Such pressure

    to write

every moment

    of every day

and make them

    beautiful

even though

    I am afraid.

I link these

    severed chains

and toss the stone

    into your lap.

Drag me

    down the halls;

sweep me

    across the floor.

Two waterfalls,

    and a single flow.

A centered spiral,
    where we converge

into paper

    and into color.

Not Again (a Douglas Adams tribute)

Not Again

An estimated deduction on the thoughts and feelings of a bowl of petunias that was once a heat-seeking missile

Disclaimer: It is a scientific, philosophical, and anthropological fact that nobody in the known universe has yet been able to understand the thoughts of plant life, especially of the soft-colored yet tough-natured petunia flower. This brief hypothesis into the conceivable thought process of the universe’s most famous bowl of flowers is fictitious and merely exists as a possible stream of thought based on available knowledge of the events that have taken place involving a dormant planet, an advanced hyperdrive system, and a sperm whale. Please enjoy.

            And suddenly, there it was.

            A heavy push of wind violently shook the pot of flowers, nearly making it sick from the sudden change of atmosphere. The bowl of petunias was not particularly happy about this new situation, to say the least. What an inconvenience this has become. Immediately, it began to miss the waiting room of pre-existence where it had spent much of its time waiting to be introduced into the cold, hard reality of existence. Sure, it wasn’t the nicest place to hang around. There were plenty of soonborn babies being peddled through, crying and starting up a fuss (even though the human babies, often the noisiest of the bunch, suddenly stopped passing through, which the flowers felt was rather odd at the time.) It had made some nice acquaintances during its stay, such as the time it struck up an interesting conversation with a jet pack fueled entirely out of the mucus of an Alterion Grabble-Thon that was yet to be invented, or the time it chatted with a reanimated species of the previously extinct line of Thorvians. There was even a point where it sat down with a question that seemed to think very highly of itself, but couldn’t seem to find its answer.

            But the thing that it would miss the most were the little cocktails that they served every now and again. Always on a nice, thin platter, delicately placed and ready to be eaten, sitting next to the magazines that were always a month too old.  The bowl of petunias didn’t realize how strange it is for flowers to be eating anything, particularly cocktails, but this seemed to be the least of its concerns at the moment.

            A few yards away, it spotted what appeared to be a large sperm whale falling much faster, hurtling at a shocking pace towards the snow-covered mountains. Upon seeing this whale, the bowl of petunias realized what was happening and couldn’t help but sigh a disappointed breath of oxygen. Oh no, it thought, not again.

            This was actually not the first time that the Improbability Drive had brought into existence this particular bowl of petunias. In fact, this had happened several times before in very similar circumstances. The scientists who developed the Improbability Drive noticed this odd reoccurrence and were convinced that it was a bug in the system. Surely a hyperdrive based on an immensely vast quantity of improbable happenings shouldn’t contain any detectable patterns, especially for a seemingly useless thing like a bowl of petunias. What these scientists failed to consider was how improbable it was that the Improbability Drive had any patterns at all, meaning that the probability of the Improbability Drive having any probable outcomes becomes more improbable than the Improbability Drive failing to have any consistent probabilities.

            The bowl of petunias probably already knew this though, considering that this had happened before, and merely drooped its petals down half of a quarter of a centimeter, which is the floral equivalent to shrugging one’s shoulders in defeat and mild annoyance. These realizations made the petunias very tired.

            The flowers watched the sperm whale flailing its tail around and tried to guess what it was thinking. Perhaps he was trying to fly away? The bowl of petunias considered doing the same and tried to flap its leaves like the small wings of a bird. However, although petunias are able to move autonomously, it would take a single flower weeks (or days, depending on its determination) to even move enough for an organic eye to notice any actual change. The bowl of petunias only had approximately 21 seconds before it smashed into the planet below.

            This fact depressed the part of the bowl of petunias that was still a missile. Though the feeling would pass in time (if time was on their side, which it wasn’t due to a grudge that time has with improbability over an awkward pool party).

            What little was left of the consciousness of the heat-seeking missile began to panic. It wanted nothing more than to exist again, to break away from its destined target and fly away through the open sky. It wished to be home with its wife and three kids, longing for the days before the draft into Magrathea’s security units. And in the midst of the desolate abyss closing around, filling the void with its own brand of forgotten horror and solitude, the missile screamed in silence, cursing God and crying out final goodbyes to the ones that it loved so dearly.

