Really Really Really Old Stuff

Found a few things from before college days. Three years+ old?

The scene's my lover,
straightedge talks and vignettes blow my cover,
these streets that lead me to the music lead me to my home.
chords are my lifeblood, frets are my bones,
and ill be right there with you as you sing along with me,
I am the thrum in your heart,
the beat in your brain.


----

So we collapse into some uneasy tolerance of each other, the trials and tribulations started with us and faced by us still lingering, weighing distantly on our minds. I go my way and you go yours, only tethered together through the troubled association of our kin while we deal with the ill affects of shattering and breaking. The days left that are spent together are constant reminders of the long-awaited inevitable end to which we will finally be free of one other, an end to which freedom will dull the mind and erase the memories. With time, each of us will forget and that same time will make shadows of us all as the stories of human existence repeat again and again, whether with us or without us. In another place the roles may reverse, with our unconscious mind screaming in quiet desperation while pain is passed on and by that way thus, our revenge will become complete, yet not on the one who came before but on the one who came after. Apathy ravages the mind and soul of own selves; blindness is the only crippling factor that lets us go on, uninterrupted. A cycle of brokenness entailing brokenness is the very core of cause and effect, creating a suffocation too overwhelming to subdue. Disintegrating faith through the ages sustains rebellion as the pieces that once fit rot away. Everything rooted in love brings about the downfall of soul after soul.


---

“When you’re just a child,
A year is an eternity
And innocence is your forever.”

---

Morbus


There is beauty contained in tragedy; which
attracts like moths to a flame.
This strange fascination with the horrific,
A juxtaposition of morbidity and desire,
Innate longing for glorification.

Red painted suicide angels;
The lucid eyes and frenzied faces.
Picture perfect surreal obsessions,
Lusting devastation, branded and burning,
Ivory flesh protruding bones; art.

Dancing silver blades; captivating,
Holding static reflections of stark naked souls
ripped open, life spewing forth.
The erotica within the macabre,
The spell of fading life; immortalize,
Forever captivated in this celluloid dream.


----



Pale skin permanently stained blue, he’s etching a star deep beneath his flesh. Its not blood he bleeds, but his inner demons. Dare he subject himself to conformity?
“Do I make you want to disappear?” he whispers, pressing harder, deeper.
Delusion is the only thing he weaves, cliches are his specialty. Velvet words from velvet tongue, its all an obliteration of reality. The eye can’t see if its shut.

Synesthetes

A/N: I wanted to write a Synesthete suffering from a seizure while listening to Oingo Boingo. More? Maybe when I hit another thing of inspiration. :|

Insanity is dripping out of the speakers, and he's stuck in some sort of seventies acid trip, Danny Elfman grinning like an imp while he's all dolled up like the one time he played the devil in St.James infirmary, except this time he's not stuck in black & white. He feels like he just swallowed a rainbow and it ripped through guts and numbed the back of his brain. Delicately, delightfully swallowed up the blues that spun out from the tuba. The red burst from the vocal harmony, burning fingertips. Crescendo, break, percussion. When his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he was looking back at himself, everything faded to black and he wanted to take a bow, but he couldn’t move. They were shouting for an encore, but he was frozen. His arm bent at the elbow, rigid and flapping like the flipper of a Thalidomide baby.

Somnambulist

A/N: HMMMM. This needs heavy editing. I love this story so much, but its taking a lot of work. I started it my freshmen year of college, but alas.... WRITERS BLOCK AND LACK OF TIME FOR RESEARCH AUGH.

In developing and writing this story I really want to create a Zombie novel that breaks many of the clichés. I also want to push the fear of Zombification (loosing the self/mindlessness) as well as the horror of being eaten alive. In my opinion many Zombie stories gloss over or don’t utilize the full potential of the Zombie, and I have never come across a realistic telling of a Zombie horror story. Many movies focus on a very short span of time following the horror movie formula, creating disposable characters and unrealistic actions to solve problems. Things such as weapons and experience as well as accuracy under stress are rarely taken into account.
I want to create a story that follows the life and development of one character and their attempts to realistically survive in a horrific apocalyptic world.

I am shooting for a novel that will eventually be between 500 to 700 pages in length.
The novel will be split into 15 -20 volumes that are furthermore split into three sections. It alternated between third person and first person.


Volume One : The Human Factor

Chapter One

Metal. It was the taste of metal. Polishing, polishing, polishing. Take it apart, put it together. Test the silencer. Take aim. Shoot. Waste a bullet for the sake of making sure that the thing still works. Waste a bullet, save your life.

