Linguistic Sediment

I forgot to mention...

2011-05-23T00:53:00.000-04:00

Dusting off the keys.

2010-09-24T16:20:00.002-04:00

Hello all. I'm not sure how many people read this, but I suspect some do.

I've been absent these several months, sorting things out in my own life, and taking a break from writing in the process. I've put aside the blog for far too long, however, and wish to remedy that in that near future.

However, as many of you have seen, most of my pieces are short-form scribbles, lacking any real beginning, middle, or end, just scenes that exist unto themselves. Not that there's anything wrong with that; flash fiction is something I enjoy, and would agree with some that it has adapted creative expression and aesthetic appreciation to our faster-moving times. Short stories are always wonderful exercises in life, and the moment, independent of all the baggage we may hold, deserves celebration.

However, for the longest time, maybe a few years, I've had much bigger stories to tell floating around in me, waiting for the time to come out. I feel that this may be as good of a time as any to seriously consider that possibility, to start outlining and drafting, to commit myself and my time to telling them. It may take years still to write them, to finish them insofar as anything written can ever truly be finished, but it is a commitment I hope to make. Some of the very stories posted here will become part of them, some of the stories I treasure the most.

I also hope to edit a few pieces I've written in the past two years, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, I can finally submit them for publication elsewhere. I've had links to certain magazines, online and in print, open on my browser for almost a year now; maybe now that I'm feeling better about myself and where I am in my life outside of writing, I can follow-through at long last.

So there may be still gaps of considerable time between posts, and I may use this as a sounding board for some of my other projects, or possibly as a way to explain my method or highlight the works of others. Furthermore, I'm considering using a much more personal pseudonym for my future works in print; that, however, I won't bother revealing until I actually succeed.

Thank you all for your patience and commitment. I can only hope to do my best as a writer from this point onward.

Scribble: The other, much better piece I wrote based on Smiletron's forthcoming EP needs more work. And set-up.

2010-06-16T22:48:00.009-04:00

      Slender fingers slipped between the cold digits of her artificial arm, warming her heart through the servomotors and sensors beneath. She wasn't sure how she had arrived in this place, full of trees and the sounds of life all around her, basking in the twilight of perpetual evening; only that she was there, and felt somehow like home to her. With a confused smile, she turned to her companion, only to be greeted by a slender girl in a flowing violet dress, her eyes the color of starlight.
      "You're beautiful," she said bashfully, almost instinctively caressing her companion's soft cheek with her other, normal hand. "Are you the one who brought me here?"
      With a nod, the beautiful stranger slid her fingers around the outstretched hand, gently kissing the tawny palm before pressing it to her cheek once more. "I am the one you're destined to free," purred a soothing voice, though the stranger's lips did not move, "and the one destined to love you."
      Without another word, the nymph cupped her face in the warm, almost glowing hands, closing the glistening pools of starlight before drawing her lips to the girl's own.
      And with their kiss, she awoke, moonlight slipping in through the cracks in the blinds, her lips still sweet with the taste of the stars.

Scribble: One day, I will go back to writing about robots.

2010-04-25T19:48:00.003-04:00

      She smiles a mischievous little smile, stretching lithe, porcelain arms across the bed, casually sliding over the bare, gently rising-and-falling tawny stomach below her. As a familiar pair of bright eyes, half-open, follow her, not leaving her own, her milky white fingertips gently trace long-forgotten letters upon her lover's body, the brightest of smiles growing ever so slightly with each touch. A warm hand reaches up to caress the living doll's cheek, as a wistful sigh mingles with a gentle purr, warm, moist lips gently kissing unseen lines along the soft, smooth olive skin.
      "I love you," comes a half-whisper, as the tiny kitten finds a familiar pair of lips shortly pressed against her own. So small in her lover's arms, the doll lets slip another sigh, sliding down to bury her delicate face in her lover's ample breast. Fingertips gingerly caressing her lover's smooth, supple body, she purrs once more, her lips lovingly seeking each untouched bit of flesh.
      "I love you," she breathily replies, nuzzling as a familiar hand traces patterns along her porcelain back. "I love you..."

Scribble: There is a star in Brooklyn tonight.

2010-04-13T22:07:00.004-04:00

      A lonely star watched over the city, lost in the flashing lights of satellites and jetliners, no more than a ghost of starry nights past. Yet, far below, between streetlights and the dim hum of bodega signs, a pair of weary, heavy-lidded eyes stared skyward, not once drifting from the lonely point of light above.
      A flash in that place beyond sight, of a summer-yet-to-be filled with laughter, the kiss of gentle breezes and soft, familiar lips, of verdant days of adventure and starlit nights of tenderness. Fingertips drifted without stirring in the crisp evening air, memories of smooth skin, warm to the touch, floating to the surface. And far above, lost in the color of a star, the cerulean pools of ponds yet to be discovered, and the deepest beauty of unforgettable eyes.
      Soon, came a thought, joined by a laugh and an ever-present smile. Soon we'll be together again, my starlight...
      And somewhere between memories and dream, another star slipped into sight beside its companion, as a smile shone all the brighter.

Scribble: To be expanded into something called "The Immortal."

2010-04-12T14:48:00.005-04:00

      With each footstep he took, the trees behind him blossomed, only to give way to leaves that grew and fell in a heartbeat, leaving bare branches to blossom once more. As branches creaked and dripped with dew, depressions left by footsteps soon gave way to moss, then grass, only to wither away and disappear under snow, again and again, gradually hiding any hint of a path. Yet, ahead of him, the path remained clear, the trees still budding with the kiss of spring, and all seemed perfectly still.
      Is this what forever is like? he thought, as ancient eyes drifted along the road ahead.
      He looked at his soft, ageless hands, stopping long enough to be buried beneath snow that would melt away each second. No longer could he feel the cold of winter or warmth of summer's sun; only his sight could tell him of the season's constant shift. Looking into the air, all he could see was the rich blue of a thousand days and nights at once, merging into the richest color he'd ever known.
      "Almost as beautiful as her eyes," he whispered, lost in the wind, as moss slowly overtook his legs. "Almost..."

Scribble: The Album Leaf came on Pandora.

2010-04-12T09:53:00.003-04:00

      The salty spray tickled unshaven cheeks, as dark eyes drifted between puffs of white above. Hands bundled in the pockets of a worn, weathered hoodie, the wanderer just sighed, leaning against a dented car door. Morning light danced on the shimmering waters just beyond the old safety rail, gentler than the blinding reflection from the hood and roof behind him, but still slipping little needles of light into his eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out, the half-mocking laughter of a bird who knows no other sounds.
      "Are we almost ready?" came a gentle voice from behind, as the wanderer turned to see wind-tousled locks, splayed over shoulders, and eyes deeper than any ocean.
      She was smiling so brightly, he wasn't sure if he squinted from the harsh light off the roof. "I think so," he finally said, a smile slipping onto his stubbly face. "Let's go."
      A scene ended. An adventure began.

Scribble: I haven't been writing much lately.

2010-04-11T19:32:00.002-04:00

With a sigh, she slipped further into the cool, relaxing waters, as far overhead, the silhouette of some feathered traveler glided slowly into view. In but a matter of hours, fireflies would be beginning their evening duties of mirroring the stars, only to be swept-up in the frenzied dance of summer. For now, the lingering warm breeze reminded the nymph that the sun was still out, just barely hiding behind the verdant giants across the waters.
With a smile, she closed the deep azure pools of her eyes, a faint giggle slipping past her lips and into the warm, calming air. Soon, she'd have to find her clothes and her way back to the tent. But for now, she thought, opening her eyes to gaze out at the water, this is just fine...

Scribble: Distracted in Class

2010-03-16T20:34:00.002-04:00

...revisiting old ideas...

Scribble: Scribbled in a notebook while sitting beneath a tree.

2010-03-16T20:14:00.004-04:00

      "What'cha reading?" chirped a sweetly curious voice from above.
      The reader, slightly distracted by her task, took a moment before flancing up at the girl in the branches. With a little laugh, she smiled at the eavesdropper, gingerly closing the dusty old tome.
      "Just something I found hidden away someplace," she replied, as her companion leaned over, carefully balanced atop her perch. "An old collection of stories, fables, and such. How about you? What're you doing out here?"
      "Oh, not much," chirped the eavesdropper with a smile, just before dropping gracefully beside the giggling reader. "Just, y'know . . . finding something that's hidden away someplace."
      Without another word, the reader simply blushed, as her companion nuzzled into her shoulder. Closing her eyes, she could hear a gentle sigh, lost in the sound of rustling leaves...

Scribble: Sometimes, I hope gender ambiguity can flow with vivid description.

2010-03-11T16:27:00.000-05:00

      Birdsong fluttered through the cool morning air, as a pair of sleepy eyes gazed out over the waters, growing lost in the limbs of trees and rustling leaves. A playful breeze tickled bare arms and legs, running its unseen fingers through long, auburn locks, lulling about the shore and its slowly-waking nymph. A yawn teased the still-waking soul, tugging at her smiling lips, as she crossed her slender arms tightly over her chest for warmth.
      "Lovely," a whisper tickled at her ears, as another pair of arms wrapped tightly around the skin of her waist. Leaning back into a soft, familiar chest, the nymph sleepily nuzzled into such gentle warmth, finally letting slip the unrelenting yawn. With a renewed smile, she slid her arms over her lover's own, quietly purring at the touch.
      "It is," she cooed, pressing her head ever so slightly into the warmth behind her. "I never thought a morning could be so beautiful."
      A giggle tickled her ears, as a gentle pair of lips tickled her cheek. "I meant you," came the soft whisper, as her smile grew all the brighter. Gently purring, she carefully turned within the sweet embrace, as her slender arms slid around the warm, inviting waist.
      "I know," she whispered, as a giggle slipped into the air, followed by the gentle sound of touching lips, soon lost in the flutter of birdsong...

Scribble: I really should be sleeping right now...