            Then it remembered it was a missile, and it probably shouldn’t be thinking of such petty, emotional things.

            Thus the consciousness of the heat-seeking missile faded away, leaving the bowl of petunias finally alone with its thoughts. What is often missed by researchers and historians who show an academic interest in the life and times of this bowl of petunias were the actual final thoughts of the flowers mere nanoseconds before their immediate destruction: Ah, that’s better.

tangle of arrows

In the time of a thoughtful, bearded lecture,

for a moment I saw the clarity

     of chaos

behind the pacing of the speaker,

and the small crowd of souls

unrestrained, and I wondered about
     mining carts.

Would we suffocate? Could we

handle the tangle of arrows?

       A blue fuzz

powdered and consumed his head

and spread over my vision.

I had to look away, flinching,

to hang desperately onto this sight.  

     Clustered cosmos

all sitting in a classroom

listening politely, quietly,

     violently shaking,

and the blue consumes the room,

then settles into a quiet hum,

then dissipates into the words that once again

fill the air and take away my attention.

Postcard

Boiling excretion
from the glowing walls, organic,
pulsating fungus, pooling to the cavern floors.
The smell of acid and rotted flesh.
Fingernails torn at the scraping
horror, through iron barred freedoms.
Lights above smothered, and now a growling
heard from the tunnels below. It hears us,
crying, bathing in tears not our own.
Wish you were here.

Introproduction

I am a liar of my craft.

Here is the world, and there I see

hung vertically down the empty walls

long black hair, shining and

knotted every few feet down

pooling on the floor like tar.

Oil never meant to burn, now

staining the rug.

And now I hear the orchestra

from far down below, echoing

across a valley outside somewhere.

And I want to be religion,

and these are my myths.

Islam

Mumbling from the doorway,
reaching forward with a dusty broom
towards the floating men and
hidden women of
the old library. She
refuses to step onto the floor
of unhatched eggs,
empty and void of life.

Little Shadow: A Prosian Tale - Chapter 3

Ingwyn the Imp

Eventually, as the night moved on, the walking spirits began to thin, and the forest once again became quiet of any other sounds besides that of the nocturnal wildlife hidden away in the darkness. Once the last of the spirits seemed to pass, the little shadow nestled himself at the base of a large tree. He placed some leaves over himself and the orb, bathing the small space in warm light. Despite his situation, the little shadow felt comfortable in his little makeshift fort. Laying down, his body immediately relaxed and he fell into a deep sleep, resting his head against the smooth crystal.

            The next morning, when the sun rose and the new light softened the color of the leaves over his head, he arose from his shelter and stretched his arms. During the night, he had a dream, which he could barely recall was a rarity among shadows. In the dream, he found himself in the middle of a large, white space with other shadows wandering around him. There was nothing more to see or do, but the little shadow felt comfortable amongst others of his kind. Yet he had noticed that they all had their own details that made them distinct- a certain hair style, or the width of their arms, the length of their fingers, even the small outline of clothes on their bodies. They all belonged to someone, and with each passing hour he noticed that the little detail he had was diminishing.

            Standing up and stretching his legs, he forced these thoughts out of his mind, hopeful that wherever he was traveling towards would have some sort of answer. He took a few seconds to tear down his fort, then picked up his crystal orb and once again began to walk through the forest. Everything around him, from the ground to the leaves far above, was covered in a layer of morning dew, which caused the ground to give in to the weight of his steps. Droplets of water occasionally rained down around him, a few hitting the top of his head.

            “Where are you off to, Shadow-boy?”

            The voice was sharp and sounded agitated. He turned slowly to see a small blue creature standing upright on a branch far above him. The creature jump down and glided down to a branch closer to him. It was a small being, but its wings seemed almost too large for its torso. It had no shirt, but wore a tight pair of brown shorts. Its feet clung to the branch like a bird’s, but its hands rested at his side. “Everyone else ran the other way, as far as I’ve noticed. I wouldn’t go back that way if I were you.”

            The little shadow cocked his head. Were there others around? Or did he mean the spirits fom last night? Maybe this creature knew something about his identity? He took a few steps forward and looked up at the creature expectantly.

            “What do you want? Can’t you understand me?” The little shadow nodded his head. “Well then, heed my warning and turn around. There is nothing but ruins ahead. Bah! All you shadows are so empty. No independence, unlike us imps. You don’t seem particularly bright. I’m surprised you haven’t drifted yet, assuming you’ve been wandering for very long. There aren’t many little shadow boys around, none at all in the temples.” The imp paused and observed the shadow, who was still staring at him, listening contently. “You seem absolutely clueless to what I’m saying.”