It was the taste of metal. Everything tastes like metal these days. The food, the water, the air. A constant lingering of blood in the mouth. It would have driven me crazy had I cared. I stopped caring sometime ago. Can’t blame me. I’m still alive. I’m one of the lucky ones. Sure, got called crazy. But hell, it was the crazy ones that lived. The stupid ones died, disappeared in the maws of undead. The weak-willed ones; they killed themselves. Wasted themselves. Suicides.

Idiots.

I’ve seen a fate and dealt with it. Still am. A fate worse than anything you can imagine. Worse than your nightmares, your anxieties, your fears all crushed together to make an oozing mass of despair. There was no hope for our fate. No end. That’s what makes this worse than a nightmare.
There.
Is.
No.
Hope.


Chapter Two

I’m a guy who likes dramatics. Dramatics can get you killed in this world. Post-apocalyptic. I always favored the word apocalyptic. Apocalypse. Never thought I would live during one.

Polishing.

Metal.

The taste, the smell, the touch. Its all been branded in my mind; I’ll never forget it. Its cold, unfeeling. Appropriate. We’ve grown cold. Numbness settled in. A few still hold onto emotion, a few aren’t totally dead inside. But that’s it; only a few.

I’ll polish this till the day I die.

Hah, I laugh. “The day I die.”

Death is nothing. Sometimes it is more preferable than this sorry state of existence I have right now. The only way I refuse to go is to become one of them. One of those zombies.

Oh, but I’m still polishing. This is the thing that saves my life, over and over.
It may one day be the thing that ends it.

Oh, how trite. How ironic.

I live for irony.

My gun. My gun is my life-saver, my lover, my life, my everything. The only dependable thing. I take care of her and she takes care of me. The only dependable thing. Barracks can be broken down, buildings can burn, humans can turn on each other...but good old machinery will always be there for you.

My only thing.

Mine.

Chapter Three

We’ve all been lucky enough to survive. Its been a little over two years, or was it just shy of two? I can never remember. Time doesn’t mean much to me. Survival is the only thing I strive for. The others have taken to rebuilding their lives, rebuilding themselves. New persons in our remote little crevice of Hell. How quaint. I’m one of the few that’s too broken to go back. And yeah, cliches still exist in post-apocalyptic worlds. Loner. I’m one of those. I barely associate with a few. I can see our self-appointed leader shaking his head sadly in my direction. Pompous ass.

Not really.

A good guy, but he gets on my nerves. He’s all about bringing everyone together, fighting as one, blah blah blah, bullshit. I sit away from their “fire-side chats”. I give him credit for keeping most of us alive these past two years, though. In my small part, I helped keep the rest alive. I was also the one that put a few of them out of their misery. That guy though, he changed them from soft Americans, to tough and hard-as-nails...survivalists? I guess that’s the right word. Our entire purpose is to survive. If enough of us can survive the next five or ten years, humanity might have a chance. Heh, those sons of bitches have to rot sometime!

I let out a huge grin, finally stopping the never-ending act of polishing my gun, and I somehow managed to stumble up into a stand. Food was on my mind.

My name is Stolkstad.

Chapter Four

My name was Jeremy Graham.

Chapter Five

Rebecca was whispering something to John. She was smiling.
The jealousy that usually bit me at moments like this has started to fade.

Chapter Six

The life that we knew has ended. In 2007, everything changed. I couldn’t say it happened overnight, but it happened fast. Everything turned upside down in the span of a few months. At first, the attacks were rare. Unconnected. The work of madmen. We didn’t pay much attention. We had become that desensitized to violence and crime. But when the attacks started happening more frequently and started spreading, then we began to notice. At first it was the supposed work of a cult. Then some kind of Mass Hysteria... a biochemical weapon that had been engineered to cause delusions and murderous inhibitions. Contaminates in the water, some kind of drug in the food. Word came to us that it had started in other countries days before anything happened in the US. It had to be some kind of disease. Every single theory for this madness was exhausted until finally, the ridiculous was accepted. Zombies. Mindless, soulless, flesh-eating zombies.

By then, as the cliche went, it was too late.

Luckily, Gregory had managed to convince myself and Rebecca that it really was happening. That way, we managed to get out of the city before swarms of people tried to flee, blocking the roads and inevitably, signaling the death sentence for everyone. The place turned into a buffet.

The zombies went where the people were.

I saw some of it. I saw the massacre, the feeding-frenzy. Nothing I ever saw before that or after even came close to the magnitude of fear and horror I felt because of that one moment.

