Monday, September 19, 2016

Sonnet number 2

This Friday was our 3 year anniversary, and (while a few days late) I am keeping my word. Here is the next installment in the sonnet cycle for Stephanie and myself!

2:

My only Angel brought me from the sea
And bore me to an island bright and fair.
I searched and sought to find her there with me
But never could I find her tender care.

No more left to drown on dark’ning water,
I set to build an altar on the beach.
In vain I’d hoped she’d see the shells I brought her
But no one came, she seemed just out of reach.

I cried “My love, please come and stay awhile.
“I’ll make a castle from this foreign land.”
There was no answer, I was sure in exile.
She’d gone, and left me stranded on the strand.

But hope had stayed, and from the sky she came;

My only Angel, calling out my name.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

My Newest Story

A storm. Rain is coming down in sheets, each one a battering ram on the windshield. Lightning flashes across the sky every few seconds. It’s the apocalypse. At least it is for the two boys in the back of the car.

The boy on the left trembles, tears spilling down his cheeks as his body wracks with sobs every few minutes. His hair is dusty blonde, no longer stuck in its usual crew cut. He clutches his GameBoy like a life preserver, hoping desperately the Pokemon in his team would spring to life and save them like they do in his games.

The boy on the right is completely still. His face is an ashen white, his jaw clenches hard. His hands are balled into tiny fists shoved deep into the pockets of his green coat. His eyes stare straight ahead, but they do not see the road.

“Don’t worry boys, Noah got through his storm and we can get through ours!” The man driving calls out from behind the steering wheel. Rain continues to pelt the car. He wants to turn and give them a grin, but he chooses to concentrate on the road.

“Well, to be fair, he did have advance warning and supernatural assistance.” The woman next to him responds. She is sitting up very straight, her hands grip the door and the console, knuckles white. She couldn’t let that mistake go unspoken.

“True, but he didn’t have our technology. Think how easy it would have been with windshield wipers huh? And we Warhol men like a challenge, don’t we boys?” The man tries to muster up a laugh, but it sounds a lot more like a cough.

“Daddy, I’m scared. There’s too much lightning! Can’t we stop driving?” The boy on the left calls out from behind his GameBoy.

“Don’t worry Parker, we’re just getting to the next exit so we can pull over safely,” the woman says through clenched teeth.

The man glances at the dashboard, the needle passes 70mph. He wipes his forehead.

“How you doing back there Jack?” He calls to the boy on the right.

“Okay.”

“That’s what I like to hear Jack Rabbit. We’ll be out of this rain in no time, trust me” The man squints against the lights in his rearview mirror.

“We’ve got to keep going Andrew, let’s get off here.” The woman grabs his arm.

“Alright Sally, you know the way from here?”

“I can get us there from the side roads.”

The car rips to the right and shoots down the exit ramp. Lightning continues, thunder shakes the boys’ teeth. Lightning strikes and the inside of the car is bright despite the clouds outside.

“Go the right Andrew, the right.”

“I know Sally, tell me when I need to get off the main road.”

“Andrew.”

“I know where I’m turning right now Sally!”

“No, Andrew…”

What?

“The headlights, they’re gone.”

Andrew noticed he had stopped squinting.

“Oh god no, boys get-"

Screeeeeeee!!!

Lightning flashed and the world erupted into noise and fire. The boys watched as the car went headlong into a tree and then-

I snapped awake, sweat pouring from me. God, I hate that dream. It’s bad enough we had that accident, why do I have to live it over and over again?  Some kids are unlucky enough to have both their parents die in the same night. I’m just unlucky enough to have them both die and continue to relive it every few nights. I could still smell the burning smell of the tires, and of hair and skin. Seriously, who else has to deal with this?

I slumped back onto my bed, I had no interest in getting up for class today. Especially considering I only had a few weeks left in my college career. I’m graduating in like 4 weeks. All I have left is like two or three projects to finish up and then I’m done. I don’t even have to worry about finding a job; I work at a marketing firm and they’ve already guaranteed a promotion in their IT division. I’m living easy right now, why go to class? I snagged my phone from the table, and of course I’ve got a dozen emails. Dude, it’s Thursday. Chill.