            Again, the little shadow had his head cocked. The small creature waited for a different response, but after a few seconds he sighed. “Ah, forget it. Not even the shadow of a nord can listen to the words of an imp. The sorcerers have called me Ingwyn, and I’ve given you my words, but it’ll be your own fault if you can’t grasp what I’m telling you now. You’re from a temple, undoubtedly, you must know some language at least.” The imp pulled his shorts further up his waist, then looked down at the orb. “Well wait a second, what do you have there?”

            Ingwyn leaned forward, observing the orb. The little shadow defensively drew his arms away, and the imp backed off. “Ah, a little treasure then? On my honor, I have no interest in taking it, worry not. I’ll have all I need once I can get home. But hell, I’m so far behind the crowd I haven’t even seen a spirit.” The imp began to turn away, but the little shadow turned back around and looked at him with interest. “Ah, have you seen the spirits then? Quite the sight at night, I’d imagine. They’re from the temples, or they used to be anyway. But perhaps you should know this yourself. You really have no memory, do you?”

            The little shadow shook his head, and Ingwyn chuckled and began flying upwards. The shadow took a few steps forward, but he cried, “Do not follow me! I refuse to look after anyone else, ‘specially a daft shadow of a child, until I find my own safety.” He flew up to the top branches of the forest and disappeared in the distant greenery. 
           With a heavy sigh, the little shadow turned away from where the imp had run off towards and began walking once again. The imp seemed to have some of the answers he was looking for, but was in too much of a hurry to explain further. Much of what he said made little sense. Questions began to crowd his mind. He brought his foot down hard on a small pile of leaves, making them crack loudly under his weight. The distraction was nice, and he brought his foot down again, this time on a stick, making a loud and satisfying crack. For the rest of the journey, the little shadow found small piles of leaves or bundles of sticks and jumped onto them, filling the quiet of the forest with noises of his own.

Dusted Chrome

Inspiration precedes creation.

Condemnation secedes, forcibly,

ideal structures, growth and lucid rapture.

To capture the impossible etiquette.

Motivate our hands and eyes to action,

this commonplace in need of support.

   Intellectual disparity, appetite for originality,

   gives worth to papercuts and an extra hour over coffee.

     But desire does not grow from expectation.

     A stern draft, grading for enlightenment.

        Hatred burns at the root of tragedy-

        its fuel, repetition;

        its catalyst, displaced education,

        and the climax is dissonant

        from superstitious reality.

           Bliss is a catastrophe, unworthy of compulsion.

           Especially alone, waiting ahead in the night’s meaning

           with a pillow for your aching head

           and a cleaver for your beating heart.

           One does well to remember an adage:

              The value of a text is brilliant.

              Failure is a necessity.

              Perfection rides on the backs of dragon-men,

              and their eyes is spelled “fire”

              not of a literal tribe, but of implication.

              A fact not lost on the versed and critical.

             Which, argued, should be social.

                 My friends, I urge for the sake of the modern

                 Not to leave life to the flies

                 but instead express, explore,

                 and for the love of all, think

                 lest we pray everyday

     for the fortune of the world to shake us alive.

Little Shadow: A Prosian Tale - Chapter 2

Drifting and the Spirits

            Eventually the sun beams began to fade, and the sky above the treetops darkened to a warm orange, then a staunch blackness. The birds stopped their chirping, and the world around him grew very calm. A breeze swept through the bushes and all around the tree trunks, causing the shadow to shiver. His orb, still clung to his chest, was now the only source of light. A faint warmth flowed from the crystal into his hands and chest, which he noticed more and more as the night drew on. He had been walking a long distance through the day and into the night before he heard a strange noise- a loud moan, or the creak of a large door- coming from the darkness behind him. His pace quickened as he turned his head around, attempting to make out what could have made the noise. Then the sound came again, closer and more to the left. Then again, but this time almost in front of him. He was running now, and every new sound all around him made his body flinch. He noticed several faint glowing masses appearing around him, but he was too afraid to focus on any of them.

            Suddenly, as the shadow’s head was turned, a large tree root snagged his foot. Without preparation, the crystal orb flew out of his hands and he began to tumble down a steep hill. Leaves and branches smacked him in every part of the body, leaving cuts and bruises as he fell all the way down. With a loud thud, he made it to the base of the ravine, landing on his head in a pile of dead leaves. He sprawled his arms and legs outwards and lay in the mess, attempting to catch his shaky breath.