Bourbon, Scotch, and Monologue

A/N: I've been stuck on this story for five years. I have the entire story outlined. I have character development down to every detail I can think of, I KNOW how I want this story.... But after three rewrites and a change from third to first person, I have NO IDEA HOW TO WRITE IT AHHHHHH
I want my idols strung out from the booze, fucked up by the coke, burning the candle at both ends and tripping into the grave, still screaming. None of this commercially packaged shirt churned off the conveyer belt, like safesex for the ears, bleached and sterilized.

Someone give me the wild boys, all the hippies traded their souls in for a two-for-one deal and prepackaged hamburger meat.

I want them playing from their fucking heart, I want the anthems that defined a generation, the men and women that shook the world and made history. I want music for music’s sake.

Words churned and burned in the back of my mind as I cradled the bottle of jack between my thighs. Waking up from doing shots of absinthe in my dreams worked up my thirst for hard liquor. Craning my head up as I took another swig I stared at the posters on my bedroom wall of Morrison, Scott, Bonham, Clark, Pop, and many others. Boys that didn’t survive their wild days and a few that never should have. The power behind the music that snaked its way into my brain and seduced me; it was glamorous and alluring. All it asked for was my soul, but twenty years later I know it wasn’t just the music that sent me down this path.

The digital analog clock glared back at me. July 29th. Today was my 35th birthday. Booze in bed and it was only two in afternoon. It was turning out to be a great day.

-BREAK because I don’t know what else to write here-

I started scribbling memories furiously the day I found out my liver was failing. I remember this birthday pretty well because it was the day before we flew out to Greece for the big family reunion that was held every three years. As I got worse it was harder to keep things straight, and right before and after I got my transplant it was damned near impossible to recall anything. I kept thinking I was going to die, and kept freaking out thinking that no one will remember me. The real me. Not the one night stand, not the fag rock star, not the alcoholic bastard, not the party monster. We had fourteen studio albums and rocked for twenty years. We smashed guitars, cars, and faces and I’m worried about what people will think of me after I’m gone?

Our lives were stained with sex and drugs, and though we were never even close to the men who burned out so early in their lives, we still had a story to tell. How we got to where we are now is something I’m still trying to figure out though.
When we brought forth the idea of writing this biography, we couldn’t work on it fast enough. Shit pour out of our heads, and we were pulling all nighters cause we were just so engrossed, so entrenched in this work we never noticed the sun go down. Or come up. We had the giddiness spark again, that excited youthful anxiety that you get when you’re a new freshface band, your first gig, the first single. Decades worth of shit to work out, of squabbles and fights revisited, of opportunities missed and friends lost. Ashtrays filling with the cigarette butts and stained napkins of our conversation as we put our life to words. And we reconnected.


BREAK WAT


I was born in a little unknown place in Greece, but reared in England. The oldest of what would eventually become known as the Antoniou Five and the only boy my mom was blessed with before the adoption, I was nine years the elder to my youngest sister. Most of my dad’s family was in England and had been there for a few generations now-three, if I remember correctly. Mom had timed my pregnancy so she’d be in Greece visiting her own family; she wanted an real authentic Greek boy.
I had a generally normal upbringing, so how did I end up becoming the only loose screw out of the whole bunch? I can’t chalk it up to have a predominately female presence in my life, as Milliken turned out to be more than okay. The model son, I’d often snort as people grinned when he’d show up in pressed slacks yet grunt at my cut-off jeans and dyed hair. But I wasn’t bitter. I was satisfied with the way I was.
The family still lives in the same house I grew up in—a moderate sized English Victorian that still felt cramped despite how unusually large it was. I can contribute this to the large number of family members living with us, there was no time or place where one could be left alone. I remedied that by retiring to the old woods behind our home, where the underbrush was so thickly woven between the gargantuan oaks it took woodcutters and a shit ton of patience to make a path get anywhere. I was allowed free reign with the only requirement to be home on time for dinner each evening.
Stealing old blankets when I could, and dragging pieces of wood board and any other ‘building materials’ I got my hands on, I made a mish mashed fort. One time I managed to save up enough nickels for some paint and then the place looked like a clown exploded.
With my brown worn sandals slapping against the pavement as I carefully balanced the little tubs of paint, I was exhausted and sticky with sweat by the time I got home after the half mile walk to the ‘Jimmy’s Corner Mart’. The dripping sweat glowed golden against my tan skin in the fading sun. I wanted to go back to my fort before the sun was completely down but my parents stopped me when I reached the back yard, somberness hanging heavy over their shoulders.
They were quiet, uncharacteristically so. Tenderly, they ushered me to the cement stairs where they broached the subject of ‘adoption’, pausing tentatively and often as if to make sure their conversation wasn’t upsetting me. At the mention of getting a new brother but having to forego all that baby stuff, my ten-year-old body quivered with anticipation. Three years older than the eldest daughter, the age gap was still enough to leave me wishing I had someone closer to mine to play with and after three sisters I cherished the thought of a brother. To say he was not what I expected was the least I could say of him.
He was a sniveling little thing when I met him, skinnier than me and a lot shorter. His shaggy blonde hair and pale pink skin was so different from my own Mediterranean ethnicity. It threw me for a loop, not that I wasn’t used to Caucasian families, but in the Seventies interracial mixing on the family level was still something that was not all that common in my life.
He was nine at the time; very quiet and jumpy. He didn’t talk much, and I heard the word abused being thrown around when the adults didn’t think I was listening. Very much of this talk flew right over my head. I was oblivious in my child-like state of mind and did not really understand the crushing power that words like abuse, disownment, and negligence had.