2010-03-10T23:40:00.003-05:00

      The valley had been still that night, as only the gentle rustling of the woody hills above hinted at a breeze. Traces of clouds drifted at the edge of the sky, as stars emerged, little by little, from the ever-darkening aether. Far above the slumbering valley, the twin moons rose above the horizon, mismatched spheres vying for control of the night.
      Moonlight glinting off its slender frame, the stargazer perched between the trees of the hills, nothing more than a sapling hidden among giants. With a hand lightly resting upon a nearby trunk, the silent watcher scanned the night sky, its eyes clicking and whirring with each shift in focus. As a gentle breeze slipped through pliant, verdant limbs, a mechanical sigh slipped into its wake, followed by the sound of footsteps.
      "What brings you up here, Lon?" came a soft, tender voice, with all the warmth of familiar fingertips. Stepping quietly into the moonlight, the young girl casually brushed a stray silver lock from her face, her eyes never leaving the slender figure before her. "Everyone else is already asleep or on standby for the night..."
      "My apologies, Lana," chirped a pleasant, tinny voice, as the stargazer's curious eyes turned toward the newcomer. Helping her into the narrow space beside it, the mechanical watcher placed a steadying hand upon the girl's back, as she climbed into one of the higher branches.
      "I simply wanted to observe something I hadn't before," it continued, returning its gaze to the endless sea of stars above. "Archivists only have the opportunity to store data; rarely do we ever get to collect it ourselves."
      With a smile, the young girl nodded at the slender stargazer beside her, letting one leg dangle playfully from her new-found perch. "I suppose it's something else to see stars and moons for yourself, having only known pure data all your life," she softly said, as another breeze tousled her long locks.
      The quiet sound of a synthetic sigh pulled her eyes back to her companion, its own gaze unbroken.
      "That is true, Lana," came the wistful reply, "yet, what I observe, if my understanding is correct . . . is beauty."
      Silence slipped into the air between them, as an uncertain smile wavered, just before beaming with the brightness of the stars themselves. "Yes," Lana whispered, her eyes drifting back to the endless sea above, "it is."
      Without another word, the young girl nestled into her perch, as the twin moons continued to rise into the sky, filling the valley with gentle, silver light.

Scribble: I've been sick, and someone's been sweet.

2010-03-06T15:32:00.006-05:00

      With a heartfelt sigh, she excitedly danced upon the hardwood floors, her stiff, bare toes still aching from their temporary disuse. A radiant smile beaming upon her tired, gentle face, she held the worn and weathered box to her heart, twirling and stepping on air in excitement. The faint ghost of a cough tickled her swollen throat, but the dancer still smiled, unkempt hair flowing freely with each graceful movement.
      I'm the luckiest girl in the world, she thought, looking down at the familiar curls and lines written as a name. Thank you, she whispered in her heart, another sigh slipping past her lips, as thoughts of a warm bed and a familiar pair of arms teased her into another twirl. Closing her eyes, the dancer could only see the bright blue eyes so familiar to her heart, as her cheek instinctively nuzzled rough cardboard flaps, feeling only the softest of skin.
      The sound of a gentle ring tugged at her ear, as the lithe dancer glided, without so much as a stumble, over to the flashing, chirping phone. Still holding the box to her heart, she let slip a giggle, a loose sleeve sliding down her arm.
      "Feeling any better, love?" cooed a gentle voice, tickling her ear with sweetness.
      "I am now," came the raspy whisper, followed by another trickle of laughter. "Thank you..."

Flash Fiction: Something from nothing.

2010-02-23T22:22:00.003-05:00

Static flashed upon the screen, as the sound of gentle breathing faded into the scratchy electronic shriek. Nestling into the gently rising-and-falling chest beneath her head, the young girl squeezed her living pillow tightly in her sleep, just as a crocheted blanket slipped haphazardly from her shoulders. Shivering ever so slightly, she barely felt a pair of arms wrapping firmly, but gently around her, pulling her closer into the soft, warm body below. Stirring but briefly, the dreamer simply nuzzled deeper into her lover's chest, as a pair of lips sleepily pressed against her pillow.
Just beyond the dusty window pane, the thick clouds of night rolled and flashed, thunderously bellowing for the coming storm. Soon, the gentle sound of rain filled the air, mingling with the static and the swoons of dreams, as smiles slid onto slumbering lips...

Cleaning House: 01

2010-02-23T22:13:00.004-05:00

The following pieces have recently been edited:

"Zombot"

"Veteran"

"Millie"

"Permanence"

"Morning"

Scribble: This one made me blush.

2010-02-17T17:06:00.004-05:00

      Delicate fingers tickled her skin, tracing unseen patterns and gentle shapes, as sunlight danced tenderly across her back. The blankets and pillows, in all their shyness, had slipped away in the night, leaving her wrapped only in the familiar pair of arms, her head resting comfortably on her lover's breast. As her eyelids fluttered open, she could see the blurred shape of a smile, and a pair of half-open eyes gazing into her own.
      "G'morning, sleepyhead," cooed the sweet melody, as a pair of familiar lips soon found their way to her own. Hearing the gentle beating of her lover's heart, the sleepyhead found her lips curling into a smile, as fingertips flowed through her long, disheveled locks with the greatest of ease.
      Still half-asleep, she slipped back to her warmest of pillows, gently kissing the soft skin awaiting her. "How are you so warm?" she purred, nuzzling deeper into her lover's chest, squeezing her arms tightly around her pillow's supple hips.
      "I love you," came the sweet melody, tickling the sleepyhead's ears, "how else am I supposed to be, so wrapped-up in you?"
      A sly little grin slipping onto her face, the sleepyhead squeezed tighter, pulling their bodies even closer. "You're simply too sweet, y'know," the sleepyhead cooed, her lips following unseen patterns across her pillow's skin. "Simply too good to me, my sweetest dream..." she whispered, before words faded away, lost in the sunlight's warm embrace.

Freeform: Permanence.

2010-02-14T20:05:00.005-05:00

      Hidden beneath faded tattered robes, the lone observer stood upon the rocky shore, lost amidst the mist and crashing waves. From the darkness under its hood, two unblinking golden eyes peered out over the horizon, as though searching for something in the shapeless gray waters. Yet, with a hollow, tinny sigh, the seeker's watchful head lowered, as thin, metallic fingers wrapped tightly around a weathered staff.
      "Able," came a voice from behind, as the ever-vigilant eyes turned to face the newcomer. Clad in a traveler's cloak, she silently approached her companion, her footfalls barely seeming to touch the sodden ground. "Have your senses taken leave of you again, my old friend?" she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.
      "No, my young Tesslyn," came the hollow voice in reply, "not yet, at least." Ancient joints clicked and whirred back to life, as the watcher extended an arm to the young traveler, beckoning her to come near. "Come. There is something you must see through the mists."
      A soft smile upon her face, Tesslyn nodded, stumbling over the jagged stones to her mentor. Looking up at the featureless face beneath the cloak, the young traveler patiently waited for Able to speak, as its unblinking eyes flickered with thought. As the waves crashed into the rocks below, she casually brushed little droplets from her short locks, as another splash rang into the air. Without a word, she kept watching over the emaciated shade beside her, the young traveler's shimmering blue eyes made even brighter by all the endless gray.
      "There!" came Able's sudden declaration, as Tesslyn's eyes followed the now-outstretched finger to some hidden point in the sea. As the mists of morning began to part, the shadow of some great and terrible giant emerged, its body rising from the water like some armored warrior of a forgotten time. With a gasp, the young traveler reached inside a small pouch at her side, quickly retrieving a small spyglass without averting her excited gaze.
      "That's a machine, isn't it?" she asked her mentor, peering through the lens at the new discovery. "Like you and the others, only much bigger!"
      "From a time best forgotten," came Abel's sullen reply, as something much like a sigh rattled his metallic body beneath his robe. "There is a reason, my young Tesslyn, why my kind are still here, while the Giants are not. If you are to be one of the Masters of the Gear, you must learn why that is, and hold it ever dear to your heart."
      "And why is that, Able?" the young traveler asked, lowering her spyglass and turning to her mentor.
      "Why, my child, we are here to create," came a synthetic chuckle, as spindly fingers reached for Tesslyn's arm, pulling back the sleeve to reveal ornate patterns atop her mechanical prosthesis. Smiling at the gesture, she watched as Able again turned to the sea, holding her tiny hand in both its own.
      "And they," Able began, again rattling as though heaving some great sigh from within, "were meant to destroy."
      Touching her own mechanical arm, the young traveler's smile gave way to awe, as she retrieved her spyglass once more to gaze upon the giant.
      There, atop an outstretched claw of what once was a hand, a great nest of birds prepared themselves for the day ahead...

Scribble: "One in a million streets."

2010-02-08T08:45:00.008-05:00

      Dancing between the streetlights, her toes barely touching the soft blanket of white below, the dreamer giggled as tiny dancers of white fell gently on her palms. With a smile brighter than any star, she twirled around a lamppost, her silent audience ever vigilant in its stillness, its watchful gaze illuminating her every step. Long, silver locks flowing in the air, the dreamer suddenly paused, smiling, her eyes shining in the light of the moon.
      Where will you be, she thought, as cold, soft fingertips slid stray locks behind her ear, my someone just for me?
      With another giggle, she wrapped her arms tightly around her body, a gentle wind sweetly flicking a stray lock out of place. Her smile ever brighter, a swoon slipped past her lips, the little sigh slipping and dancing in the falling snow.
      And will you, just once, let me be the one to lead? she thought again, giggling, as her toes took to flight once more...

Scribble: For my Millie.

2010-02-03T23:17:00.006-05:00

      A playful breeze gently tumbled over the grassy field, as hidden beneath the tallest of blades, a pair of sharp, yellow eyes glinted in the sunlight. Just overhead, a ball of feathers danced carefree in the wind's gentle embrace, swooping closer and closer to the ground with each graceful maneuver.
      Soon, came the thought from beneath the grass, as the little bird came to bob along the ground, each step threatening to spring it back into the air.
      Now! came the predatory thought, as a flash of white and gray sprang out from the grassy den, landing on the spot where, only a split second before, the bird had stood.
      Looking forlornly at the sky, the pair of sharp, yellow eyes followed each graceful movement, sitting in awe of the feathery dancer.
      But I only wanted you to teach me... she thought, as the cheerful song filled the air once more...

Scribble: Battle no more, ye weary traveler.

2010-01-31T14:48:00.005-05:00

      Worn, weary, her armor dented and broken, she stood, gazing out over the golden fields before her. Her auburn hair dancing in the breeze, the knight pulled the tatters of her cloak ever tighter, unwilling, or far too afraid, to release her grip on the chipped, streaked blade clenched in her hand. Above her head, wooden branches, yet to be barren of their leaves, creaked with the wind's gentle footsteps, as unseen birds escaped to safer homes.
      In the distance, clouds began to part, as the golden fields shimmered in the coming light. Far off in the distance, the barking of farming dogs ushered-in the new day, heralds to the sounds of sickles and scythes soon to come.
      A single tear rolled down her scarred and sun-kissed cheek. Home, she thought, a weak smile slipping onto her face.
      The battered sword fell to the ground, a sharp metal clang drowned-out by the new day's birth...

Scribble: 'Tis the season.

2010-01-01T12:16:00.003-05:00

      Little crystals of white drift through the endless night sky, floating atop the chill currents of winter. Somewhere in the distance, a flash of color bursts into the air, fine lines of light fading into the clouds and snow. Explosions ring out, forever out of place with the sparkling, still ground, so wrapped up in its cold blanket.
      And yet, in that single moment, that same sparkle slips into her eyes, and shines from the brightness of her smile. The fireworks fade, trails of smoke swallowed by the clouds in the sky, but without so much as a sound, the night is made alight once more, as a laugh slips away from her lips to dance between flakes of white. A single gasp, a meeting of lips, and soon, not even the brightest of lights can match the quiet moment on the ground below.
      And somewhere, dreams of blankets to rival even the vast sheet of winter float within hearts, little bursts of light that never fade.