            After a few moments of rest, he realized that it wasn’t helping the fear dissipate. In fact, his breathing was even faster now, and his body tensed and began to quiver. There was something wrong. He tried to stand upright, but a massive pain sprang in his head and he fell back over. The shadows of the forest all bent towards him and slowly enveloped the trees and grass. The trees, dirt, bushes, even the moon above began to fade as it seemed the whole world was being swallowed by an angry darkness. The little shadow gripped his head in pain as the quivering became more violent. He was frightened and felt as if he was going to collapse.

            Yet in the midst of the growing shadows, he glanced up towards a small hint of orange light coming from the grass some ways away. The orb was now the only thing that drew any of his focus as he felt his mind drowning. It sat in a pile of sticks, the flame still floating perfectly in the center, giving off a warm glow that seemed to penetrate the darkness of the world around him. Once again, the little shadow tried to stand on his feet, but fell as another wave of pain hit. Given no other choice, he stretched his arms out and crawled towards the glow of the orb. His legs were weak, but he tried to kick them into the dirt to push himself forward, giving as much strength as he could rely on. Mud and leaves built up around his face and smeared his stomach and body, but he could hardly feel it as the pressure in his head pounded away. With one quivering hand, he stretched his arm out as far as he could reach.

            When he brought his hand down, instead of more dirt, he touched the smooth surface of the glowing orb. Immediately, an ocean of warmth spread from his hand all through the rest of his body. His vision began to clear, and the quivering in his limbs calmed. The pain in his head subsided to a minor pang, then dissolved into fuzz. He took his other hand and placed it on the orb, then closed his eyes and rested his head on the ground below.

               A few moments passed and the little shadow heard the same noise from earlier. Again, his body tensed, but it was still sore and tired so it hardly made a difference. He raised his head and watched as tall, glowing beings floated by. They were phantoms, and he noticed there were many of them on all sides, drifting just above the earth. They effortlessly flew up the mound of which he had fallen over, all quietly moaning to themselves, or perhaps mumbling. A closer look showed that each one was different, although it was hard to tell them apart. They drifted through the shadows, in no hurry but all in the same direction. After a few minutes spent watching them, the little shadow tried to stand. He made it onto his feet, with the help of the orb, and once again began to walk in the direction that he felt urged to go.

Hoping for Some Consistency

Alright, so lets try this again, shall we?

Yesterday I have started a new short fiction series called Little Shadow. The plan right now is just to update a chapter once a week for the next few months. I have part of the story all written out already, so they should all come out smoothly for now. The story is set in the fantasy realm of Prosia and tells the tale of a young shadow boy who wakes up in the middle of a thick forest. He has no memory of his past, and the only clue to this mystery is a crystal ball with a single flame floating in the center and a strong urge to move forward through the forest. I will also be updating some more of my poetry written over my time at the university I am currently attending, so look out for that as well.

In other news, I have made an account on the Absolute Write Water Cooler forums in an attempt to branch out and meet new people. Hopefully talking with other writers will motivate me to keep this blog up to date with actual content. You can find my introductory post here, and my forum profile here. And remember that I do keep up with my Twitter and Goodreads account, which you can find to the right of this post! (my left, your right. you get the gist).

Angels, Never Slow

There is, and will be, a blind conductor

Riding, pushing along, alone

Familiar with the tracks, the turns, the

Bumps, the gentle breeze that rocks

The beast across an unsteady bridge.

Paths never seem to change, only ever

The destination. Another left turn,

A small wave and a smile that sinks oceans

Forgetful, always forgetful, never cautious enough.

A shudder from the cars; phone vibrations

Everything right on schedule, but never the cliff.

There is a certain pity that is often felt for him.

Mostly by his own self, to which is used as

The coal for the warming fire.

Outside, he feels a chill, and maybe it is winter

But there is no ice, only soft snow

Drifting in the air by strings of love.

Behind me, the horn erupts.

Engines bellow, and the tracks

I walk beside quiver, convulse with excitement

Or anxiety. They carry a burden not for me.

The train passes, speeding ahead. It is not for me.

Only for a moment, brief as spark’s life

Do I feel the heat of the fire,

And assume the engine’s passion, its commitment

And I see the slick, black pain(t) on the outside, inviting me.

And then I see the wheels, and I know they’ll never stop pushing.