Darius

Darius groped around in the dark, hand brushing against the dimpled wall of the bedroom while he tried to reach for the light. The alarm clock across the room was flashing twelve; the power must have shut off during the morning. That would account for the lack of air conditioning, he thought. His hair, thick with sweat, stuck to skin where skin was available. The light flicked on and he put a name to the what was making that horrible nose–burning smell. He could practically taste the alcohol mixing with the smell of vomit–he had dropped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor last night. Rather, this morning. Very early morning. He was surprised he made it to the bed this time.

“Shit.” Whether it was about the loss of a good bottle of Jack or the mess on his floor, his expletive could go either way.

He welcomed into the world that day a very deserved hangover, but the effects would be over quickly. Comparatively, this year that was comprised of what most people would see as a complete and utter breakdown is nothing but a speck in his mind, a second making up what he felt was a long and laborious life. Not everyone could agree with him on that matter though. And one of those somebodies was thumbing through a magazine looking incredibly bored and irritated while sitting on his couch. He snorted in the brief glance away from the magazine. Definitely irritated.

Lucky Aces draft

A/N: Piece handed to my fiction class a month or two ago. Haven't edited it yet, (edited since some of my friends took a look at it though) since I'm working on expanding it for the second round. Got a lot of good crits on this, and now that I haven't looked at it for a month, I can see how annoyingly superfluous and pretentious parts of it are. But I still like it. If my second piece goes over well, I'll be doing that style for all the back stories for Somnambulist. Planning on busting out work on that this summer. Plan to get the first draft done at least, since i have the entire story worked out. Blah, blah, blah. Zombies, what what?

Lucky Aces


With no effort at all he had managed to strike it big. His friends slapped him on the back and called him lucky.
He hadn’t felt lucky. When he walked into the gambling station, he felt numb. Placing the money down in rhythmic repetitive motions, he whispered to himself the amount he was betting, slightly shaken at his uncharacteristic banality.
$2 straight trifecta. Numbers 2, 8, and 3. The heavyset man behind the counter never glanced up as he took his money.
When he stepped out of the gambling station he lit up a cigarette. The day was windier than he would have liked, and windier than usual for summer. He flicked his cigarette and the ashes disappeared almost instantly into the air, swept up and swallowed by Mother Nature.
His ebony hair fell into his eyes. He reminded himself that he needed to get it cut. He knew that he would remind himself again and again before he finally got around to doing it. It wasn’t important.
Unabashedly, he watched as the racing track’s many visitors shuffled past him. He liked to watch them. He liked their obliviousness and ignorance. He felt pretentious leaning up against the building’s cold gravel wall, with his black hair and leather jacket, eyes covered with dark sunglasses and a cancer-stick in hand. This was not his intent.
Twenty-two and at a loss for where he wanted to take his life, he knew that today was the last day he would speak to his father. Facing disownment, he began envisioning the conversation that was coming. The only saving grace was that he had the luxury of explaining everything to his father, instead of the older man hearing it from a third party, like his now ex-boss.
That would be worse. So much worse.
He ridiculed the thought of it being a conversation. It was going to be more of his father berating him with his stern militaristic tone. He hated that tone. Something along the lines of how he was not the son his father wanted would follow his confession, how he embarrassed his family, how a good military education would have beaten the coward out of him.
No, his father didn’t have what most people thought of as conversations. One day the old man was probably going to keel over from a heart attack, chronic anger the only enemy he didn’t see coming out of the bushes. Edgar just wished that the hour glass had run out already for him so he didn’t have to face him. He could deal with never having to speak to him again, but his dear old ma - that was another matter entirely. He was never close to his siblings – older brother went off to Iraq, tattooed dog tag on his torso, gun in one hand, bloodlust in the other. His sister was a widowed military wife - she hasn’t spoken to anyone in the family in two years. Last he heard, she was doing programming work, single mother of a three year old girl.
He knew how much a life could change. At the kickoff of a race, everyone started out on the same playing field. In mere seconds, their name would be celebrated or forgotten.
Edgar Valdez was twenty-two and had quit his job, but he was not without regrets.
The wind tugged the cigarette out of Edgar’s hand, as if finding the act of smoking it offensive. He cursed and watched what little of it was left land in the small pond on the other side of the gate fencing the race track in and the rest of the world out.
His father was going to kill him once he told him. Working in the Air Intelligence Agency wasn’t something you just quit. Besides that fact, Edgar had gone back on their agreement. It was one of the few jobs he could have to get out of going into the military. That was the deal. His father had pulled strings. He had to serve his country.
The race he had bet on was going to start soon. He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. When he made his way to the fence he politely wove through the people to find a place that suited him. It was the downfall of being shorter than the average man. When he could see fine, he pulled out of his pocket the scrap of paper with his carelessly picked numbers printed on them.
The race had started.
He wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life as he clutched that white ink-smeared paper.
In mere seconds, three horses coming in in three different places in an exact order made him over seven grand richer.
Edgar Valdez hadn’t felt lucky.

