daddy! You’re alive!”

Without a word, the collectors descended upon them

Though their screams echoed through the darkness. No one heard.

The End

My World

2007-09-09T13:20:00.000-04:00

In the world that I come from the grass is rarely green and the sky is anything but blue. Flamingos dance by on roller skates and gophers are the ones who climb the highest mountains. Four moons thread their ways across the horizon, each taking their turn, marching an endless parade across the sky. Flowers exotic in nature grow commonplace in my world. Purple polka dotted daisies and yellow and orange striped dandelions pave the roads where no cars dare tread. Instead the people ride silly looking giraffes, each giraffe in a different pattern, some plaid, some speckled, but not one of them is the same. Everyone in my world wears a top hat, and a dress jacket with very long tails, almost a dress code, but not quite. I would have to say that everyone looks quite smashing in a top hat and tails, so it is only reasonable that people would want to wear them. This dress applies to the animals as well. Every day I'll see a tiger prance around town in a stylish suit, tipping his hat to me as I pass. In my world the animals talk, one of our greatest philosophers is a duck, and you can see our kangaroo crossing guard, directing the giraffes through town. We all get along with the nicest of harmony.

When I wake up each morning, I may see a monkey cleaning my windows, or maybe a spider knitting a sparkling scarf. Perhaps, I will wake up to the whisper of a dragonfly on my ear, gently mumbling secrets that I do not understand. During some point in the morning I'll roll lazily in my bed and nuzzle my face in the warm mane of a lion next to me, trying to find sleep once again. Finally, the silver chiming of a clock awakens me and I take my daily stroll. Wading through the knee-high tiger lily sidewalk, I pass zebras discussing music with warthogs, and I know each of them by name. After a time I return to my home to rest before the festival later tonight.

The time has come; the chants of drums rise out of the streets and drift through my windows to awaken me. Rising from my bed and approaching the window, I see that our quiet village has been transformed. Paper lanterns sway upon threads of string, each omitting a soft purple glow. The streets have come alive, both people and animals crowd the alleys. Above the lights, green stars perform their intricate dance across the red night sky. Endlessly they dance on, capturing my eyes in their depths, until I find myself standing alone in the middle of the streets. Confetti has found the end to their excited decent, now on the ground while hedgehogs crawl along the curb, nibbling silently on tulips. The lights in the windows have all been extinguished. I discover myself standing in a spotlight of an amber moon as if it were awaiting my performance. I spread my arms, taking in the soft glow, as if it were my very breath. Closing my eyes, I begin to feel that glow within myself. Inching its way through my veins, I'm overtaken by the glow until I've become the glow itself. Rising into the sky, I look down to my world and realize that my world has become myself.

Saturday Morning War

2007-09-09T13:19:00.000-04:00

It was early, just before dawn actually, I was silently preparing for the battle that I would be facing today. I went outside and began painstakingly sharpening my blade, carefully taking away any imperfections that might be on it. Suddenly the time for the battle had come. I knew that I would be outnumbered, I knew that it would be an amazing amount of time that I would be fighting, and I knew that I would be going in alone.
As I walked along towards the field I saw small remnants of battles that had been fought before me, small reminders of what I was about to face. Then I came to the field, my enemy already seemed to be already fighting amongst themselves. I saw each of them trying to achieve dominance each rising to their full height, slowly choking each other, and trying to overcome the other.

Silently I came behind my enemy, blade at the ready and glinting in the sun, choosing the correct time to attack. Silently anticipating, with anxiety rising I couldn't stand it any longer, I lashed out. With a great roar and blades whirling I bravely attacked my opponents.
As the battle seemed to go on for ages, at most points my opponent was overpowering me, but I fought valiantly, most of the time I was wading through knee-deep carnage until finally the last of my enemies fell, I wiped the gore from my blade, walked back and placed it back in its original position, looking slightly more ragged than it had been before. I knew then that I had finally finished the job, I had finished cutting the grass.

Last Words of an Injured Athlete

2007-09-09T13:17:00.000-04:00

Searching for the words to say
I approach the group
Each of them focusing on me

Waiting…
Waiting for me
To explain why

Why?
I haven’t fully understood it yet myself
I look into the faces of the group
And see hidden concern

And so I begin
I give my reasons
My apologies
And I give them my best of wishes

I silently wish that I didn’t have to do this
But it is for the best
I gave my all
One hundred percent
Every day
An undying passion
An unyielding flame

Yet
As much as I don’t want to
I must give it up
Throw in the towel
Cast in my lot

I look for a response
Perhaps a hidden sign
I search the faces of the crowd
And see
They hold respect for my actions

No…
They hold a respect for me

I walk away
Unashamed
In wait for next year

From Clay to Stone

2007-09-09T13:16:00.000-04:00

The first day
We arrive sharp
We are given our weapons of power
We are taught to use them
Through the pain and struggle
We practice until we are prepared
The weak are weeded away
Only the strong survive
Training ends
From clay to stone
We have become machines
Made to destroy
Dominate
Win
It is time to show what we have learned
We struggle and fight
Just as we've been trained
And yet as much as we try
Our victory has passed us by
We hang our heads in shame
We walk away
Back to training
Once again we practice and struggle
Fight and train
Until we master our domain
Of which we have chosen
We look back when our work is finished
All we can think is
What have we done?
Look at what these boys have become
From molded clay to chiseled stone
A pain that none can atone
To show no emotion
To fight their way though
All we can say is
This is what we do
We do not choose for them
They decide this for themselves
To take up this task
To strain, to fight
Until their final day

And they call it a game
This game of football

Snow Day

2007-09-09T13:15:00.000-04:00

Snow day
Free to be me day
Shovel the blankets off the bed
Peel the covers off the driveway
Pack a snow globe tight, throw it high
World in a whirling white, crystal sky
Sliding down a hill, inches from the racing snow
Faster, turning, tumbling, laughing
Sitting in the melting wet
Too tired to get up
Too cold to stay down
Was this hill always this steep
Maybe it will snow again tomorrow

Well, I have a blog... now what?

2007-09-09T13:04:00.000-04:00

Well, I figure that I'll use this blog to put my stories out there and post about whatever else I feel like posting.