I checked my texts too. I had one from Jack and five from Matt. Jack sent me a screenshot from a dirty joke. Of course. And Matt sent me five links to different fan theories concerning his favorite anime. God I love those weirdos.

But I was really looking for something, anything, from Rachel. Nothing, not since I responded to her text last Friday. And I will not be the one to double text her. She gets enough attention without me getting all up in her biz.

Finally, I checked the clock. It was 10:43 in the morning. Geez, My sleep schedule is messed man.

So, time to get up. And then- is that barking I hear? Oh no…

My door flung open and Grey leapt onto my bed, his limbs flying every which way. Grey was Matt’s German Shepard, short for Grey Wind, the name of a tremendously large wolf on his favorite live-action fantasy series. Because he couldn’t pick a normal name from a popular series, that would be way too mainstream.

“Come on Grey, get off me! It’s still technically morning, I shouldn’t have to get up yet!”

Grey proceeded to cover me in slobber, fur, and dirt. But his tail was wagging and he had a huge puppy grin on his face, so how could I really say anything else? That is one cute dog.

“I surrender Grey, I surrender! Get back beast!”

Grey hopped off my bed and wagged his tail frantically. His eyes stayed locked on mine; he was really good at staring contests.

“Oh fine, I’ll take you out. At least let me put on some shorts. And probably a shirt, it’s a cold one out there.”

“Ruff!” Grey barked happily at my movement. Damn, I’ll probably have to feed him too.
I pulled on my favorite baggy shorts and my most comfortable hoodie. Then I slipped on my favorite shades and snagged my flip flops. I don’t have anyone to impress today. Never do really.

I snapped on Grey’s leash and he yanked me out of the apartment.

“All right dude, let’s do this thing. You, me, and that shrub. Piss like a fire hydrant Grey!”

His ears cocked back as I spoke. He was definitely judging me, I could tell by the angle of his head.

“Oh come on man, I’m just goofing around. Don’t give me that judgy face. Seriously, go pee.”

He sniffed once and turned toward his shrub. I swear that dog is smarter than he lets on.

As Grey did his business with his personal shrub, I looked around the apartment complex. Cars were coming in and out; things seemed pretty busy. I saw first and second year students leaving in nice clothes, their bags stuffed to the brim with anything they might need. And I saw upperclassmen wearing the most comfortable clothes and some of them had a notebook and maybe a pen. What a difference four years makes.

I saw a white Jetta roll up with a battalion of young ladies that Jack, Matt and I have dubbed “the Blondetourage.” They were all in the same sorority, all had the same blonde haircut, and all had the same look when they glared at you down their nose. Jenny, Jessi, Jennifer, and Kara. They lived next door, and we never really got along. As such, I felt it my duty to say hello as loudly and irritatingly as possible.

“Hellooooo ladies! Good morning, I hope you aren’t too exhausted from the only two hours you spent doing any work this week.”

“Hi Parker, looks like you’re on clean up duty today huh? At least this job really challenges your talents!” Jessi smiled at me as she stepped out of the driver’s seat. She was wearing one of those fancy rain jackets with her letters on it. And what I thought was far too much makeup.

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, until I looked where she was looking. Grey was dropping a nice one right in front of the stairwell. Damn.

I matched her horrifying smile with one that was equally strained.

“Oh someone has to do it. Just like some people have to coast on the money their parents’ make, it’s the way of the world!”

This comment received a synchronized glare from the entirety of the Blondetourage. Man I’m good.

“Get over it Warhol, don’t hate on our success. You just look jealous.” Jenny decided to chime in on this one.

“I think you mean to say envious ma’am. Jealousy deals with the anxiety regarding losing something you have, while envy describes the feelings associated with desiring what someone else has. A common mistake, to be sure.” Ba-zing.

“Whatever Warhol. Shouldn’t you be shoveling some dog crap right now?” Jennifer (or was it Kara?) said as she flipped her hair.

“I- I guess you’re right.” I looked over to Grey as I spoke. He sat next to his creation with his tail wagging. What a pleased expression for a dog to make.

The Blondetourage giggled at me as they turned to go. The surest sign of their victory. Damn.