Humdrum Harry

Author's Notes: Random stuff from a school exercise. Don't know if its working. Like the IDEA of it though. May expand it. Maybe.

Mind Your Business

This is Harry. On the whole, Harry is a good person. He lives in suburbia. He pays his bills, hangs out with the guys at football games, wishes for 2.5 kids- that good old nuclear family number- makes the yearly resolution to lose that little bit of bulge around the belly, forgets three days later. He’s your average American. He lives three miles away from a star bucks, a McDonalds, and four convenience stores. He drives a ford-no foreign cars, thank you very much. Six forty-five the alarm clock goes off. Seven am he’s up. Shower, pressed slacks, forgets the breakfast, grabs the coffee, kisses the wife, into the car, stops for the school bus. He honks and waves to Mrs. Leary who had just gotten out of her car to meet her husband, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. This does not concern you.
Eight o’clock commute. Pass by the park. Off to work. Nine to five, everyday, Monday through Friday, sitting at his cubicle, white collar office job, gossips at the water cooler. Saturdays are Harry days. Sundays are reserved for church; he’s a good God-fearing Catholic. Sunday, 9am every weekend. Sit, kneel, communion. The service is over, say goodbye to the pastor who walks away soon after to keep the altar boy company. This does not concern you.
Tax season and Harry pays his taxes on time. He always votes republican, takes his hat off when saying the pledge of allegiance, supports his troops. He does better financially than his parents, but still remains comfortably in the middle class. Follows tradition. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Calls his mother on her birthday, every year. Happy sixtieth birthday mom, how is dad? Fine, she answers. How is that bruise from when you fell down the stairs last week doing? Fine, she answers. Goodbye mother, goodbye son. This does not concern you.
He spends his money at the closest retail outlet, a creature of habit. Hard earned green paper exchanged for something useful. This time a new basketball, next time a new jacket. Run into Joe, chat about the score of the Giants game. Joe was let go from his job six months ago, but doesn’t seem to be suffering financially at all. Joe has a green thumb. This does not concern you.
This is Harry. He is a good American. He will go on to have those 2.5 kids, get divorced, and get remarried. He will get a promotion, retire when he’s sixty, die when he’s seventy-eight. Follow his example and you’ll get along fine. If not-that doesn’t concern you.

Barefoot on the Moon

Author's Notes: Dialogue is on the weak end. I need to do more research into how the British talk for Darius' character. Just picked up a random event from my novel and ran with it. I need to start working more chronologically. It makes it hard to decide what to put in and omit when I write.


He stood under the florescent lights of the kitchen, mulling over the cool almost blue glow that came from the buzzing bulbs above. The rug in front of the sink had recently been washed, putting a slight spring in his step. Barefoot on the moon, he thought with a smile. The last of the vapor coming off the warm glass turned to nothing more than wisps that could barely be perceived by his eye as he turned to peer into the distorted encapsulated world of the green glass. Floating lazily around the top were the two tea bags that been had thrown in minutes before, dancing with the sugared water and staining it red

“It could be a metaphoric phrase, if you will, to symbolize your current happy state after being liberated from years of rage and depression. The lack of positive social interaction reinforces anger and depression. Refer to that of socialization in higher animals, dogs mostly. They-”

“That’s enough of that shit,” he mumbled. A press of the power button and the faces of one of those psycho-babble programs disappeared, replaced by a grey dead screen.