Scribble: My dream.

2009-12-13T22:17:00.002-05:00

      Little flecks of white gently drift through the chill night air, tiny shavings from fallen stars come to rest upon the ground. High above the dreamers, a thousand silent watchers float endlessly beyond the clouds, peering through unseen gaps to the entwined lovers far below. Even the wind calms, playful fingers no longer slipping between folds of cloth, waiting for the moment to grant the breeze its blessing.
      Standing together in each other's arms, the two let little specks of white fall leisurely between them, the stream from their breath casually tickling the lenses before their eyes. A hand strays away from the warmth of her back, delicately slipping fingers around the wire frames, as another strays from his, gracefully joining him in freeing pairs of longing, loving eyes. A laugh slips between the steam, the satisfying clink of metal on wood ringing quietly in the air as a sound of liberation.
      The snow stops, the last few glimmers of frozen stars drifting gently to the tops of heads and shoulders. Neither notices, locked in love's warm embrace, lips bringing them above the clouds, to be home again in the night sky. Cheeks flush, passions flare and bask in the glow of streetlights, the chill air no longer seeking to embrace the lovers, as the moment brings only smiles between kisses, gentle words carried on whispers that not even the wind dare profane.
      And somewhere, hidden from all other eyes, a streak of light flashes across the sky, a blessing for a new home, a new life, and many more moments to come.

Freeform: Like rivers, streams, and estuaries...

2009-11-22T21:32:00.003-05:00

      Fingers sliding, delicately interlacing, entwined in the feeling but never reeling, what words could there be for such smooth movements that flow like water over the roughest stone, gently peeling away jagged corners and frays until only the tenderness remains forever on the formerly unyielding face.
      Water flowing, skies glowing, stars shining in her eyes that sparkle only for me, for her, for something much more than fickle words could ever put to paper, the poet's dilemma, the writer's block, to be rounded and swept up on the ever-gentle currents.
      Together, we flow...

Scribble: Learning to paint again...

2009-11-17T17:43:00.003-05:00

      She carefully placed her toes onto the creaking wood, feeling the gentle waves rolling just beneath. In a single breath, her hands instinctively reached in any direction that might keep her from the chill water's embrace, as her foot crashed down onto the craft.
      “It's okay,” came a familiar voice, floating atop warm laughter. “You'll get used to it, I promise...”
      Catching the softness of her companion's eyes, she let a sigh slip away from behind her lips, corners curling into the smallest of smiles. With a deep breath, her other leg fell haphazardly into the boat, as her lithe body rocked with the rhythm of the waves.
      "Told you," came the familiar voice once more, as inviting arms wrapped around the nervous seafarer. "Now, shall we get started?"
      With a nod, the lithe young girl fell into an open seat, the wood creaking under the sudden weight. Looking out across the endless blue horizon, her squinting eyes followed wings of white, as the distant cry of gulls tugged at her ears. Far above, clouds mimicked their movements, drifting along on wings larger than the sky could hold.
      "It's beautiful here," she whispered, a gentle, crisp breeze tousling her shimmering silver locks. "Thank you for bringing me out here."
      With a smile, her companion simply tilted his head, motioning to the oar hanging idly beside her. Smiling in kind, the seafarer slipped the wood between her slender hands, as the shore started to slowly slip away...

Scribble: Growth of a kind.

2009-11-15T13:05:00.002-05:00

      Sunlight glinting off of metal latticework, the builder paused before the yet unfinished dome, still enshrouded in its steel cocoon. A fierce wind, enraged at the affront to its desolate plain, threatened to choke ancient joints and gears alike with dust from the ground. Yet, beneath a tattered cloak, the builder simply stood, a humble chuckle ringing beneath the din.
      It will take far more than that, I'm afraid, the builder thought, steadying its metal frame with an ornate iron staff. Your purpose is desolation, while mine...
      As dust settled upon the arid ground, the cocoon once more emerged from the tempest's shroud, shining all the brighter. Heavy footfalls sending dust into the air, the builder began walking toward its creation, unblinking eyes focused upon a single emblem on the dome's exposed face.
      There, carved upon a copper plaque, rose a great and powerful tree from an endless desert...

Scribble: You can blame this on "Storm Coming."

2009-11-09T00:36:00.005-05:00

Running atop raindrops, the sleek machine kept a single glowing eye upon the horizon, an azure star streaking across the night sky. Long, slender antennae bobbed with each footfall, as powerful legs became nothing more than a silver blur shimmering beneath the moon. Puddles exploded in the runner's wake, the comet bounding over fallen trees and stones without second thought.
There's little time, the runner thought, leaping into the air across a small cleft in the forest floor. Hope I'm not too late...

Scribble: I've been sick lately...

2009-11-07T15:45:00.003-05:00

      Sunlight slipped through dusty, half-open blinds, as the sounds of passing cars drifted in through the glass. Glowing copper in the dancing light, unkempt locks shifted atop the cocoon of comforters and sheets, the rest hiding beneath overstuffed pillows.
      "Plan on staying in bed all day?" chirped a quiet voice, as a pair of bright eyes searched, to no avail, for the hint of a face in all the mess.
      "When it's warmer out there than it is in here, I'll consider an alternative," came the grumbled reply, as the would-be sleeper felt her companion slide beside the mound of fabric. Rolling around to catch a pair of familiar amber orbs, she couldn't help but smile, her cheeks weakly straining at the effort. "Still sick," the would-be sleeper continued, softer than before. "Though at least it's through the rougher parts..."
      With a smile, her companion leaned forward, reaching down to run her slender fingers through the flowing copper locks. "You sound better, anyway," came the quiet voice once more, the words gently tickling the sleeper's ears. "Still, you should get up for a little bit, at least..."
      "Or..." the invalid began, a mischievous smile falling upon her face. Suddenly, her bare, tawny arms burst from her cocoon, wrapping tightly around her companion before pulling the smaller girl inside. A feigned scream filled the air, quickly overtaken by surprised laughter, as the willing captive soon found herself beneath layer after layer, auburn locks tickling her cheek.
      "You're definitely feeling better," came the chuckled, exasperated reply, as a slender hand reached out to resume a gentle pet. "I guess it is pretty nice and warm in here, too . . . though I did bring you some freshly-brewed tea..."
      "It can be reheated," replied a tired voice, slipping through the cracks in a yawn. Shifting herself once again, the would-be sleeper nuzzled deeply into her companion's chest, an arm still wrapped tightly around her captive. "Thank you, though..." she began once more, voice growing softer with each breath. "You're so sweet to me..."
      "Silly girl..." came the quiet reply, a slight flush falling upon the captive's smiling face. Hidden even in the dancing light, slumber slipped in between graceful fingers, falling between auburn locks, and gently closed a pair of eyes...

Scribble: Comma comma comma, period.

2009-11-07T12:05:00.004-05:00

      Beneath the bright summer sun she sits, as deep azure pools stare out across the sea, the tiniest of sighs escaping from her lips. Pulling her folded legs closer, she leans back on the salt-kissed stone, stray granules of sand slipping through her fingers, and turns her gaze to the skies above.
      "Beautiful, isn't it?" comes a voice from behind, as high above, clouds drift lazily along unseen currents. "Told you it wouldn't be boring," he adds, running slender fingers through his hair.
      Turning to the tall young man behind her, she simply smiles, nodding ever slightly. With a tiny hand, she adjusts the flower in her hair, as the newcomer takes a seat beside her, careful to share as much of the perch as possible.
      "Thanks," she finally replies, the melody of her voice flowing atop the rolling waves.
      With no further words between them, they both stare skyward, one head slowly leaning against another, as lazily drifting clouds take shape, putting on a grand show...

Freeform: Wounds.

2009-11-06T11:11:00.003-05:00

      Standing in front of a mirror, I expect to see my own reflection when, instead, cast in the pale light of some long-ago moon, there sits a small girl, curled-up with her knees to her chin. Little cuts adorn her bare arms and legs, from scars freshly opened by tiny little fingernails, as she hides her face behind her silver-white hair, flowing atop her head and down past her shoulders.
      She trembles, but is afraid to cry. I want nothing more than to reach through the glass, and in doing so, I find myself in her dark little realm, looking above to see no moon, not even a star glinting in the distance. Just darkness, the cold unfathomable, and this little wounded, trembling girl, who glows just like the moon.
      She looks up at me with eyes red with tears, and irises a shade of red between warming and hurt. I bend down, crouching despite the effort, and follow my instinct to just take her in my arms, press her tight against my chest, and not let go.
      "It's okay," I whisper, feeling her tremble. "I know you hurt . . . it's okay, I'm here now..."
      She cries, and the tears run down my cheeks, as I see with her eyes all the little cuts and scars, her only desire laid bare.
      She only ever wanted to be loved, unconditionally.
      But instead, she found only pain, only the need to hide away, to keep from ever being hurt so terribly again, even if all she ever did was to keep picking at the scabs.
      She withdraws almost as soon as the tears began, returning to her curled-up position on the ground. "It's okay," I whisper, that little smile still on my face somehow, "it takes time. And we have all the time in the world, I promise."
      She winces at the word, but somehow, she doesn't hold herself so tightly. I slip away, if only for a moment, to write these very words, knowing that they, too, are flawed, but showing her all the same, as I look back into the mirror to see my own face again, wondering, hoping that she'll be in my arms to keep, that she won't have to be alone any longer.

Scribble: Undead + Robot = this?

2009-11-05T21:56:00.007-05:00

      Dangling between spindly, clanking fingers, the strange artifact dangled precariously from its chain, little patches of metal gleaming through the rusted links. Eyes little more than glowing green dots in pools of darkness, the skeletal figure leaned in closer to investigate, placing a free arm against bended knees for balance.
      Cold, gray flesh twisting into a contemplative frown, the detective gradually raised another metal hand, its exposed metal sinews and wires coated in a fine blanket of dust. With delicate precision, a sharp fingertip gently tapped on the ornate brass casing, sending little particles of rust into the air.
      Spinning in the air, the artifact remained otherwise static, casting little particles of rust into the air. Moments passed before, quite suddenly, the side of the strange pendant creaked open, as dust from another time swirled into the ancient air. Startled from his stillness, the detective quickly regained his balance, bringing the exposed surface closer to investigate.
      A quiet tick echoed throughout the catacombs, as the hands of the watch shifted ever so slightly, only to grow still once more. With a frown, the mechanical figure closed the creaking door, clenching the device gently in one hand.
      "I have seen this before..." he began, in a voice choked with dust and gravel. "It once . . . was mine..."

Scribble: Sometimes, you just gotta be free.

2009-11-01T13:08:00.003-05:00

She looks up at the sky, shimmering eyes drifting between the scattered points of light. Toes crunching on the gravel, she falls back to lean on her steed, the engine block still warm to the touch. A streak of light flashes across the sky and her tired face, as a quiet laugh slips from behind her smile.
Somewhere in the distance, ashes of photographs and letters drift in the midnight air, carried aloft by laughter...