I spun around and grabbed a plastic bag from my pockets; do I really just keep extras in there? Man I hope that was a one-time thing. Grey hopped about as I collected his artwork. What a dog.

“I’m here scooping up your left overs, and they say humans are the advanced organism in this world. I swear, the only thing more devious than you would be a cat.” Grey’s ears flattened against his head as he glared at me. How smart is this dog?

As I brought Grey inside after depositing his business in the dumpster outside, I checked my phone again. Matt texted me asking if I took his dog out. Classic. Jack sent me the same screenshot asking if I got it yet. Nada from Rachel. A guy can dream can’t he?

My text to Jack: Classic Jack! Dude, I just had a run in with the Blondetourage. I got em good man. Wanna hit the beach later today?

My text to Matt: Grey took me outside so he could take a dump. That dog is smarter than us, you know that right? Anyway, how about coming out to the beach with Jack and me?

My text to Rachel: Hey! How have you been? I’m laying low today, graduating and all that. Want to meet up with me and the guys on the beach? I’d love to see you out tonight.

…I promptly deleted that one and never sent it. No double-texting, remember? I’ve got to play it cool.

I don’t do that particularly well.




Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Sonnet Cycle

For our 2 year anniversary, I have decided to make something instead of buy something. With this as the beginning, I will be creating a sonnet cycle for my lovely girlfriend, and updating it at least every anniversary we have. I love you Stephanie, happy anniversary!

Sonnet 1:

We drift along as sailors lost at sea,
No fixéd mark to guide us back to shore.
The water rises and we fail to see
The broken sailors on the ocean floor.

I pray to God to send an Angel near,
“I do not want to drown beneath these waves!”
My prayer is not answered, so I fear
That man is lost, no matter what he braves.

And yet I watch as Heaven ushers forth
My only Angel come to lead me home.
She gave her hand, and so gave me my worth,
And pulled me from the water’s darkened foam.

          And so it was that I was blessed to see
          My only Angel reaching out to me.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Steps Between the Here and Why (or, Procrastination Station)

I couldn't decide what to write for my super important grad school assignments, so I wrote this instead! The first segments are rather rambling, but return to something really cool. Enjoy it!

What to say, what to say, what to say. I must say that I cannot see, to say that what I said wasn’t sung but softly spoken, said to no one and everyone in the same breath. Singing, ringing stings my ears, but the sounds swells, and I say that I cannot see the sound, but I sense the song. Can I make you see? See what I have to say, and then we will sing together, that song that sounds from sayers past.

Words fall through me as I try to say what I cannot seem to say. Simple words, but they slink off my tongue, pride bruised and battered before I can say the things that swirl just behind my teeth. He watches my mouth move, but no words come out. He can sense there is something I want to say, but the saying never comes. He hopes, but I give him none.

There is something I need to say. Something no one else can say but me. Something important. Maybe it isn’t big, it isn’t flashy, it isn’t perfect; but it is mine. Something mine. And I say it, with all the force of humanity, all the dignity I can bring to bear, but it comes out in a whisper. A gasp, a slight release of breath. A period at the end of a statement, a declaration of my will imposed upon the page. A monument to all that is us, written for you. They may read it, they may claim it for their own, but this piece of me is for you and you alone. Let them pretend they own it, but what I say is yours. But where to begin? How do I make this clear to you, when it is an enigma to me? I could begin at the beginning, but that assumes there is a beginning. There is now, and now is then and before and next and soon and after and here and it is everywhen. Maybe a story will make this clear. A tale, a fable, a microcosm of our monument. It starts with a kiss. Or rather, the end of one.

