Scribble: The sailor's return.

      Stepping onto the paved walkway, he stared at the house before him, as if lost in dream.
      Opening the door, a woman whose face seemed at once so familiar, yet so new, stared back through watery eyes.
      Dropping his satchel, he ran to her, raindrops flowing down his cheeks with each step.
      And yet, no writer alive could speak of how long they embraced...

A brief confession, and some process chatter.

      I've started on outlining two projects so far, and with any luck, I'll have a manuscript for at least one of them by year's end. Both are attempts at YA, which is a bit of a departure from my short fiction, but I honestly feel like doing YA would be the only way I can do a longer project than . . . say, five pages.
      What can I say? It's also not as pretentious a genre; it's genuinely more fun to write, and I always have the short fiction to make more of a "point."
      That being said, the crew over at O'nell Design (blog here) have been putting out some cool stuff for quite some time, and I'm always tempted to write something about the characters -- if only just for fun. I'm no "fanfic" author, and I don't intend to be, but there's something about those little figures that hearkens back to when I was five years old, writing stories starring my favorite Transformers and Lego creations...
      Anyway, enough nostalgia, at least until I crack under the pressure of my five-year-old self.
      When I last ran this blog, I sometimes used "themes" to guide my writing for the week, in an effort to genuinely explore different iterations of the same word or phrase. Since I've stuck with scribbles for the most part (as a lot of places snub their nose at running work that has been previously published anywhere, even a bloody personal blog), I'll be revisiting this concept every so often, if only to try and make writing fun for myself again. For example, next week, it'll be "anticipation" for a few days (the nerds among you will know why), while the next few entries might be "acceptance."
      Just tossing that out there for y'all...

Freeform: Empty.

On a desk there sits a cup, where once two could be found.

Two cups, four hands, steam rising into the air alongside laughter and voices, a cluttered desk, and a bed full of warmth.

A bed, formerly of two pillows, now only of one.

All that's left to be doubled is space. All without a single wall having been knocked down.

Two cups.

Bare walls.

And no sleep.

Scribble: Strangely, this mightn't be an apocalyptic scenario.

      Perched at the dials, his eyes peered through cigarette smoke at the numbers flashing across the display.
      Static. Electric hailstones pounding the speakers. Every so often, silence.
      Taking note of whatever number appeared on the screen, his skeletal hand raised a dusty microphone to his lips, just as the swinging lamp overhead began to flicker.
      "Come in, come in, this is . . . is anyone out there? Come in, come in . . ."
      His voice, coated in a thick layer of dust, started to give-out. Down to the filter, the cigarette let out one final puff of smoke.
      "Come in, come in . . ."

Scribble: Boards of Canada + sci-fi toys = ...

      Smoke rose from the heap of once-functional chassis, the skeletal heap that once was his foe. Narrowing his eyes, the victor -- still trembling -- unclenched his fist, letting the crumpled bundle of wires and circuitry fall to the ground.
      As he turned, a single thought entered his mind, growing louder as he walked away.
      What if this wasn't the right one? echoed the question, ringing in each clink of his armor...

Well, that didn't really work, now did it?

      It's what happens when you start a story that is both too similar to a current project and not thought-out well enough.
      So it's back to scribbles. Sorry for the delay, but continuity kills.

Gerard's Tale: Chapter the First

      Not far from here, in a quiet little swamp, there is a tiny little village. Now, one such as you or I might miss it, with our minds drifting between this thought and that, but rest assured: between the thickest of reeds and the patches of murky water, there the village lies, unknown to our kind since time immemorial. Or so it would remain, had it not been for a strange little fellow who sought to -- but I'm getting ahead of myself, for we have yet to meet him.
      For in this little village, in a small house of driftwood and pebble, there lived a small family of frogs. You may ask, "but how can this be? Frogs aren't social, nor do they build." And if you are, indeed, asking such questions, then perhaps this isn't a story for you, as they will but grow in number in time. Yet, despite the greatest of skepticism from our human minds, there the humble little cottage stood, as much within the village as in the marshy wilderness beyond.
      And it was here, perched upon the reed-shingled rooftop, the roar of dragonflies in the distance, that a young frog -- so young that he'd only just lost his tadpole's tail -- sat daydreaming. Not of exciting games of bulrush-ball or composing grand swamp-songs, like most young frogs in the village, mind you; for, had he been swept-up in those most common of dreams, we would not know his story now. Perhaps it had been growing-up so close to the wilderness just beyond the towering cattails, where ravenous water bugs dwell, or the stories of his great-grandfather, the intrepid explorer Leopold, that led his dreams elsewhere, to someplace far beyond the village's great green walls. Or, just perhaps, this was a frog born to a far greater destiny than any within his village could imagine, and if not born, then certainly chosen by him. But regardless of why, there the young frog perched, daydreaming of ancient treasures, monstrous foes, and the occasional maiden to be rescued.
      For Gerard knew that only one dream could ever sate him: that of adventure. And because of this, more than any other circumstance, is how we came to know his tale.