Scribble: I need to see if the SCP Foundation has a record on this guy.

2009-10-22T17:48:00.002-04:00

      Static echoed from the rusted box, its drooping antenna nothing more than wire and peeling tape. Upon its face, the ghost of some knob or another lingered over a jagged metal prong, as rust drifted in and out of the solitary speaker. Nearby stood an unadorned table, its legs buckling under its own weight, blanketed by dust and the greasy mold starting to form upon its surface. Only a single chair, itself nothing more than bound twigs and damp, oozing glue, remained for use; no trace of what other furniture there might have been remained.
      From behind an unseen door emerged a single, lithe figure, a white paper mask obscuring all the features of its face. Walking in erratic movements to the radio, the shadow paused, slowly jerking its bank visage around as though aware of being watched. Without another moment's hesitation, the specter threw an arm across the room, reaching farther than any human arm could, the sounds of breaking bones and torn sinews barely audible above the din. Flicking the skeleton of some radio dial, the static soon became overpowering, as the pale mask turned around, again and again, as each crick of sundered bone still lingered.
      A sudden stillness overtook the shadow, its arm back to the way it had been, the twitching motions now calmed. In but a moment, a small line formed upon the mask, growing wider and larger, the figure's head convulsing with each inch. Jagged teeth, grinning, with no eyes or nose or ears to accompany it, ripped across its face, as the static gave way to the sound of aggravated breathing. Even without sight, it turned to face its unseen audience, as the very neck of the shade started to snake and twist from the body, oozing like a fleshy, bleeding worm culled from a sore...
      "And that's when we stopped the tape," the agent added, breathing heavily.
      "Reason?" demanded the faceless monolith before him.
      "Because that's when it reached through the television screen," he blurted out, starting to tremble before adding, "sir."

Scribble: Unfunny jokes.

2009-10-21T16:46:00.002-04:00

A horse walks into a bar. The barkeep asks, "why the long face?" The horse says nothing, as it is a figment of the barkeep's imagination. One patron turns to another and whispers, "he hasn't been the same since his wife died." The other patron solemnly nods in agreement.

* * * * *

A rabbi, a priest, and an imam walk into a bar. The barkeep says, "what is this, some kind of joke?" The priest, upon catching sight of the barkeep, immediately turns to leave, rushing out of the bar. Before the imam can ask, the barkeep begrudgingly says, "she left me standing at the altar." The rabbi stands still, overtaken by the awkward silence.

* * * * *

A blonde and a brunette walk into a bar. The brunette orders a 7 & 7 without delay. The barkeep asks the blonde for her order. "None for me," she replies sadly, after a few moment's hesitation. "Are you sure?" asks the barkeep, noticing her seeming embarrassment. "Yes," she replies softly, before taking her leave from her friend and leaves the bar.

She passes by a tiny cemetery on the walk room, and struggles to slide between the old iron gates. After walking for a few minutes in the chill autumn air, she stops before a small gravestone, falling to her knees.

"I'm sorry, son," she chokes between sobs, clutching the piece of granite. "I couldn't keep you safe..."

From atop the marker, a dented toy car falls onto the frosty ground.

Scribble: I think I miss spring.

2009-10-20T18:13:00.004-04:00

      Shyly she stood, as nearby the midday sun dancing atop the rippling waters. Twirling and playing with the folds of her dress, a slight blush came upon her face at the thought of someone seeing her. Silly girl, she chided, her smile briefly fading, you're in a clearing in the middle of the woods. With an embarrassed sigh, her eyes turned toward the sky once more, the endless blue captured perfectly in her irises.
      Fluttering from far above, a single white butterfly drifted to the secret dancer's outstretched fingers, as the girl gently drew her hand close. "Is it you?" she asked, the pounding of her heart ringing in her ears.
      Before another word could pass her lips, a cloud of white fell gracefully from above, a thousand tiny wings fluttering away. Laughing as she twirled, the dancer let the creatures surround her in a graceful display, reaching her bare arms out for an embrace. Within but a moment, she stood completely encircled, invisible to the outside world.
      And in but another, a flash of white filled the air, as the dancer stood, with a small waif in her arms, clad in the most elegant of dresses.
      "Indeed it is," whispered the smaller of the girls, smiling just as brightly as her companion, "for as the season comes, so, too, do I..."

Scribble: Scene from a future project?

2009-10-20T01:28:00.003-04:00

      A candle's fickle flame danced upon the wick, as she looked across the tiny attic once more. Having slipped away from her companions as they slept, the waif couldn't help but smile at her new-found privacy, suppressing an anxious giggle in an effort not to wake them. Trying to brush away long silver locks, her fingertips graced the ornate leather patch where her left eye once had been, and the tender care someone had taken to ease the loss with beauty.
      Another gift, thought the waif, her single eye welling-up with a tear. One you promised you'd take back someday, if only to give me another. But that's not why I'm here...
      With a wistful sigh, she quickly unfastened the fabric above her breast, just enough to reveal a small, metal chamber where her heart might've been. Cautiously, her slender fingers tapped a gentle rhythm, as the circular seal shifted away, revealing but an elaborate series of gears and springs, roughly in the shape of a heart.
      Gently reaching inside, her fingers found a small locket, fitting in place with its surroundings almost perfectly, despite its peculiar shape. Staring longingly at the little rabbit of brass, the waif released yet another sigh, before folding the trinket into her pale, soft hands.
      Thank you, she thought, the faint clicking of her inner mechanisms sounding almost like a song. May we meet again so very soon...

Scribble: What's this? Continuity?

2009-10-19T15:07:00.004-04:00

      Mechanical eyes gazed out over the horizon, the lonesome figure standing perfectly still atop a jagged, frail cliff. A fierce wind threatened to rip away the observer's tattered cloak and scarf, holding back only for the great hammer clutched within its brass and copper fist. Paying the interloper no mind, the figure continued to survey the bleak landscape below, punctuated only with earthen spires and the ghosts of mountains long past.
      No life remains, it thought, bowing its heavy, round head in concentration. No . . . life never took roost here, beyond the beast...
      Memories of a single red orb flashed across its mind, the hideous creaks of ancient joints ringing in the air. Returning to the present with a shake of its head, the figure stood in silence for but a moment, before nodding to no one.
      Then this will be our new forge, it thought, turning to the narrow, rocky path leading to the valley below. With heavy steps, the observer began its long descent, wielding the mighty hammer as a staff with each step. Catching the faintest hint of birdsong in the air, it paused, its metal body heaving something like a sigh beneath the rags.
      And perhaps, it thought again, pausing to turn its eyes skyward, life will soon follow.

Scribble: Waiting for the L...

2009-10-17T02:15:00.004-04:00

...a new approach...

Flash Fiction: High Above the Clouds

2009-10-15T11:58:00.000-04:00

      She glides along the dance floor, floating far above the myriad patterns of light with each sweeping movement. Flirtatious toes kissed the ground, playfully avoiding any deeper commitment to gravity, staying aloft on unseen music and a beaming smile. With each pounding beat, her untamed hands discovered new shapes drifting in the air, as her heart eagerly explored each new rhythm.
      Adrift on sweet melody, the sylph could only fly, bright eyes shining like stars in the flashing lights. Not even when toes kissed the shallowest of water would she stop, her body losing all inhibitions and soaring across the dance floor...
      ...right into his waiting, warm arms, and his familiar chuckle just waiting to tickle her ears.

Scribble: This is how I've been feeling lately.

2009-10-14T18:08:00.003-04:00

      His eyes nervously scanned his surroundings, methodically looking in every direction that wasn't obscured by trees. Finding no others nearby, he released a brief sigh, a single gust of steam quietly whistling into the chill autumn air. He was alone; of this, there was no doubt.
      Looking up at his evergreen audience, the lines of his face crinkled in resignation. Carefully undoing the buttons of his long overcoat, he could hear the constant clicking in his ears grow louder. Did it always used to be like this? he asked himself, his expression betraying no despair or longing.
      Another set of buttons awaited his fingertips, his digits mechanically undoing each and every clasp with the greatest of speed. Without looking, his hand strayed to his exposed chest, reaching out of instinct.
      A mass of gears and springs came out, lazily winding-down, leaving a cold, deep hole where his heart should be.
      Did it always used to be like this?

Scribble: I couldn't figure out what he's applying to do.

2009-10-12T17:01:00.006-04:00

      Birdsong drifted above the glistening waters, tickling the swimmers' ears as they laid upon the warm sand. Quietly they listened, their bare skin waiting for the sunlight to sate its thirst, as a stray thought floated over to the pile of neatly-folded shirts and jeans nearby. Sharing a towel and a smile with his companion, the taller of the two remained propped on his elbow, as emerald orbs gazed into the azure waters hidden beneath the other swimmer's eyes.
      "You're doing it again," the shorter said with a half-chuckle, hands folded neatly upon his flat stomach.
      "Doing what, pray tell?" said the first, his innocent tone doing little to obscure the grin upon his face.
      With a sigh, the shorter sat-up, using a hand to brush away stray granules of sand in his blond hair. "Oh, nothing, Lev," came the exasperated, yet willingly so, reply, "just making it painfully obvious that you're waiting for me to say something." With another half-chuckle, he added, "ass."
      Falling onto his back, the taller heaved a sigh of his own, comically raising a wrist to his forehead. "Oh, how quickly he hath discovered my ruse," he said with mock despair, trying to keep his grin at bay. "And it only took him this long to put the pieces together! Such admirable detective skills haven't been seen since Ryan discovered someone's secret affections for him!"
      A playful laugh soon followed, only to be left alone to linger in the air. The clever grin falling from his face, Lev looked over at the slender swimmer beside him, only to find him turned toward the water.
      "I'm sorry," he said, placing a hand gently upon his companion's shoulder. "I forgot about . . . you know."
      With another heaving sigh, a smaller, slender hand fell atop Lev's own. "It's okay," he replied, turning to face his companion with a smile upon his face, "I mean, I know you didn't mean that, just . . . couldn't help thinking about it, is all."
      For a brief moment, not even birdsong could be heard, as the gentle lapping of the waves roared like thunder. Without a sound, a pair of strong, inviting arms wrapped around the sullen swimmer's body, as a chin tenderly fell upon his shoulder.
      "Next year," came a soothing whisper, "you'll try again, and you'll make it. And just to be sure, promise me one little thing, and I'll do everything in my power to help."
      "What's that?" Ryan asked, awkwardly leaning into his companion's embrace.
      "Take me with you," came the mischievous reply, the grin glowing so brightly upon Lev's face that even the sunlight felt threatened by it. "And don't you dare try to slip away, either. We both know who's the strongest!"
      Squeezing his smaller companion tightly, Lev let loose a pathetic roar, soon joined by Ryan's stifled laughter. "Damn you!" Ryan cried out, playfully struggling in his companion's embrace, before giving-in entirely, nuzzling into a heaving, almost purring chest.
      "Will you, though?" Lev asked, running a hand through sandy blond locks. "Take me with you, I mean..."
      Without a word, the smaller gave a tender smile, before gently pressing his lips to his lover's own. "Of course," Ryan whispered, gazing into verdant fields, "after all, I might need help in honing my detective skills . . . ass."