He poured the last of the milk into the tea, not pleased at the taste. A little too much sugar but it would have to do for now. Chiming almost in unison as he opened the front door, the clock read midnight in eery red as he walked out onto the porch.

The wind played with the loose cotton pants he had slipped into hours before when he thought he would go to sleep. They had the letters ACDC repeated in a monochromatic black and red pattern and were currently his favorite pair. A strand escaped from the messy bun he had put his hair up into. He batted it away, annoyed.

Down the street, a lamp’s lightbulb flickered for a moment as if trying to fight against its own inevitable demise before finally going out. The night had always been his favorite part of the day. That dead silence that came when people went home to bed gave him a sense of peace he could not find anywhere in the cluttered bright daytime. The moon had a different type of power.

Something was scratching the back of his neck, around the collar of his white tank top. He reached back and felt fingers. “You tag was sticking out.”

“I was trying not to wake you.”

The moonlight emphasized the difference between his pale skin and Darius’ natural tan. “I’ve been drifting in and out; you couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”

“You didn’t have to sleep here; I’m fine.”

“I still worry about you being by youself.”

“Believe me, a relapse is the last thing I want. You don’t have to be here. I know you’re just feeling guilty,” he said as he moved to the porch swing, a limp noticeable in his walk. “This doesn’t have anything to do with anything you did. Really. The doctor said it was fine. The x-rays were good.” He lied.

“You had it checked out afterward?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think you thought it was your fault. And honestly, I was too wrapped up and doped up to be rational.”

“I’m not here because I feel guilty. I’ll admit, I do feel it a bit, but I’d be stewing in some bar to deal with it if there weren’t more important things to deal with. But you need someone right now. You know I’m not letting ye get through this alone, despite you protest. You need to stop thinking you can do all this shit yourself. Your pride’ll kill you.

I’m impressed though, you’ve made a shit ton of progress in such a short time. You’ll be runnin’ and back on the stage in no time.”

Darius gave one of his tilted dopey grins that was meant to be comforting, but Caecus felt cold, a tightening knot at the bottom of his belly. He knew that he would always have a slight limp. It wasn’t the drug that fucked his leg up, despite what he told Darius. The emotion irrational filled him with both dread and justification; the lie he needed to tell was a secret he would hold tight to his chest for as long as possible.

You Say Dio, I Say Queen

Author's Note: I have a huge amount of respect for people that can do dialogue well. I love dialogue that captures a characters expressions and personality. Especially if you don't have any prose to back it up. So I did a dialogue exercise, and picked a topic I really like.... eighties hair metal bands. And Tom Cruise bashing. The characters are Darius and Caecus. Caecus is bolded, Darius is not.



