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.
About Me
- D.Marciniak
- A recent graduate of CCAD, I am an illustrator & designer with interest in music & tattooing.
All the artwork you see in my blog belongs to me, DMarciniak. You are not authorized to use artwork contained here. Thank You.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 23, 2009
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!”
“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.
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.
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.
Friday, February 20, 2009
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.
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.
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