Scribble: Once again, turning video game music into an excuse for sap.

2009-10-07T16:28:00.002-04:00

      She smiled that usual smile, the one reserved only for a single someone, as she nuzzled deeper into an all-too-inviting coat. Swaying with each jerk of the train, the would-be dreamer slid an arm tightly around her lover's sleeve, trying to steady herself with minimal effort. Without a word, a slender hand soon fell atop her own, as her lover's face rested atop her head, her long, brown locks tickling her exposed cheek.
      “I'm not a pillow,” the would-be dreamer mumbled, the words slipping between consciousness and slumber.
      “Says the girl currently using my chest for the same thing,” came the playfully tired reply, as a laugh drifted slowly into the air.
      “You're lucky you're cute,” came another mumble, as the sleepyhead nuzzled deeper into the coat's soft, warm fabric, giving the sleeve another gentle tug.
      The ringing of the train kept silence from creeping in, as the only pair of open eyes stared beyond the scratched and weathered glass. Moments passed, as the sounds of the train soon faded away, emerging from the tunnel and into the clear, starry night.
      With a sigh, she gave the sleepyhead's little hand a squeeze, a bright smile beaming upon her tired face. “You're missing a beautiful night,” she teased, leaning over to kiss the dreamer's silver locks, open eyes never drifting from the sea of stars.
      “I beg to differ...” whispered the dreamer, giving her lover's hand a squeeze in return, just as slumber stole her away...

Scribble: Elevator music can be romantic...

2009-10-07T14:09:00.004-04:00

      A smile slipped onto her porcelain face, gazing out over the flickering landscape. Just beyond the smooth glass panel, the city lit-up the night sky, a mirror to the countless stars above.
      Gentle laughter drifted into her ears, as a familiar hand slipped onto her shoulder. "Glad you like it," a silken voice whispered, just before a pair of soft, warm lips pressed against her cheek.
      Turning to see the glowing face beside her, the smaller of the two could only nod, a flush coming over her cheeks. "Thanks for showing me," she whispered in return, her slender fingers sliding over her companion's tawny hand. "Still, next time, I'm going to show you what a proper night sky looks like."
      "Oh shush," replied the silken voice, staring into star-filled eyes, as warm lips drew ever so closer together. "Just enjoy the moment for what it is..."
      And somewhere, in another world, a pair of elevator doors opened and closed, a single chime getting lost in the electric symphony just beyond the glass.

Scribble: New dawn.

2009-09-30T17:32:00.005-04:00

      Kneeling before the rushing waters, the diminutive figure remained motionless, a slender statue of metal set upon the grass. Round, unblinking eyes gazed deeply into the creek, eagerly following the slightest movement on the riverbed, their lenses clicking and whirring all the while.
      "Keeping an eye on the fish again, are we?" chuckled a gravely, but cheerful voice, as a hunched-over man sauntered over to the water's edge. Leaning on a cane fashioned from some old colossal wrench or another, he chuckled again, running a thick, calloused hand through his whiskers.
      "Invertebrates," came the childlike reply, before the smaller figure turned to its companion, hesitant to break its watch. "I believe you call them . . . 'crawdads'? Is that correct?"
      "Ah, a regular astacologist!" the old man chuckled again, patting the smooth round dome of his companion's head. "Yes, they've been slowly making a comeback in these waters," he continued, dark eyes scanning the waters from beneath heavy wrinkles. "Ever since the generators went up long ago, everything in this region's been coming back, slowly but surely..."
      The sound of flowing waters soon overtook the conversation, as the odd pair simply searched beneath the surface, the old man's hand slipping to his charge's tiny shoulder. A single dragonfly appeared from places unknown, hovering in front of the little observer briefly, before finding a perch on the opposite bank. As its round eyes followed the creature, the small machine caught a glimpse of the windmills in the distance, dwarfing even the tallest of trees. Beyond the massive, sweeping blades, a small airship could be seen drifting over the horizon.
      "Grandfather," chirped the metallic voice once more, as unblinking eyes turned to the ancient visage, "will I ever get to see the world as it was?"
      "Mayhap," came the reply, riding upon a sigh. "If we're all so lucky as that."
      Round eyes returned to the water, immediately catching a small crayfish, walking along the sandy floor. "I hope so," the little one whispered, watching the creature saunter to a hidden friend...

Scribble: Storm's passage.

2009-09-30T17:03:00.004-04:00

      A single heartbeat, rising above the din.
      Outside, just beyond the salt-eaten fence, turbulent waters lulled, as the faint cry of gulls carried on the wind.
      A single heartbeat, rolling like thunder.
      Outside, far above drip-dripping rooftops, fearsome clouds parted, the last flicker of lightning long ago fading into sunlight.
      A single heartbeat, erupting, bursting into the air.
      The echo of digital bells, ringing beyond the cracked glass, rising through the holes in the ceiling above. A weary, shaking hand flips the chipped casing open, doubting its own sense of touch.
      "Please," cries a voice from the receiver, static choking each breath, "please, please tell me that you picked-up..."
      A single heartbeat, slowing, calming, quivering.
      "Just tell me..." came a shivering voice, unsure of its own sound, "...tell me that this isn't a dream..."
      Two voices, muddled by static, joined in grateful sobs.
      A single heartbeat, rising above the din, joined by another...

Scribble: Three years.

2009-09-19T23:17:00.004-04:00

      A single candle burns. Life flickers in the breeze, while little gobs of wax trickle down pale cheeks, running along ridges of scar tissue.
      It's all a painting, sepia, faded, slight wear along the worn-away frame. No one knows the artist, though hushed rumors say he's long gone. Singature's hidden in the lines of the face, but not in any language we can read.
      Why this angle? Why this symbol? Why are we even here, staring at this damn painting for the third year in a row, when little insight has been gained? Did the artist know his message would be obscured?
      But there is no message. The artist was a madman, barely in control of his own impulses. Half these cuts on the canvas were his.
      No meaning but the one we assign . . . but what are we to make of this, then, when we want to just turn away and find some art that makes sense?
      Running along ridges of scar tissue, little gobs of wax trickle down cheeks, life flickering in the breeze.

RLW...

Scribble: This is what happens when I listen to Shatner; or, People will probably think me a furry for one word choice.

2009-09-17T22:19:00.004-04:00

      Slowly, her eyes came to open, daylight slipping through cracks in the blinds. Birdsong blended with passing cars and voices, tickling her ears with the new life of the day. Yet, the warmth beneath the covers was too much, tempted by the lingering heaviness of her eyelids. She couldn't help but chortle at the conflict she now found herself in, a tired smile growing on her face.
      As she tilted her head to yawn, she winced in pain, noticing too late that her auburn locks were pinned beneath her lover's slumbering head. Trying to suppress a yelp for his sake, her slender fingers gently pulled the captive strands away, eyes drifting to his peaceful face.
      He was still smiling that same smile from the night before. Sleep never stole that from you, did she? she thought, as slender fingertips tenderly brushed against his cheek. Tempted to disturb such peacefulness with a kiss, she let out a gentle sigh, instead gently burrowing into his bare chest.
      "Maybe . . . five more minutes," she purred, nuzzling into his warmth, pulling the blanket closer.
      Soon, they were sharing the same smile.

Scribble: This would be more dramatic with set-up.

2009-09-13T23:13:00.004-04:00

      Ornate metal fingers wrapped around the shaft, knuckles creaking as they tightened their grip. Trembling slightly, the brass and copper figure stood at the ready, its mechanical eyes blinking but once in their scan of the horizon. Brandishing the mighty hammer from the forge, the survivor stood as a great knight of old, lacking only the flesh beneath the armor.
      Perhaps I am all that is left, it thought, head bowing with its unseen burden, but so long as I exist, there will be others...
      In the distance, a great roar burst forth, parting the very mist and shaking the walls of the mountains. A single red orb of light shone through the sudden gap, as the clanking of poorly-fitted joints ripped through the air.
      It is time, thought the survivor, nodding its heavy, round head. Digging the treads of its feet into the ground, it quickly shifted powerful legs from a defensive stance, bounding high into the air.
      Just as rusted claws swiped madly through the fog, fierce mechanical eyes bore down on the beast, the hammer's head falling swiftly before its wielder...

Scribble: A future project, perhaps?

2009-09-10T23:31:00.001-04:00

      Perched atop the tallest branch, the young explorer surveyed the landscape, her azure eyes looking to the mountainous horizon. An unexpected gust of wind tugged at her fiery red locks, as the sprite instinctively reached for the great trunk of her perch, the zephyr slowly fading away. Within moments, the air grew still again, allowing her attention to return to the world around her.
      "It isn't safe for you up there," rumbled a deep voice beside her, as the glint of sunlight reflected from a rusty, silver dome. Poorly hidden amidst the foliage stood an ancient machine, its open hand hovering just beneath the tallest branch, nervous eyes never straying from the young girl. "Why do you insist on doing such things?"
      Looking at the giant beside her, the sprite simply laughed, raising a single triumphant finger. "Because," she said in a cheerful voice, adjusting the goggles atop her brow, "you won't let me ride on your shoulder anymore, remember?"
      Her companion started to protest, before turning its massive head to the sky as quickly as its size would allow. As azure eyes followed the giant's lead, the silhouette of a great winged beast passed in the distance, strangely graceful for its bulk. A mischievous smile crept onto the explorer's face, as two pairs of eyes followed the flying creature to the highest peak in the distance.
      "My word," bellowed the giant, its mechanical eyes blinking in awe. "Is that what you've been looking for all this time?"
      "But of course!" she proclaimed, turning to wink at her companion. With another laugh, the explorer swooped her arms in an emphatic gesture, only to lose her footing on the branch. Without a moment's hesitation, she soon found a familiar quartet of fingers raised around her, the same metallic monoliths that had rescued her time and time again.
     "And this is why I won't let you ride on my shoulder anymore," came the matter-of-fact rumble, as eyes as large as her body glared from above.

Scribble: If this were film, it'd probably be rated "R" in this damn country.

2009-08-27T22:07:00.005-04:00

      The steam still lingered in the air, carelessly brushing over the mirror. Droplets rolling down her skin, she stared at the ghost on the other side, standing bare and wet.
      Instinctively, her fingertips found the small silver pendant just over her heart, still warm to the touch. Twirling and fondling the little gleaming tear, her eyes shifted to the little piece of silver held so delicately in her hand.
      With a smile, she quickly jerked her hand away, still clutching the little tear. The weathered and worn string snapped almost instantly, lingering just enough for a farewell sting. With a single clink, she set the discarded pendant atop porcelain, as her hand pressed a healing touch to the back of her neck.
      Looking up, she could see the clear reflection of short, damp bangs. Taking a step back, the ghost had faded, leaving behind a tearful smile and the bare skin over her heart.
      "No more tears, I guess," she mused, wiping a stray droplet from the corner of her eye, as her hand fell gently upon her chest. "Time to begin anew."

