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.


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.


                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


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


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.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

The Theory of the Multiverse

I was sitting in class and noticed that all of the students were in symmetrical rows and each person has an entire universe (at least they should) floating around in their brain. Each one similar but different in so many ways.

The Theory of the Multiverse is wrong:
It does not describe the alternate realities
Or the many Universes that may or may not exist.
The Theory of the Multiverse is about us:
The millions, the multitude of minds
All teeming, dreaming
With possibilities, propositions
of what can be, what will be, what was.
The power of human will defines
Our lives, and breaks us of the confines,
Of the setbacks of reality.
The Multiverse is visible in the veracity
Of our own valor and verisimilitude,
So much so that we are unable to See the rest
Of humanity, all hoping, praying for what we want,
But, what do we want?
The question rings and stings between our ears,
A buzz in the bottom of our brains.
We cannot answer a question that we do not understand
And to understand the question we must understand ourselves:

Who Am I?

Monday, March 4, 2013

Girl with the golden hair

Something new to tide you over, I'm working on a few poems and a short story. It's about a sailor. Who doesn't like sailors? Let me know what you think. As always, I appreciate that any of you read this stuff!

You are sitting in a bar in Rome, on leave from the war. Your glass of wine has yet to be emptied. Your eyes scan the room, a pleasant buzzing fills your head as the conversations of a foreign tongue wash over you. You begin to turn back to your fellow soldiers, but a flash of light catches your attention. You see her from across the room, a simple meeting of the eyes. Your heart begins to beat faster, your mind swells beyond the realm of possibilities. Here, now, this is all there is. We will never be more perfect than in this moment of true understanding. Life, death, fear, hope, love, loss, wonder, despair, power, weakness. All are wrapped in the sensation of seeing the only one who will ever understand the true depth of your buried life. You contemplate talking to her, but even looking is enough to make you feel impertinent. You try in vain to summon the words that will fall on her ears like snowflakes, dancing in and out her mind as delicately as the flower she is. But you can’t. You do not have the capacity to make plain your emotions, because she defies all of that. All you can do is show her your passion. Show her that you are more than you appear, more than she can know right now. Her eyes are like sapphire jewels, catching the lamplight and throwing it back, multiplied a thousand times in its splendor. Her smile cuts you. Your mind is a jumble, a swirling mass of was, is, will be. Pray, pray to God that she will reciprocate the unequivocal, unlocutable feelings that swell within your chest.  You speak, a mass of garbled nouns and verbs and descriptives.
“Hi. So. I saw you from across the room and you are so beautiful and I had to tell you my name. And. It’s uh, Michael. Umm so are you from here?”
She smiles, seeing the Truth in you, the being that begs to leap forth and be her only solace.
“My name is Elena. I’m glad you came up to me Michael, but I have to go. I will see you soon though.”
“How do you know?”
“This is your first time in Rome yes?” You nod vigorously. “Then do as the Romans do.” She flashes her perfectly crooked smile and spins off, leaving you alone and at the same time with the overwhelming knowledge you would see her again.
You measure her pressing presence in the absence of her essence, feeling again the faculties lost, floundering in the facets of her face. Your mind turns to war, to death, to loss. How can you bring her into this world of pain? But you know she is the one to drag you out of hell’s fire. She is the one to shatter the devil and to bring you through the door of Orpheus. Your heart says, “Hang on to this one. She’s the only chance you’ll have.” This woman you don’t know is the one to emancipate your endless incarceration.  She has reached into the currents of your buried life and made plain your own soul. This is it. You have taken the plunge, and all it took was looking 10 inches to the right. You have fallen in love with the girl with the golden hair, and it took no more time than the space of a heartbeat.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

A Poem about Twitching

Here is a literary representation of my ailment:

A poem about twitching, breaks off
In the middle of what
I say because
My twitch does no
T choose the most
Convenient times to
Show itself
Can you
Umvent the twitch? Does it define me? Mold me?
Create in me a brokenness?
Or can I move past it? Who is in control? This infection robs me, but
I am the master of my Fate, the captain of my Ship, and I will have the last say in my life.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Faces in a writhing crowd

A poem that I wrote today. You can tell I'm in an experimental modernisms class no?

Faces in a writhing crowd,
Crowded mass of unfamiliar people.
People I don't know, or knew,
Now wondering what went wayward.
Weird, that I cannot seem to say,
"See you me? See that I will not say how
"Hard it is to see you here."
Heart is neither fair nor foul
Foul needs fair, and the turning of the World
Worries me, I cannot find my place.
Placate me with the knowing that
This was not all there is to be.
Belabor the idea that we loved,
Living on now it was no dream
Draining what I hope to feel.