“Why are you groaning like that? What’s wrong with Dio?”
“I can’t take him seriously. Come on, have you ever seen the music video for Holy Diver? There’s just something about the way he sings. Makes me think of Steven Tyler.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What’s wrong with him? I love Aerosmith.”
“He has a big mouth.”
“So?”
“He looks funny.”
“Well, you look like a woman, but you don’t-FUCK! That hurt!”
“Next time it will be harder.”
“Not while I’m driving! I don’t need to end up in a ditch. I happen to like this car very much.”
“Then don’t say I look like a chick.”
“Fine. You are the manliest man I ever did lay my eyes upon.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“I try.”
“Don’t you fucking touch that dial! I love Rush.”
“Why do you get to change it when Dio comes on, but I have to suffer through Lee’s wailing? He needs to grow a set of balls.”
“I adore him. I think it’s the glasses.”
“He makes me think of John Lennon.”
“You wish you were John Lennon.”
“I would make an awesome John Lennon.”
“I love the Beatles.”
“Yeah... same here.”
“There, I changed it. No more Lee wailing.”
“Ah, good old White Shark.”
“I don’t like this guy either.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I have high standards?”
“Hair metal bands don’t have standards.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t have any standards. You listen to fucking Aerosmith for crissakes.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with Aerosmith. At least I don’t listen to Bon Jovi.”
“80s Bon Jovi is perfectly acceptable and sensible music.”
“The fucker sold his soul to Pop Rock. The proverbial devil, if there was any.”
“We live in Jersey; you have to love Bon Jovi. At least its not as bad as what Pete Burns did to himself.”
“Please, please, please don’t remind me. I used to fantasize about that man.”
“I’m not surprised. He was pretty.”
“Oh, please. He was sex on two legs. Don’t deny it.”
“Too much, too much.”
“Just what were you doing in the eighties?”
“Probably not what you were doing in the eighties.”
“I gathered that much, asshole.”
“Nothing, actually. I actually dated a guy in a hair metal band around this time.”
“Most of those guys have seen better days."
“I agree with you fully there. All of that drug shit and drinking finally caught up with them.”
“Can you believe that Dee Snider still does that whole bit?”
“You mean the crazy purple fishnet football outfit thing with the wild blonde hair and makeup?”
“Hell yeah.”
“He’s got to be in his fifties. I’m impressed. I saw them play once in Jersey, Klaus Nomi opened up for them.”
“You gotta be shittin me? Klaus fucking Nomi? I would pay to go back in time to see that. That’s the weirdest fuckin line-up ever. That’s like getting Dashboard Confessional to open up for Metallica.”
“If you listen to them I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Who? Dashboard or Metallica?”
“I hate you.”
“You only say that because deep down you secretly want me.”
“Darius, get your head out of your pants.”
“Sorry.”
“Greatest band of all time?”
“Led Zeppelin, hands down.”
“Holy shit. We actually agree on something.”
“All right. What, if I may, is your favorite song?”
“I can never choose between Zep’s Achilles Last Stand or the Stone’s Sympathy for the Devil.”
“I can’t listen to that song without thinking about Tom Cruise, and not just Cruise as Lestat, but Scientology Cruise. He just went fucking crazy! I love it!”
“Thank you so much. You just ruined my favorite song for me. Fuckin’ Cruise.”
“I thought you couldn’t decide on a favorite.”
“Well, apparently its Last Stand now. Thank you for choosing for me.”
“My absolute favorite song is Big Balls by AC/DC.
I’ve got big balls, I’ve got big balls, they’re such big balls!
“FUCK YOU DARIUS.”
“Sorry! I’ve got a disease!”
“You are obnoxious.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Queen!”

School Boy Crush

Author's Notes: Character development monologue for my greek character, Darius. I've been picking this up and putting down again, nitpicking with it. I will probably play around with again sometime soon. I want to make it longer. I love this character so much. oWo


There really isn’t any sort of situation where I could classify myself as shy. The slip of a girly-boy that I am, the eccentric spirited sort that craves attention and love like a serial killer craves squeezing the life from a broken body to echo their own tumultuous climax...I’m never shy. My life can be defined by exasperation and complete utter stupidity. Who can blame me for being blind and self-absorbed when there’s not a one person I can think of that is better than me. We’re all the worse for wear on this quaint ball of mud, whether it’s for the drugs or violence. We all have our misguided vices, and they are as colorful and varied as the individuals that populate existence. Cumulative society pushes us in one direction, farther and farther from the roots and carnal urges of our predecessors. Mindless sex is something of the past, looked down upon in the present, and perhaps even stamped out in the future.

It’s a me-first, instant gratification world, and I can’t help but go along with it or be swallowed up. So many of the quiet types so afraid to put themselves out there because they’ll get hit by the rest of the buzzing populace, never heard, always drowned out. The deeper meaning lost because people are always looking out for themselves. You are not without guilt, my friend. I love to be loved, but what are your faults? You can tell right up front what kind of man I’ll be. Look at my wrist and you’ll see my heart. I love my friends, I love myself. I put myself out there because I want to be noticed. I want the attention.

I only say wrist because I’m not wearing a shirt.

At least in times of unrest in the past, wonderful things would come of it.

Its unlike me to be so thoughtful and contemplative. I feel like I’ve been living the life of a rock star hundreds of years before there were any.

I’m an ambitious sort, and quite comfortable with my endless life of loveless sex and trail of lovers. I’ve always got what I wanted, and what I wanted was sex. No man was safe. There was no deeper meaning for these flings, except for the fact that the pain that came from being alone was too much to bear. So unbearable, I grew addicted to relationships. I needed them to keep me happy. So I thought.
Decades could not prepare me for the first time I fell in love. It is the most painful and wondrous thing I have ever experienced, and it was completely one-sided. Did I even think to approach it carefully and tentatively? I’m not know for tact, and like the way I treat everything else in my life, I dove right into the middle of it and drowned. It snuck up on me so I turned around and smacked it right in the face.