New project!

2009-08-26T01:22:00.002-04:00

Excerpts from the Encyclopedia Insolitus is now a go, in all of its butchered-Latin glory.

Updates will be weekly, though likely not on any set day of the week. Five entries have already been written, so we shall see where it all goes from here!

Scribble: I haven't written anything sweet in a while, and Junk Science's "Bancroft" is playing...

2009-08-26T00:08:00.004-04:00

      Her bangs fall gracefully over her eyes, just long enough to hide the round, brown orbs from the streetlight. A bashful smile falls soon after, sweet, shy, and sincere, if the flushing cheeks are to be believed.
      Her gentle laughter flows, bubbles along a mountain stream, just enough to tickle. A slender fingertip brushes little brown locks to the side, as a certain smile reflects in certain eyes in the dim glow.
      "Really?" she asks, voice as smooth as silk, half-giggled words casting wrinkles in the sheets.
      Really.

"Distance"

2009-08-24T22:59:00.001-04:00

      it keeps going, punching keys despite the static swirling over the screen.
      every line dead. nothing to be said of the other operators.
      with unblinking eye, it keeps typing, a breathless "no" repeating in echo...

"Seasons"

2009-08-24T22:55:00.003-04:00

      drifting like leaves, we were, lazily flling through each gust, but oh so brittle, so easily broken apart.
      drifting like snowflakes, we were, sailing on the currents but ultimately frigid, frozen in place.
      falling like raindrops, we were, so irect in our descent, but still flowing together, despite every crash.

      we are a river of debris. let the wind do what it will.

Scribble: I miss my robots.

2009-08-20T23:44:00.004-04:00

      Ghosts of verdant fields drifted on the wind, kicking up dust and debris in their passing. Surveying the rusted landscape, the wanderer carefully measured every step on the shifting ground underfoot, its great metal body swaying with each gust.
      Was it here? came a thought, as synthetic eyes whirred and clicked, trying in vain to pierce through the dust. If only this storm would relent...
      Within moments, the wind started to fade, as though heeding the wanderer's call for help. Dark clouds hanging over the sky slowly parted, as stray beams of sunlight pierced the dusty air. Even the restless dust settled on the ground, revealing the rusted skeletons of giants, scattered across the landscape.
      Ah! There it is! the wanderer thought, cylindrical legs clanking loudly as it ran. Just where the scanner indicated!
      Soon, the wanderer stopped before a colossal hand of steel and wires, its stubby fingers spread upon the ground. With a heave, cylindrical arms hoisted a single rusted digit into the air, before casually tossing it to one side.
      There, hiding in the small alcove beneath the palm, quivered a small family of animals, their brown fur coated in a thin layer of dust.
      "Found you!" the wanderer chirped, kneeling down beside the frightened creatures. Pulling a satchel from its shoulder, the wanderer extended a faded silver hand, as each took turns nuzzling its fingertips. "Come now," came the chirrup again, "let's get you guys somewhere safe..."

Scribble: Nifflas' music makes me think of the good parts of winter.

2009-08-11T18:10:00.005-04:00

      She casually flicked aside her bangs, eyes intent on gazing beyond the din of bulbs glowing brightly just above. Without even a glance, she adjusted the long scarf around her neck, lavender standing out among all the black and gray of the city at night. A smile formed on her lips, even as her neck grew stiff and sore.
      It's coming. I can feel it in the air...
      A contented sigh floated on a cloud, the vapor from her breath dissipating only after a moment. From somewhere behind her, the sounds of cars and pedestrians alike drifted into her ears. Still, her smile beamed on, eyes never leaving the sky beyond the din.
      There!
      A single speck of white drifted downward, nonchalantly passing her by. Another came, followed by another still, as soon, the whole city grew white...

Scribble: Things I could not write down at the time.

2009-08-07T00:33:00.003-04:00

      There came a pounding at the door, as those gathered within braced themselves for what was to come. As the door finally gave way, bursting from it hinges, the survivors huddled together behind the overturned tables. Only a brave few stood, some quivering, others still, their eyes locked on the shadow outside.
      He entered, a lumbering beast of a man, his pale skin wrought with ink and steel barbs. Prepared to lash out, his cold, grey eyes fell on the faces staring at him.
      A single pair of amber eyes awaited him. There, standing between broad-shouldered men, she stood, her youthful face grim and fierce, a small hare ready to strike at the falcon overhead.
      Staggering back, the beast could not look away from her defiant glare. Though all others possessed such strength to be a challenge, only this small creature forced the cudgel to fall from his hand, as a lone thought filled his mind:
      Is this . . . fear?

Scribble: What? I'm feeling romantic while listening to 8-bit music.

2009-06-18T19:44:00.003-04:00

      A quiet sigh fluttered in the air, carried aloft by butterfly wings. As azure eyes followed it drift along the breeze, the girl felt the memory of warm, soft skin gently caress her cheek. Without a thought, her own slender fingertips graced the blushing skin, as her eyes slipped beneath their lids.
      Even after so long, she thought, a gentle breeze tousling long, raven locks as it passed, it still feels like only a moment ago...
      So entranced, only the touch of soft, familiar lips could force her eyes open, pressing against her uncovered cheek. Startled, she turned in fright, only to be calmed at the mischievous smile and pair of emerald eyes awaiting her.
      "Sorry," came the sweet melody, as slender arms found new ways to intertwine, "I couldn't resist..."

Scribble: Trying to pull nothing out of something.

2009-06-12T23:55:00.003-04:00

      She slides past the counter, disappearing into the kitchen once more. Her hair seems to follow her a few paces behind; her face is just a made-up mask, stolen from a dime store Pierrot.
      A door opens, another customer slides into the bar. She emerges once more, hair barely moving, face barely moving, holding a basket of fresh wings so close that the oil's gotta burn. Not a flinch, though.
      Stepping back into the twilight of swinging lamps and burnt-out bulbs, she smiles, as shadows steal away the thick lines of compound and eye shadow, leaving her resplendent. Her hair is absolutely perfect, raven locks that never stray no matter how many times she turns her head to take an order.
      Now who is the fool, of course.

Scribble: A series of dreams about love.

2009-05-30T01:17:00.003-04:00

      The building was an amalgamation of three high schools, three colleges, and a hospital that I'd known from various points in my life. Linoleum flooring, drywall randomly giving way to tiles, lighting that changed with every blink. Faceless friends came and went in the halls, none of them notable, but all familiar in that tip-of-the-tongue way.
      Soon, I stood in a room full of sinks, a former lover beside me. She appeared to be only one of my ex-girlfriends, but as she spoke and her mannerisms showed, I could see that she, too, was an amalgamation, just as everything else in this dream. Neither of us felt anything for the other, but we still had to pretend for everyone around. It was all so familiar, yet nothing felt it.
      We splashed water at each other, and gave fake laughter as a response. We stood together, in awkward silence, not knowing what to do without an audience.

* * * * *

      It was a tall, wooden lodge with a high ceiling, where several cats played on the rafters, caught-up in impossible games with birds and mice. A solid oak bar stretched deep into the room, seemingly endless and forever caught in the dim light of late evening. I sat there, halfway facing the great glass entryway, but was nursing water instead of booze.
      I knew the owners well, one of whom looking surprisingly like the older husband of a babysitter from my childhood. I don't know if he was also named "Tiger," but it wouldn't surprise me, given his general attitude. He was quick with a joke, quicker with a smile, and seemed to know everyone around, even if he didn't. Wrinkles had taken what looks he had, but he still had the ol' charm in him. Someone you'd want to run a bar.
      The other, who was serving drinks, never stayed away from me for too long. She was a few years younger than me, but walked with the gentle grace of someone who had grown used to acting older. Even her way of dressing was flattering only in that her sweater revealed the lines of her petite frame. Her laugh was soft, her smile was bright, and her long hair kept dancing between orange and an almost pinkish red, like the sunset itself. Our hands seemed to naturally fall against one-another, and more than once, on that bar, her slender fingers mingled with mine. We couldn't help but smile when near each other, which was almost all the time.
      I was the only one who knew their secret: plenty of men, particularly men his age, would come to the bar and want to try their luck with her, only for him to come around and remind them that she was his wife. A few chuckles, the same kind of laugh a good-hearted fellow will use to warn those of lesser stature. I was the only one he never got protective around.
      They weren't actually married. He was just being protective of us, because we made each other happy, and didn't want anyone to get in the way of that. She was an orphan who needed a job, and he was a good enough man to give her one in such a sketchy town.
      By the end of the dream, we were holding hands, and not letting go.

* * * * *

      It was a massive convention hall, though one that had collided with a warehouse of novelties and random pieces of memorabilia. For once, I was not a character, but a camera, watching the drama of another set of lives unfold before me.
      Four friends, joking quietly, visiting some sort of festival. Two young men were there, one Asian-American, the other I guessed was Cherokee. They were joined by two young women, one of whom was nondescript, but only because of the angle of the "camera." Only one of the young men spoke frequently; the other young man, and one of the young women, just never elected to speak that often. The fourth, the dark-skinned girl with long, bright pink hair, almost seemed incapable of speech. Everyone had a seat at a great, long table, which was, in turn, in an area surrounded by other such tables. A sampling of foods and drinks was going-on in the uproarious hall, and the quiet young man, alongside the mute, seemed uncomfortable.
      As soon as glass pipes were being drawn by most of those in attendance, to sample a variety of smoking herbs, the young man and the mute left in haste, remembering the words of a fortune teller who had come to them, sometime prior to the dream. "You will see flowers and a sacred room, wherein your truest love will come to you." Scrambling across the convention floor, the two searched for nothing in particular, though the words of the fortuneteller rang in their heads. Separated from the massive gathering, the young man finally found his voice: a chipper, upbeat tone that sounded much like any fellow outside of his teenage years. After some time, the mute, too, spoke, in such a tender and sweet voice that it sounded like music.
      After an endless array of junk, kitsch, and strange displays of plumbing, there came a grand display of white lilies, beside a glowing door that seemed out of place in the industrial maze. Clenching hands tightly, they ran toward the light seeping through the cracks. They reached for the doorknob, seemingly as one.
      He died almost instantly, falling into a mysterious pool of lava just beyond the door. The fortuneteller lied to them, in order to reveal two men who were planning on destroying the entire building -- and later, all of humanity -- out of spite and broken hearts. She fought them both, and soon they, too, died in the same trap set for the young man, realizing too late that all they needed for their happiness was each other.
      She, too, gave her life to save the unknowing crowds outside, but was granted with a vision before she died: a little boy and his grandfather, a woodcutter, stumbling upon a little girl in the wilderness.
      She saw that their love would bring them back to life, and so she closed her eyes, accepting what was to come.
      I felt powerless. I felt my heart break upon her passing, and wondered if there was some other way she could've gotten her happy ending...