For truth, I will love again
Against all; find me in another
As you will be found in another.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Words Fall Through Me

An essay I wrote about language. Why is it so hard to say the things we want to say?

Words Fall Through Me
I sit here, grasping at words that dance behind my throat. My head is full of things I want to say, things I need to say but nothing comes out. They are caught behind my tongue, the flood held back by my own fear. She looks at me, her eyes saying everything. I know that she understands what I’m not telling her, but that’s not enough. My tongue stands still; my mouth will not form the words I so desperately desire. Words fall through me like a pitcher with no bottom: a few simple syllables I simply can’t pronounce.

My first lessons in language were simple. This is a picture of a ball. B-A-L-L. Say ball. This is a ball. Rote memorization of the formation of sounds; the endless repetition of subtle machinations of the mouth. As I progressed, I learned sentence structure. I mastered the ability to form coherent statements. Grammar was no trouble. Despite my successes, I soon came to the root of the problem.

I finally begin to speak, but nothing I need to say. Small talk really, sentences that fall from the mouth like a dripping faucet no one bothered to fix. Yeah, like for sure, I, umm. I just thought, umm you’d maybe want to. I dunno, we could go there, if you wanted. But it’s whatever you wanna do. My words are only here to avoid the truth. My emotions lie just behind my teeth, waiting anxiously to rush forth like a dam being split apart. I am afraid because my words will reflect who I am, someone I don’t know.

I learned why we are afraid of language: language is a reflection of ourselves. When we communicate, we form ourselves in the words we choose and the words we leave out. What we say, how we say it, who we say it to, when we say it, why we say it; it’s as though we dip into a pool that reflects us as we are in that moment. The catch is whether we can accept that picture or not. It takes a strong person to bare themselves to the world.

My next lessons in language were more complex. I had mastered the gradations of grammar, the semantics of sentence structure, the workings of wording. The English language was now effortless to me, but how I was to use it was not as simple. I realized that not everyone shared my propensity for communication. Nerd. Loser. Geek. Idiot. Know-it-all. Smartass. The more I spoke the more I was attacked. I became a target because of my words. This lesson taught me language can cut, language can be misused; it also taught me to block my words out of fear.

I stumble through another few sentences, a poor attempt to allay the coming admonitions. How’s your family doing? Yeah, my dad’s been pretty busy lately too. I know what I need to say but I refuse, desperate to avoid the potential disaster. I can’t bear the thought of rebuke, of the high likelihood of learning that I was wrong the whole time. Hope blossoms in my chest just long enough to be scythed by reality.

I continued to grow in my knowledge of communication. My vocabulary had increased exponentially, a veritable thesaurus swimming around inside my head. I reconciled my fears, learning only to speak when I must, and only as much or as intelligently as I must. Even with my newfound comprehension, I found more flaws in language.
H-hey, you’re really pretty.
Thanks John, you’re so sweet! We should hang out more!
Yeah? Maybe we could go on a date sometime!
Well umm, I’m pretty busy and I have a lot of homework.
But it’s the summer.
Yeah, I’ll have to think about it..
I did not have the intuition of what to say. I shut down, closing off myself to those around me. I knew how to say everything, but I chose not to say anything.

I learned why we neglect to use language: language is an act of faith. When we speak we are diving into a pool of doubt. Humans are taught never to leap, never to take the chance to fly. Safety has become our primary concern. Countless years of evolution have rooted us to the ground; only the few are able to take the plunge into the unknown. What do they find? Self-discovery? An awakened sense of the universe? I dreamt of becoming one of the few, but never dared to try.

She looks at me deliberately, eyes speaking with her heart. Just say it, she says. I find my courage to speak. I bare myself. I take the plunge. The words spill forth, a river of truth. My soul has been slipped through my teeth and out into the world, and I find that I don’t worry what happens to it. A weight has been lifted; my body is at peace again. I wait anxiously for the response.

I learned why we decide to use language: language sets us free. When we use language the way it’s meant to be, we learn to fly. Language is a medium for expression, escape, independence. We speak our mind to show that the world has lost its power over us and we are the stronger. Our words revel in their freedom, and we revel with them. Language is no longer a barrier, it becomes life.

I watch her as she hears the words I speak, as the truth envelops her, wraps around her like a blanket. She smiles, her beaming face telling me everything I need to know before she opens her mouth. The smile spreads to me, hope replacing cold fear. My eyes say the words that are now caught in my throat, a lump of joy blocking the flood.

I learned why we come to embrace language: language is the foundation of love.