An impressive engineering marvel, years of construction

A design with no instruction, but plenty of recorded failures.

It will stop soon, and I will hear the crash from a safe distance

From my spot in the snow, huddled in an igloo

Carving angels with my boots.

Little Shadow: A Prosian Tale - Chapter 1

Make Haste, Shadow

         

In a shaded clearing, deep in a thick and brightened forest, a little shadow boy slept in the center of a small pool of light. The top of his head hardly resembled hair anymore, and his feet, once the form of small, pitch-black bucklers, were now smoothed and rounded at the ends where toes should have been. Instead of fingers, his hands were smoothed and rounded at the ends, both of them tightly clutching a crystal ball to the slumbering shadow’s chest. In the center of this orb, a single flame, no larger than the flame of an average candle, floated freely in the open space. With each drowsy shift, the flame fixed its position so as to stay directly in the middle, as if held from the sides by invisible ropes.

            The air was warm, but with an occasional breeze that ruffled the loose ends of the shadow and pushed some fallen leaves around in circles. No other being or form of life appeared present in the clearing, other than the grubs that undoubtedly populated the dirt. The world was alive like a painting, but still in anticipation. Slowly, and without moving his head or the rest of his body, the shadow’s mind came back to the waking world. The first sense that brightened his thoughts was the smell of the outdoors- the crisp scents of a seasoned forest, which made him vaguely aware of his surroundings. A wave of feeling moved through his body as he became overtly aware of his sleeping position.

            The little shadow blinked and rubbed his eye, blankly white and lacking any pupils. After his vision cleared of the waking fuzz, he squinted towards the sunlight pouring in from above the trees. It roughly seemed to him to be about midday, and that was the most, he realized, that he knew for sure. He was a shadow, yes, and he knew how to describe his surroundings and his current experiences. Yet he seemed to lack any bearing of where exactly he awoke or how long he had actually slept, and no memory whatsoever of how he had even arrived in this clearing or about the orb in his hands. When he tried to recall, there was no memory at all of the past, except for a very distant set of words in a tired and shaking voice.

            “Make haste, shadow, and keep safe the warmth. Worry not of the tragedy yet.”

            The single memory stuck to the edge of his mind but refused to move any further. Carefully, leaning against the orb, which took both of his hands to steady, the shadow pushed himself onto his feet. They wobbled, and he leaned against the orb for balance. Turning around, he noticed the small bed formed out of the dead leaves and broken sticks of the ground, depressed and still warm from his slumber. Had he done this himself? No, perhaps not, but it was impossible to tell at the moment. Behind the bedding, a tall tree shaded most of the clearing except for a few spots of sunlight lacing through the leaves. Looking around, there didn’t seem to be any path or clear direction to go, but the little shadow felt a strong urge to walk in the direction opposite the large tree, as if something in his chest was pulling him in that direction. After a few moments of surveying the situation and brushing any loose forest debris off of himself, there seemed nothing else more to do than to walk forward, where the brush didn’t seem too terribly thick.

            Once deeper in the woods, there was still very little visible life, but he could hear the world all around him busying itself with noises. Bugs chirped and echoed against the trees, and other strange and unfamiliar sounds seemed to look down upon him from the treetops above. Every now and then, a small bird flapped its wings against some leaves, or chirped loudly from a perch, and the little shadow took a few moments to admire this other creature. He could identify these birds by name, and he remembered the names of trees and plants and other wildlife, but when he tried to dig further in his mind, there seemed to be nothing else there.

            At one point, as he stared curiously at a loud, red-winged bird, the ground suddenly vibrated, and a rush of wind blew past him. Startled, he stumbled over his feet and fell on his hands and knees. He looked up to see a blur running quickly away from him. It was a deer. Yes, yes, a deer. It ran off in such a hurry, he could barely tell, and it quickly disappeared in the distance.

            The shadow was calming down, and he noticed that his arms and legs were shaking from the jolt of energy. The crystal orb sat a few feet away in the dirt, where it landed after he had fallen. He sat down in the dirt and tried to gain his composure. Shadows, he remembered, were not meant to be this afraid. He closed his eyes, listening again to the chirping of the birds and the pleasantries of the forest. After a few moments, he opened his eyes once more and propped himself back onto his feet. The urge in his chest was still present, like a longing for home, but without the knowledge of a home to travel towards. Picking up the orb and brushing it off helped quell the shaking in his arms, and the shadow forced himself to continue forward into the forest, nervous but hopeful about the journey ahead.