His lips burn, the kiss lingers on his mouth as she pulls away. His desire is fierce, but he knows to hold back; nothing will happen yet. Her golden eyes sparkle in the half-dawn light, not quite brown and not quite green, but somewhere removed. They have spent the night together, but it isn’t what you think. She isn’t ready to make that commitment yet; he believes she is a virgin. Time has stopped as he watches her, waiting for her to break the silence. The illusion shatters as her velvet voices vibrates in his chest.
                “Tommy, I’ve got to go. You may be cute in the morning, but I have to get to work.” He aches as he watches her mouth twist and turn; the acrobatics of articulation are astounding.
                “Fifteen more minutes? Tell them you’re sick, you’ve caught something strong and you can’t go into work.” His grin is meant to be coy, but hunger waits below the surface.
                “Fifteen minutes doesn’t seem like a long time, weren’t you extolling your stamina to me last night?”
                “I wouldn't want to wear you out too quickly.” He holds her arm. No, he grabs her arm and holds on. His eyes change.
                “Were it so easy. You know I can’t just call in like that, that office would burn down without me.” Her smile plays across her face, but something feels off. She is uneasy next to him. He doesn’t notice, but there it is, plain for anyone to see; but only if they choose to.
                “Well that’s too bad, I took off today to make room for you. I’ve got a full day of activities planned.”
                “And I’m sure they are riveting, but I have no choice.”
                “Would you really leave me all alone like that?” He hasn’t let go of her arm.
                “You’re a grown boy, I’m sure you can manage on your own. Besides, you told your boss you took off today so you can even go back to sleep.” She is fairly certain he doesn’t have a job.
                “Will you call me?” His fingers press small divots into her arm, a subtle moonscape in her chestnut skin.
                “I’ll talk to you later Tommy, but if I don’t go now I’ll be late, and that would be disappointing.” She skillfully extricates herself from his grasp. Last night she gave him her old number, so she didn’t technically lie.
“Fine, but next time you can’t leave me all alone Tanya.” His eyes track her as she dresses. Her jeans fit tight across her waist, her shirt fits loosely about the arms and falls delicately across her shoulders. She is nothing short of striking, and Samantha knows it.
“Enjoy your day off Tommy, I’m sure you will find some way to occupy yourself.” Samantha smiles, but that smile isn't for him.
“I’ll be seeing you soon Tanya.” He smiles, but that smile isn’t for her. He sees past her, toward his next conquest.
As Samantha closes the front door, she lets out a sigh of relief; she’s not sure if she could have made a worse choice last night. The club was dark, and he was certainly charming, in a coarse way. He seemed like something she hadn't seen before. Something broken, but strong. He was intriguing, but now she realizes that he was only .

She steps quickly, steps between the here and why. Why does she do things like this?

Thursday, December 12, 2013

This is a big one

I must apologize for my silence this semester, it has been rather trying. I have, however, been scheming up a pretty big idea. These are some snippets of what I want this piece to be, please let me know what you think!

I began this account nearly a year ago as a record of events that could be used after my rescue. My comrades could use this data and be sure this never happened again. Well, I suppose it will not be happening again. This account is now my only solace to keep away the madness that threatens to grow in my mind. It is my only tether to reality. I am alone.
Do you even remember who I am? I wish I could remember everything. Let’s see what I know: My name is Alexsandr Fetiukov. I am a member of the United Earth Government Space Program. I have (had?) a family back in Russia that hasn’t heard from me in years. I have been marooned here on the ISS for more than a year, and I am alone.
I am so very, very alone. My isolation is readily apparent to me now, but for how long? I find myself speaking to these pictures, conversing with comrades I’ve never known. Sometimes they respond, and I know they aren’t real (for now) but the responses give me a small amount of respite from the crushing loneliness. It gives me something, however small, to hang on to of myself. Humans are, after all, social creatures; it does not bode well for one to be so cut off from others.
It is a sad sight, planet Earth. I reside above, wheeling about my home at an alarming rate, unable to reach it yet always in sight. The lights on the surface have since gone out, the power grids across the entire world have failed. At night, for those on the surface, the only light that exists flares into life for the briefest instant, and those nearby die with it.
Who began this inexorable march into hell? I saw the first thermonuclear missile detonate ; China is no longer a country, it is a cancerous growth, totally incapable of life. I can only speculate why, but I heard their screams, wailing on and on through space, a shockwave just beneath conscious perception.
I often wake, assuming rest has actually found me, in a cold sweat, the screams reverberating through the station’s walls, pounding inside my head. I do not see how the station is still functioning, the screams are loud enough to rip it apart at the rivets.