Changing gears, at least for a little while.

      In part because of this wonderful picture diary, I am inspired to do a bit more with LS, beyond random updates that have little to no bearing. This is, in part, because I became paranoid that I'd not be able to publish stuff elsewhere -- something that, in the end, I'm finding myself less and less liable to care much about.
      So, for the next few days, I will be telling a story, one that might spin-off elsewhere. I may attempt art to accompany it at some point, but nothing, as always, is certain...

Scribble: Snow globes are sinister, aren't they?

      She perched by the window, fogged as it was, staring across the frosted field, and beyond the gnarled, bare limbs of trees. Blowing the steam rising from her mug, her silver-gray eyes drifted to the clock on the wall.
      Seven o'clock, as always.
      A tremor shook the house, as the snow across the field rose up, scattering across the horizon and air above. Falling onto her back, the observer could barely keep from slipping from consciousness by the scalding tea now permeating her clothes.
      Above, a giant eye, peering down into her window from the formless void beyond, watched with glee as snowflakes settled once more onto the frosty ground.
      She awoke, still in her bed, cold sweat drenching her sheets. The nightmares were getting worse with every night's slumber. She peered over at her alarm clock, hidden beneath the remnants of last night's cleaning binge.
      Seven o'clock, as always.

Reading list, for the curious.

• A Wizard of Earthsea, Le Guin


• Un Lun Dun, Miéville


• More Information Than You Require, Hodgman


• Coraline, Gaiman


• Spook Country, Gibson

      I have also come to the conclusion that most of what I studied in college is anathema to my own tastes, save Borges.

A momentary musing, to frustrate those who gather quotes.

      What little there is to say has, quite possibly, been already said by someone else far more eloquently, a long, long time ago.
      Of course, most of them didn't know what they were talking about, so carry on.

Scribble: Why I don't write after driving late at night.

      Driving. Eyes losing focus. Headlights covered in salty spray, the offal of plows. A thousand blinking, blurring lights from inside. Static, never sated, always famished, omnipresent; the gaping maw of oblivion given voice.
      A deer pausing, eyes aglow, heart beating too fast. Bullet dodged by hesitation. Unnoticed; deer wears a mailbox costume, just as still, just as still.
      Images flash, dreams of a mind eager for slumber. Bare breasts of some awaiting lover. Water sliding past parched lips. Trees reaching for a sun-stained sky. Dark. Blurred headlights. A jolt; mailbox dressed as a deer, just as still, just as still.
      Eyes losing focus. Speed dropping, a speedometer's arm growing too tired. Laughter in a lover's embrace. Easing on the brake, too fast, too hard. Stop with a jolt. Pause. A flaming wreck, five miles from here, a severed limb. Open door.
      The cool night air fills the lungs. The excitement of having made it back draws sleepy eyelids back into the sockets.
      Oh sure. Now I'm awake.

Scribble: Too much kaiju tonight.

      He stood there, a piece of skyscraper clutched in a three-fingered hand, surrounded by tanks and the ceaseless screaming of the small, squishy creatures whose homes he now destroyed. Looking over them with one giant, glaring eye, the giant heaved its otherwise featureless head, a sigh rumbling across the city.
      I just want to be loved, he thought, arms -- and skyscraper -- falling to his sides.
      In the distance, buildings were still toppling over from the sheer force of his ennui.

Obligatory reintroduction.

      To be brief: this is where anything that comes to mind will go, once per day at very least. Formats are out the window. Scribbles and such are back in.
      Think of it as a giant Twitter-esque clusterfuck, only with creative writing and ranting instead of the other stuff.
      Anyway, enough talky. Time to write.