Scribble: Last night at my old apartment...

2009-05-28T00:15:00.003-04:00

      Empty cupboards, save for some canned goods and some bags of tea. Nothing left in the bedroom, though the entire place feels empty. Doesn't feel the same without the cats around, but that's to be expected.
      Nothing here but a futon, some shelves, and some things best left forgotten.
      No one is left in the old town, now that summer's come. All the familiar faces faded away over the years, save for a few who still haunt the old stomping grounds, unkindly ghosts they are. Maybe they're not the ghosts anymore.
      The rain's gone on for hours, the only comfort to be had here. The sounds makes it a little less lonesome, here in this great empty space.
      Eight months this place stole away, the days and weeks swallowed into the cheap drywall and the cracks in the paint. Who knows what's seeped into the tattered carpet by now, or why the sink never drained properly. At least the bed's gone now.
      Things best left forgotten.
      One more day. Another sunrise, another morning, another afternoon. Never have to come back here again, with its horrible oven or finicky heater. No more odd smells and sounds coming from upstairs, or the fear of running out of life to live. Freedom. Has a nice ring to it.
      Never could stand this place. If its walls could talk, I know what they'd say:
      I hate you. And I'm never going to let you forget it.

Flash Fiction: While cleaning up the blog...

2009-05-27T00:41:00.005-04:00

      He picks it up off the dusty ground, gives it a good brushing. Never found one as good as this he thinks, holding it up to the dim lantern light. His tired eyes trace etched lines across its surface, weaving in intricate patterns engraved into the steel.
      If only you weren't so damn rusty, he adds with a sigh, as he lowers it to his side. With a loud clang, the metal appendage is reconnected to his right shoulder, skeletal metal fingers clicking involuntarily.
      "Much better," comes a low grumble, as tired eyes return to the dusty ground below. "Maybe this time, you'll stay attached..."

Random thought:

2009-04-11T00:48:00.002-04:00

I really need to take advantage of that "cherry blossom" trope one of these days...

Scribble: Evaporation.

2009-04-09T00:40:00.003-04:00

      Eyes closed. Fingers crossed. A single footstep, followed by another. Legs and arms becoming fluid, swimming in the melody, flowing over the rhythm.
      A single strand of hair flutters over eyelids. Body language in a cursive script. Lights dance across her skin, beading with sweat. Somewhere her fingers come uncrossed, where she flips onto her hands and back again.
      Percussive sounds of palm against palm. Feet no longer bound by gravity's gravitas. Eyes flutter open, only to see forms and hues sharper, brighter than before.
      Floating above the ground, freedom lifting her to the sky.
      "That girl can fly."

Scribble: Listening to Euphoria's "Butterfly Track."

2009-03-21T23:27:00.002-04:00

      Fluttering around, little flashes of silver-blue, drifting along unseen currents of air.
      Pouncing all about, determined little eyes flashing and narrowing, scampering just below.
      Floating skyward, bursts of spirited giggles, smiling brightly just a little while away.
      Petals unfurl, clouds part, green floods the landscape.
      Ah, spring!

Scribble: Let me have this for once.

2009-03-12T22:57:00.002-04:00

      The sun gently taps on my eyelids, as soft purring tickles my ears. With a sigh, I wonder where my little feline residents have nestled, to hear the pleasant motor of their breaths so clearly.
      Before I can turn my head, I feel a soft weight over my chest, as disheveled locks fall casually from my chest. I can't tell if she is smiling, or if her eyes are even closed; not even a gentle squeeze is telling, as she buries her face even deeper in me. I can't help but smile for her, though, as my fingertips wander through silken strands, my arm sliding very carefully over her own.
      I can feel the softness of her breath, the warmth of her touch. Briefly, my eyelids start sliding back into place...
      The paw on my nose, of course, proposes an alternative.

Scribble: Another one of those streams...

2009-03-11T23:11:00.002-04:00

      She walked with moonlit eyes, or so they'd say if she ever kept them open or free. Hiding behind thick bangs that swayed when she walked, they remained a lunar mystery, a glowing reminder of the brightness inside.
      She walked onto streets paved with broken stones and the tears of old men, dreams long forgotten and lost to time. Yet, every so often she would bow her head, bangs threatening to reach down to the ground, as though paying respect to what was lost before she was even conceived as an idea. She walks, solemn, keeping the moon enclosed in threaded jail cells with each step.
      But I, I with nothing more to do than wax poetic on the midnight wanderings of the eccentric, step beside, trying to get a passing glance at what ocular marvels lie hidden in the dark.
      For a brief moment, I see the glow. And then, in a heartbeat, she is gone, leaving nothing in her wake save the full moon above, suddenly free of cloudy oppressors.
      So I walk...

That being said...

2009-03-07T02:31:00.002-05:00

I plan on doing something with an adaptation of Journey to the West someday. I'll let you know what when I get closer to it.

A tired, tired multicultural examination of my own work.

2009-03-07T01:29:00.005-05:00

      As writers, we struggle with conflict and identity, and ultimately agonize over what message we will convey through our medium. Particularly if we are born of privilege -- be it through constructs of race, gender, class, orientation, religion, or other such categories that place us in favor within society -- the idea of reaching beyond ourselves, to the struggles of others whom we cannot immediately identify with from our own experience, is one of the greatest challenges we face. It is, perhaps, the only way such privilege can limit us, an unfair trade for all the real life struggles others endure, day in, day out, sometimes simply because there is no other option.
      So when it comes to trying to accomplish something more with our writing, we can't just settle for stereotypes or simply what others have written before us. We have to accept our status, accept what it means, and instead of outright refusing that privilege, use it to resist the very systems that gave it to us and not to those who suffer for, really, arbitrary reasons. Only then can we move past it, into a greater cultural consciousness, to write some serious shit. After all, if you're stuck on feelin' guilty for being white, or unconcerned with the way women are depicted in various media, then how the hell will you ever write a convincing character that isn't a white dude? Especially to an audience that maybe aren't white dudes themselves?
      Or maybe that's just my own projection; fuck knows how many writers are out there today, getting steady work who have never attempted to look at things through a multicultural lens, let alone turned socioeconomic struggle into part of a writer's raison d'être.
      So that's why it bothers me when I write something, and I find myself asking, "just who was that," because there are certain aspects to identity I never bring up in my work -- and, usually, those same aspects are the ones that opened this essay. And I find myself asking if I've just gone and ignored all this myself, or if I've done something completely different and subverted the entire process by not making an issue of it.
      As an example: someone once pointed-out to me that, after reading one of my pieces about a same-sex couple, she was actually encouraged by the fact that their sexuality was never pointed-to; that it was just some sappy romantic piece between two lovers who shared the same pronoun was actually far more significant than, say, another story talking about the struggle of a society that refuses to accept them. Y'know, something embracing their love as being special just for who they are -- somehow more optimistic than anything else. I'm not writing this to toot my own horn or some shit like that, but that I was able to pull something like that off is encouraging, and has made me wonder even more about my approach.
      It's something I wish I could pull-off more with women in my works -- half the time, they're just waifish personifications of wistfulness and beauty; momentary expressions of my own personality that I identify as "female," but almost always to the characters' disadvantage. It's a maturity thing, I know, and I at least hope I've gotten better about that kinda shit with time.
      But the one stumbling block has always been race, and it's something that's always weighed heavy on my mind. Some of it stems from my father's own explicit racism, and some of the shit that went down in my younger days; anyone who tells you "small town values" hasn't seen what those places can do to a black or Persian kid. Maybe because I'm so conscious of it -- or try to be, anyway -- that I get paranoid easy, and back down from approaching it in my work. "Porcelain" gets used more often to describe characters than "tawny," "ebon," "swarthy," or "sable," and whenever I don't mention melanin at all, it comes out in other ways.
      And at this point, it's not even about race, but the culture, and staying true to multicultural form by not making what's "white" the normative experience in my work. Which really might be why I stick with fllash fiction and soft sci-fi, because it's easier to cope with in "slices-of-life" and works that assume, in some way, that the future (or the fantasy) will be at least egalitarian in nature. But it's a sign of immaturity for certain, and one that I need to actively push back against without coming-off as employing "tokenism" or stereotypical perceptions of race . . . or anything else, for that matter.
      And that's ultimately what it's all about. What good am I, as a teller of stories, if I can't be true in my work? I'd be just another dude who's setting the stage for further complicity in an unjust system -- a failure among my own ideals -- and a complete and utter hack -- a failure of my own dream. So I'll experiment, try my best to keep it real, and hope like hell that I can go somewhere with that whole "subtle subversion of norms" thing...

Scribble: A particularly wistful evening.

2009-03-05T22:18:00.003-05:00

      Somewhere she sits, sipping on some tea on some lazy coffeehouse evening, gracefully brushing locks from eyes so warm that passersby thaw at the sight.
      Somewhere she sits, reading only half the pages, as one eye drifts around to other smiles and laughs and fingers delicately interlaced, only to leave fingers longing for some warmth...
      Somewhere she sits, closing the other half of her book and turning the warmth of her eyes to melt the hands on the clock.
      Somewhere she sits, and wonders if we'll ever meet...

Scribble: This is why I don't write while sick.

2009-02-23T23:38:00.005-05:00

      Another cough. Race to the sink, barely in time to expunge. Head feels like swimming with cement shoes.
      Cold water. Hands dry, cracked, bare. A gnat, waterlogged, washes upon the porcelain shore. Maybe I drowned it. So ignorant.
      Another cough. Nothing comes. Steady pace back to the couch. Legs flail like fleeing gnats, made soggy by immeasurable giants.
      Running nose. Tonight, I am a murderer. Tonight, something tries to murder me.
      Another cough...

A hint.

2009-02-09T23:29:00.001-05:00

I've picked-up a pen-name, and have three simultaneous projects in the works. No other details until they go live.

Things I Have Learned from Comic-Con: Day Three

2009-02-08T19:21:00.005-05:00

The Sucklord, in response to someone admiring his "costume": "It's not a costume, it's a way of life!"
While still the most frontin'-est rapper around, MC Frontalot is as chill and down-to-earth as he is tall. And he is, of course, not a short man by any means.
Octopus Pie, as a title, is just nonsensical and has no real bearing on the strip. Not that the strip needed help being awesome.
Come to think of it, Meredith Gran is also quite chill and down-to-earth, and was cool about signing something for a friend who's been feelin' kinda craptacular.
Actually, though I didn't get to talk with all of them, I'm just gonna toss this out there: the whole Dumbrella crew and affiliates? C'mon. You can figure out the rest from here.
From The Multicultural Mask panel on breaking down barriers of race, gender, and sexual orientation in comics, paraphrased: "They need to do something like Marvel Zombies, y'know . . . but, like, 'Marvel People of Color.' 'Ah, they're turning non-white! Run!'"
It is completely justifiable to spend hundreds of dollars at a con, so long as a healthy percentage of that goes towards gifts for other people.
There is nothing more uncomfortable than squeezing past the sweaty, clammy dudes hanging around the hentai / erotic art / erotic comic booths, beyond the nagging, irrational fear that you're somehow being perceived as one . . . even though the most scandalous thing you've purchased is Scott Pilgrim.