Δ

Nov. 12, 1912,
                Woke to screams this morning, screams so loud they were pounding in my skull  long after they stopped echoing through the valley. Our squadron was camped outside a small village somewhere in the French country side; they were attacked in the hours just before dawn. Bloody hell, what kind of man attacks a village that way? We rushed to the village to help, but no one was there.  All gone, not a soul. And I mean all gone, not a trace but dust and the echoes of screams.
                Were they dead? If so, we could not find any bodies. Fear they were kidnapped, but I’d rather not think about that myself.
                Spent the middle part of our day tramping about the hillside. Weather was a dull, flat gray that hung about. Felt almost as if the sky was lamenting. Couldn’t tell what it was lamenting more, the village or us.
                We exchanged gunfire with a German patrol near the next town. Put them away smartly, they seemed as if they were already injured. Popped two of them myself; my rifle is becoming an extension of my arm, my own will. Right bit of power that.
                The other men never quit talking, never stop using “why.” Why are we here? Why are we fighting? Why do we have to die? I sometimes wonder these things, but know it doesn’t matter. Asking why won’t keep me from taking a bullet to the head. Asking God why won’t get me home. All I can do is keep moving forward. That’s the only way to walk out of this hell. Got to protect myself and my mates and we’ll make it home. Might even get a medal or two for my valiance.
PS – Saw a young girl the other day. Couldn’t have been more than 5 years old, tottered about a crumbling village in a bright yellow coat. Almost like a little canary. She was lost, searching for something in the rubble. Might have been her parents? I should have gone to her. Should have helped. I know you would have. God rest my soul, I hope she’s alright.

Δ

                Captain Urban Valentine Knabel is woken by screams so loud his head pulls itself apart at the seams. His head bangs against the top of his desk as reality comes flooding back to him: I am on my ship, leaving my home of Corso and headed to parts unknown. I was dreaming, dreaming of a man in.. green. He was tramping around verdant countryside and had some type of rifle in his hands. The familiar hum of hyperspace fills his ears as he begins to piece back his waking consciousness. Captain Knabel stands up and stretches in the quarters of his ship, the UCSC Prophetess as it hurtles toward infinity. He thumbs the button on the intercom and clears his throat before addressing his crew.
                “This is your captain speaking. We are currently on course for the, as yet, unexplored Tau Omega system. As you know, we are tasked by the omniscient Corsican government with the mission to find anything there is to be found, so stay alert. Our projections show that we should be in system within the next hour.”
                Captain Knabel begins the laborious task of dressing himself in clothes that belong on the bridge of his ship. His uniform is a royal blue coat with dark beige slacks and chestnut shoes. His shirt is pressed stark white, and his chest gleams with medals. His grandfather told him that the medals a man earns tells more about who he is than any conversation could ever reveal.
                He considers his fiancée back home and wishes he could write to her. He knows she was nervous when he came to her with his mission, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Humanity has been scattered for so long; there is little record of its origins. What if Knabel found something, something that mattered? The possibility was far too tempting to stay behind.
                “Captain, we’ve found something. You’d better come to the bridge immediately.” Ensign Falman sounds anxious.

                Are we already here? I had assumed it would take a bit longer to find anything of value, but Falman sounded like she was about to collapse. Could this really be it?

Saturday, June 22, 2013

It's been a bit.

My apologies to you all; it's been more than a while, but here's something new! What happens when a character dies?