I feel my heart, my stupid little blood-pumping organ that keeps me alive exploding. A resistant man made me realize how blind I was, and love made me realize how fucked up I am. I’m sorry because he never asked for any of this, but I can’t help but remain angry all the same. I never asked for this either, and I certainly didn’t ask for my entire lifestyle to be turned upside down. All of my advances seem so innocent until emotion decided to complicate the hell out of everything. Don’t kiss and tell, my friend. Don’t fall in love with a man that doesn’t want you either. It took me a long time for me to realize that I didn’t want to treat this man like all the others.

Anything can become an addiction. I’ve been nursing my sex-addled brain for countless years. Had I been into any other type of drug, a man like me in withdrawal would have been dangerous. There are secret things that only my tear-stained pillow knows, and other secrets I cannot bear to think about that have come about from my refocusing.

I’m really tired. For once, the life of drinking, men, and attention just isn’t cutting it anymore. I had a good run. My carelessly constructed world is falling apart because of one raven-haired man that just wouldn’t give into my game of fuck and dump.

I can’t say I blame him for rejecting me again once after I profess my very fragile love. He can see me for the monster I really am, and who’s to say that I won’t turn on him and relapse back into my old ways. Its masochistically amusing to me because once I started putting him first, I started hurting inside.
I feel like we’re acting out a drama on a celestial scale. I’ve got the part of the Phantom, only my scars are on the inside and I’ve a pounding that won’t go away. It’s my heart beating and I’m wondering why I can’t rip it out.
When it comes to love, I’m like a bumbling school boy with a crush on the prettiest girl in the class. But in this world, bloody hearts end up in the desks on Valentine’s Day.

Novel Pieces

Author's Notes: Random bits from one of my novels that popped into my head but haven't worked themselves into the story yet.

1]The slowly fogging car windows were the only indication of the passing moments. That, in the dead of the night, was the only changing thing beside the constant rise and hum of the insect chorus.
The fogging windows obscured the two figures within.

Caecus had finished the last of his water, and now he passed the bottle back and forth between his hands restlessly. Keeping himself busy in any way possible comforted him, but after the conversation died down, he was feeling anxious and perturbed.
The radio was turned down low and the clock ticked to four am. Occasionally he would strain his ears during a lull to see what songs he could pick up.


2]Rose petals peppered his skin. He buried his hands into his raven hair, breathing in the soft scents as the vanilla from his shampoo mixed with his leather and cologne. Apprehensively, he started to speak, thought better of it, swallowed his words and kissed the back of his neck. The skin there was the softest, so supple compared to the callused hands he now held.

Rose petals peppered his skin and he traced them all with his thumb.

Hiccups 1

Author's Note: I like writing these few sentence pieces, that I call hiccups. They eventually work themselves out into already established pieces, or become new pieces on their own.


1] I kicked a smashed cigarette bud into a puddle of water. There it joined a growing pile of ash and tan mush. I tried to speak but my thick German accent irritated him. He shushed me, corrected my awkward speech. All of the English nuances frustrated me. Harry said I’ll get the hang of American life soon.


2] He flipped a page. There was a click. Another page. Another click. And again. Again, again.
He stopped smoking years ago, but the smell still lingered. Everything lingered, he learned; ghosts of time, energy left behind to be picked up by those who were meant to touch it.


3] Even the most tender demon has a poison tongue. They said they were friends of his. That wasn’t entirely untrue. He went on ignoring them.


4] He was curled up in the comforter on his bed, listening to the quiet whirring of his lover's breath as it trailed softly over the pages of the magazine he was reading.


5] Her face burned, the heat radiating off it in waves, spreading outward, scalding anything it touched, falling backwards to burn the very skin it came from. Her murmurings and fits didn't cease. He placed his lips against her forehead, letting the sensitive skin feel the warmth of her sickness.
She stilled at his kiss.
'How very cliche' he thought, as he stroked her cheek, feeling the heat even through his clothed hands. He wished her better, for the thought of her sick and lying nearly lifeless on this bed scared him, but the possibility of living without her fiery arguments, defiance, and confidence frightened him nearly to death.

Guten Tag!

Figured I have an art blog, might as well start a writing blog! Writing for me has always been a hobby. I used to be very big into fictionpress and talking to other authors, but college kind of made me put my writing on the backburner and I've been grappling with a three year writer's block. I hope that having all of my writing in one place will help, and I think this will work better than places like fictionpress. I don't tend to write in point a to point b, I think being able to jump around and then organize things later will help.