And, finally:

There is no quicker way to lose five pounds than by staying on your feet for eight hours straight, three days in a row. There is no quicker way to gain it back than by going to the nearby pizzeria for lunch every day.

Much props to Matt, Jesse, and the crew from Onell; Boris and the crew from Rocket North; Meredith Gran, Andrew Bell, and MC Frontalot; the Sucklord; the legendary Peter Laird; David Petersen; and just about anyone who I forgot to mention, but who made NYCC completely awesome this year.

Oh hey, damn me, I forgot the one person who made it possible: my ever-lovin' fake niece, Jen . . . not that she reads this, but damnit, I remembered!

Back to regular programming as soon as I recover...

Things I Have Learned from Comic-Con: Day Two

2009-02-07T23:55:00.004-05:00

Peter Laird, paraphrased: "We chose turtles because we thought, 'what's the least ninja-like animal out there?' And then we had it: turtles."
Jesse Moore looks like he is capable of destroying worlds. While he may still be capable of doing so, he would do so in the friendliest, most positive way.
"Top Secret Panel" is, much like the cake, a lie.
Andrew Bell, paraphrased: "Half the people who dig my stuff are all like, 'I love your work, but now I can't afford to eat.' And I feel bad!"
Yes. Someone was cosplaying as a freggin' Mudkips. The Internet has won.
The Conduit. Just . . . The Conduit.

Also, a few notes of clarification: apparently, I'm incapable of being flirtatious, so two of the previous items can probably be stricken from the record.

Final day tomorrow...

Things I Have Learned from Comic-Con: Day One

2009-02-06T22:13:00.002-05:00

There is tall, then there is tall, and then there is Matt Doughty.
Similarly, there is nice, then there is nice...
Always ask twice before taking something you think is a free sample. At least.
Never appear flirtatious with someone at a booth. That person could wind-up being one of the artists and/or writers you have come out to see.
That being said, "blushing" and "awkward silence" are probably not good responses to said situation.
There is no greater gift than providing someone with The Ultimate Batman Manual, unless it is to be followed-up by an interactive Batman-themed mystery.
There is nothing weirder than being stuck in line for the Ghostbusters demo behind one of the guys from the television show "Ghosthunters"...
...except, of course, for about eighty different things at the Con so far.

More embarrassing, revealing truths to come...

Scribble: Steam rising from chai not yet brewed.

2009-02-04T20:11:00.003-05:00

      Nights were getting warmer, so she thought, perched upon the railing as she was. Sweet and spicy fumes snaked into her nostrils, as muscles in her mouth worked at a smile. "Sure," she thought aloud, as a single drop of rain kissed her forehead, "now you gotta come out and wreck this moment..."
      Retreating through the open window, the young one struggled to climb off the kitchen counter, careful not to spill a drop on the way down. Why the hell the fire escape was put there, she could never understand, but she knew that so long as it was there, no skirt would be her friend.
      "Well," she cooed, leaning on the faded white laminate while fumes floated carefree, "at least the rain's still beautiful..."
      Taking a long sip, the youth couldn't help but smile, as her thoughts turned to daydreams that would fill a thousand novels...

Side note to that last scribble...

2009-02-04T18:20:00.003-05:00

To avoid lawsuits: yes, it is an homage to an already-existing property. If someone complains, I'll take it down.

Multi-Scribble: To pick up where we last left off...

2009-02-04T16:42:00.004-05:00

      "Damn it!"
      Minutes of frantic typing had been for naught: the dimly-lit cargo still remained sealed before her. Snarling at the glowing console before her, the survivor raised her arm, as it shifted into the humming weapon once more. "If I can't unlock it the easy way," she said aloud, taking careful aim at the large, coffin-like pod before her, "then I'll just have to --"
      An explosive rumbling echoed through the cargo hold, as the survivor darted behind a stack of metal containers. He just won't give up, will he? she thought, as the floor shook with another rumble. Giving one last glimpse to the sealed pod before her, she steadied her weapon with a slightly quivering right hand, bracing for what was to come. "Hell if I let you take him," came the synthetic growl.
      Before she had time to understand what was happening, she saw the hold's heavy door fly across the room, before being embedded into the very hull. With a gasp, she rose from the floor, just as a flash of greenish plasma materialized beside her head. Scrambling to hide behind the sought-after crate, a hissing voice bellowed, ringing throughout her sensors.
      "Fool," it began, as the survivor steadied herself once more, "none of the mercenaries protecting this vessel could stop me..." A crate, only a few meters away, burst into a flash of light, leaving no trace of its existence. "Nothing remains of your employers, save their memory. What could you have to gain by continuing this pitiful game?"
      The survivor frantically looked around until, just across from the precious pod, she caught a glimpse of a security camera -- still functioning, tracing the intruder's movements. Silently, she tapped the side of her round, smooth head, until a small antenna array unfolded from within, as her dark eyes suddenly shifted to a dim white glow.
      I'm in, she thought, her vision melding with the camera's own sight. Seeing the distinctive glow from his eyes, the survivor studied his movements carefully, as he blindly approached where she had been hiding. Doesn't even know I moved. Probably doesn't know I can watch him. Which means...
      "What do I have to gain?" came the booming voice over the cargo hold's speaker system, as the intruder stopped in shock. "Did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, I wasn't another mercenary after all?"
      Raising his weapon, her assailant scanned the hold, his pale, chitinous head pulsating in distress. As he turned away from the pod, the survivor, in one swift motion, burst forth from her hiding place, firing burst after burst of plasma after him. Glowing fissures in the plates of his ebon armor illuminated the entire hold, as he spun to face his opponent. His green eyes widened in horror, as the survivor continued pounding the intruder, knocking him off-balance with each percussive blast.
      She would've pressed on, had alarms not began to sound in her head about her rapidly overheating arm. As servos shifted her left hand back into place, the intruder fell to the floor in a heap, as his raspy breathing echoed throughout the hold. Approaching him, the survivor -- antenna withdrawn, eyes once again dark -- clenched her fists in anticipation.
      His head was more bulbous now, pulsating more rapidly, as a glowing, pus-like substance oozed from between the chitinous plates of his scalp. Eyes narrowing in contempt, he coughed from an unseen orifice, as the green fluid dripped from the cracks in his armor. "I did not expect . . . this," the intruder hissed, struggling to rise from the floor. "Perhaps, next time . . . I will need to be better prepared."
      Before she could speak, her assailant's entire body erupted in the same pale green light that escaped from his armor, only to vanish within an instant. Stunned, she barely had a moment to adjust before another voice, much smoother and calmer than the last, echoed through the hold.
      "I know not of who that was," came the voice, as the survivor turned to see another android, walking from the direction of the pod. "Nor do I know you, who came to save me . . . or even where I am, for that matter."
      The pod must've opened during the fight, she thought, giving a fleeting thought to blasting the uncooperative console for good measure. As the living cargo approached, the survivor extended an open hand, still trying to calm herself.
      "There will be time for explanations later," she began, in a tone that wasn't quite friendly, but wasn't quite stern. "We need to get you off this damned wreck, and quick. Besides," she paused, not realizing she had started walking off at that point, and turned to face the cargo once more, "the one who sent me is a great deal better at explanations than I am. Let's go!"
      Running after her, the confused android called out, "will you at least tell me your name?"
      "Vossar," she replied, stepping into the ruined corridor with the android not far behind. "My name is Edyne Vossar..."

Multi-Scribble: Why are robots always given the masculine pronoun?

2009-02-02T17:37:00.005-05:00

      She couldn't remember when she'd last had a charge -- six, maybe seven cycles past when her systems could function properly -- only that there was none alive left on the ship now, save herself.
      Well, not exactly, she thought, moving silently through shadowed corridors. There's still the cargo, and--
      An explosion racked the hull of the ship, as her slender form ducked into a niche in the wall.
      "Damn," she whispered, under what could have been breath in a more organic form. Dark eyes dimming in concentration, she could feel the servos in her left arm shift and lock, until the hum of a cannon echoed around her. Just in case, she thought once more, brandishing her transformed appendage to allay her own fears. Not that there's much left to lose...
      Dashing back into the corridor, she worked her way along the shadows, trying to remember the route to the escape pods. Somewhere in the back of her mind, an alarm was being raised -- not much longer before stasis lock. Hold on, just for a little longer...
      As the dull pain in her head started to build, her eyes caught sight of an all-too-familiar security door, bolts withdrawn and left slightly ajar. A pale, intermittent glow emanated from within, punctuated by the sound of malfunctioning circuitry. Dark eyes widening on her expressionless face, the survivor found herself slowly drifting toward the cargo hold. If that cargo survived, then perhaps...
      Another explosion rocked the ship, as she bolted for the door. "Guess there's only one way to find out," she said to no one, sliding through the slim opening before sealing herself within with a loud clunk.
      In the distance, a pair of green eyes blazed in the shadows...

Scribble: A Neko Case-filled week.

2009-02-02T01:41:00.003-05:00

      The snow stopped falling only moments ago, stray flakes still drifting in the frigid air. Vapor from cocoa still snake and wind through halogen beams, merging with the stench of tobacco on its way to the sky.
      She flicks an ash like another snowflake, tumbling to the ground to hide amidst the others. He's still smiling in the photograph, his arms still wrapped around from behind, his hands still feeling at home in hers. In her hand, the photo shines in the halogen's glow, dulled only by a few stray tears.
      The cigarette burns down halfway to the filter, as she sets down her mug to take it in hand. "Figures," she says to the picture, "you got me into this damn habit, give me something to always remember you by..."
      Standing, she flicks the cig away, casually stepping on it before it has a chance to drown in the snow. In a single motion, her fingers flick open the lighter, shut it, and toss it into the distance.
      "At least I'm not goin' to give you that satisfaction anymore," she says, returning her cocoa to her hands. "I'm worth at least that much." Staring up at the sky once more, she chuckles, before turning to step back inside, leaving a small trail of sweet-smelling vapor behind.
      That, and a pile of ash, that once had been her beloved.

Scribble: The sailor's return.

2009-01-30T14:01:00.002-05:00

      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.

2009-01-29T12:47:00.004-05:00

      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.

2009-01-27T01:13:00.004-05:00

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.

2009-01-17T12:16:00.004-05:00

      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 = ...

2009-01-14T18:13:00.004-05:00

      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?

2009-01-13T15:06:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-09T12:52:00.005-05:00

      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.

2009-01-09T01:06:00.004-05:00

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?

2009-01-07T15:37:00.005-05:00

      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.

2009-01-05T20:48:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-01-04T23:43:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-01-03T23:26:00.004-05:00

      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.

2009-01-02T23:41:00.001-05:00

      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.

2009-01-02T23:39:00.001-05:00

      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.