Michael could feel the force pressing down on him; he’d felt this strange pressure floating about his consciousness for weeks, months even, but today felt different. He felt trapped, besieged by malevolence far greater than any negativity he had ever felt before in his life. He had the irrational urge to run, to flee from something that didn’t even exist. But he had to go to work, to go about his day as he always did. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, applied deodorant, dressed (first pants, then socks, then shirt, then tie, then shoes and finally jacket) and left his apartment for work. He was employed at Brown and Baker Attorneys: “we’ll win the case or you’ll win the lottery!” The plug was designed to give people the confidence that even if their case didn’t win they would still see money, but people rarely won, and the only money they saw were the funds draining steadily out of their bank accounts.
                Michael had tried to explain to his current girlfriend the recent feeling he had that someone was guiding his actions, placing each of his movements precisely in the way that the force desired; however, she was less than amused. She told him to knock off the theatrics and stop daydreaming. Her comment was not without merit; Michael was wont to leave behind the waking world and explore the realms of his mind. He had found that his waking life was rather droll, and his fantasies were significantly more enthralling than his time spent behind a desk. He could be off exploring the frigid wastelands of Hoth, or battling the dark forces of Sauron, or even claiming the independence of the Corsican people. His mental realm was his Sanctuary, but lately it had become something far more sinister.
                Michael felt the Presence on his 7:46am bus ride to work. A pall hung above him, pushing him down. The clouds didn’t just seem darker, they seemed alive. Angry. News reports spoke of the worst storm in city history, storms that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Michael knew where they came from though; he knew they came from the Presence that existed beyond tactile perception.
Michael’s bus neared his stop. As the bus chugged forward the clouds grew more turbulent. Lightning whipped across the sky as thunder cannoned off the buildings. Wind tossed the bus back and forth as the sky grew an unpleasant shade of green and gray. The bus driver slammed on the brakes, screaming for the passengers to get off now and make their way to shelter. Michael was in no hurry to leave the relative safety of the bus, but he was swept along with the sea of frightened people. As they made their way outside, the storm reached new heights of fury. Michael could feel this rage coming to a head; this blind hate that sought so desperately to destroy him.
Michael saw it coming before he ever had time to actually react to it. A large piece of metal, some sort of stabilizing beam, flew through the air towards him. He knew it was coming, knew he had no chance of moving and knew that this was all fitting. But why did he know? And more alarmingly, how? His life didn’t flash before his eyes. He didn’t think about all of the things he had done or wanted to do. He didn’t think about his family or his girlfriend. He watched the beam move towards him, with unbelievable amounts of force, and waited. He was somehow aware that this is what was meant to be. It felt like this was the culmination of things for him. As the beam speared through his chest, Michael felt at peace with the Presence above. As his life leaked around the edges of his clothes, Michael knew, and this felt peculiar even to him, this was where he ought to be.



Duncan typed furiously, annihilating the pristine whiteness of the blank pages with streaks of black fire. He had willed these people into existence, manipulated their formation and done what so many could not. Jessica Harper, his antagonist, was a crime scene investigator, and what better way for her to get involved in the story than by a freak storm? Seeing as she needed a body to examine, preferably one less than alive, Duncan needed someone to die. Michael was created and obliterated within the space of an hour. He was fiction right? He had no life apart from the brief scene he had on the bus. Michael was nothing more than a plot device. Duncan did not even grace him with a second thought as the beam speared through Michael’s chest, seeing only the resulting profits from his next publication contract.

                

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Creation


This one was fun to write, I hope you like it.

Creation

Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap

The blind man’s cane taps a beat on the cobblestones.
His world is confined only to sounds, smells, tastes and touch.
He constructs this world around him on his own, feeling his surroundings as they are available to him.
It is by his power that this world around him exists in a way he can understand it.
This music is a melody few people understand,
A mode of communication without words.
This bonds the man to his world
And gives him sight.

Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap

The blind man’s cane raps at the cobblestones like a heartbeat.
It is a lifeline between the physical and mental realities he inhabits.
Without his cane he is cutoff, set apart from the corporeal.
Without his cane he is rendered ignorant of his world.
He is adrift in a sea of uncertainty, flailing in failure
And feeling for a sense of direction.
He is lost because the language has become foreign
And he cannot understand.

Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap

The writer’s fingers tap a beat on the keyboard
His world is confined only to the figures on his screen.
He constructs this world in front of him on his own, forming the surroundings as they are available to him.
It is by his power that this world in front of him exists in a way they can understand it.
This music is a melody few people can understand.
A mode of communication with only words.
This bonds the man to his world
And gives him voice.

Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap

The writer’s fingers rap at the keyboard like a heartbeat.
It is a lifeline between the mental and physical realities he inhabits,
Without his keyboard he is cut off, set apart from the conceptual.
Without his keyboard he is rendered ignorant of his world.
He is adrift in a sea of suppression, flailing in failure
And feeling for a sense of direction.
He is lost because the language has been silenced
And he cannot express.