Feast

Here I sit
Hiding in a bathroom with an
Oak door
Repressing a hatred,
An overwhelming sense of loathing for the
Mentally and creatively and
Emotionally repressed middle class
Pretending to be upper class
And thinking that these bad eggs are
The symbol they are living the American dream,
Rising above their station to experience
Hundred dollar food poisoning (so much more suave and
Less demeaning to expunge than twenty dollar food poisoning) .
The dessert is as decadent as the philosophy,
The unwavering worship of an idea ofwhat wealth means.
And they will all still die
And it will be no more beautiful than when I do.

I'm so sorry

This is probably getting old (if anyone still reads any of this) but I haven't been able to concentrate on writing for long enough to put real content here, so I guess I will just tell you a real life story.

I'm sitting here writing this from the waiting room of my therapist. Yes, I'm stereotypical. I am a starving artist, who, as far as I know, is only starving because he can't finish anything worth reading. And I have a rather intense case of chronic depression.

For the love if god, don't read that as a request for sympathy. Quite the opposite. I think its just... an excuse maybe? I would like to believe that I know my way around a story and the language well enough that, if I finished anything resembling a novel, plenty of people would read it. And I have no aspirations to get movie deals and all that sort of fame and hullabaloo. I just want to create enough to live my life, and on some level, I know its possible. I hear these stories or whatever about people self-publishing to the kindle store and whatnot, and it shows me there is a light at the end of my tunnel.

Alright, sorry. This whole thing is really just supposed to be me apologizing to no one in particular for having a shit blog. I will do my best to give you guys something with reading this week, (hopefully several somethings, I really need to get to work) and I will see you then!

I always do this.

I told myself that I wouldn't let this blog slip, but of course I did. I have an issue keeping up with things like this. I guess you could say its a mental block for daily routine. So I am sorry I have not been around. Later tonight I am going to try to get around to writing something new for you guys. I'm sick of being a writer in name only, and I intend to finish a full story in the next week, and something resembling a manuscript by next fall. You guys should help hold me to that.

A foray

This is a short dialogue piece from a creative writing class I took.  It doesn't really have much context, but it was sitting in my google docs, and I thought I'd throw it up. Let me know what you think of it!

He stood in the meadow, ringed in ancient oak trees.  A gentle breeze played through the apprentices’ robes still draped about his shoulders.  The spring sun shone through the slowly clearing clouds, the smell of rain still heavy in the air.  He took a few tentative steps into the grassy clearing, his first steps of freedom.  They had not accepted his wild talent at the academy; they would never understand his connection to the song of magic.

    Ahead, the grove bent off to the right.  Behind the trees, came a gentle lilting tune.  It sounded like a flute, yet the music was unlike anything he had ever heard.  It felt right, somehow, as though it resonated with his very spirit.  He began to walk more quickly, becoming eager to find the source of this sound.  With each step, his feet seemed to tread lighter, lifted by the notes of the unearthly mealody.

    He rounded the bend to find a figure seated on a tree stump, a ways off in the clearing.  It was a woman, or at least resembled one.  Her hair seemed to be an unnatural green, and the way her body flowed to and fro with the song in the air seemed to suite its ethereal quality.  Her garb was as strange as her features, as she seemed to be wrapped in vines and leaves, barely enough to preserve her modesty, by the meanest terms, and a great deal less than that in the minds of the high ladies from the cities.  The woman had an instrument at her mouth, one that resembled an ocarina, that seemed to shine in the sunlight as if it were made of gold.

    He continued to approach this strange woman, entranced by the beauty of her music and her figure.  It was not with lust that he gazed upon her form, but simple, pure wonder.  A being of magic, he knew, but he could not bring himself to be wary of her as he normally would when confronted by a treant or a harpy.  Step by step, he approached, and for a few moments, she seemed to remain unaware of his presence, so lost in her reverie was she.

    A moment later, her eyes flashed open, revealing irises as green as her hair, both causing the foliage around her to pale in comparison.  If she was startled by his appearance, she did not show it.  The song continued for a while longer,  and her eyes remained locked on his.  He stood a stone’s throw away from her and simply watched in wonder.

    Her song drew to a close, the melody heart-wrenching at its finale. As the last notes died in the air, she lowered the instrument from her mouth.

    “Sai’Lam, traveler” she said softly.

    He stood agape.  “Uhm.” He muttered.  She giggled, a musical sound that almost rivaled her instrument.

    “You must be a human, are you not?” She asked, her eyes inquisitive.

    “I suppose I am,” he replied in an uncertain voice.

    “And what is your name, human?” she asked.

    “They call me Adrian,” he said awkwardly.  He had never had to introduce himself outside of the tower, and he felt odd with only his apprentice name.  He wished he has a family name, or perhaps a lineage  to list off. Adrian, son of so and so, son of so and so, the last great something of such a place.  Yet he was simply Adrian, and that felt inadequate as an introduction to this creature.

    “Adrian,” she said, allowing the word to roll of her tongue as if she played with it, and she smiled.  “Greetings, Ser Adrian.  I am Sudair of the Daenlin.”  The word echoed in his mind, and he was stunned.  The People of the Heart were legends,  the subject of stories whispered to young children to help them sleep at night.  

    “I’m honored, Lady Sudair,” he stammered, clumsily attempting a bow and, in the process, provoking a sweet tinkling laughter that seemed to fill her entire body.

    “So polite,” she remarked with a smile.  “So very uncommon for a human, or so they say.”

    He was unsure how to respond.  After a moment, he caught himself staring and quickly averted his eyes.

    “No matter,” she said, a hint of her musical laugh in her voice.  “It was lovely meeting you, but I really must be going.  The trees tell me my village is searching for me, and I simply must be off!”

    She smiled a sweet smile and leaped to her feet, graceful as a cat.  With a few light bounds, she came to a sudden pause less than a hair’s breadth  from his face, their noses almost touching.  Her sparkling eyes bored into his, not unpleasantly, but intense enough that he felt his brow begin to bead with sweat.  After a long moment, she took his hand firmly and pressed something into it, closing his fingers around the object.

    “A gift, Adrian the human,” she said, “And the spirits watch over you.”With that, she sprinted into the trees.

    He could do nothing but gape after her form until she was out of sight, and then continued for several minutes after she had disappeared into the foliage.

I am a Horrible Blogger

So, I'm a typical starving artist. A writer to be specific. I write poetry some times, but I'm making an effort to keep that to a minimum in an effort to stop looking like a whiny teenage bitch. So instead I write fantasy books and short stories (or would if I had any motivation). A friend was expounding on the values of blogging, so I said hey, why not. So this is my attempt at it, I'm going to attempt to put writing samples and daily nonsense on here. Whatever. Catch y'all around.