This is the mushy, gushy, uber-romantic poem that was published in an anthology a few years back. I wrote it when I was in 11th grade, so if it seems a little 'Emo,' there actually IS a logical explanation:)
****************************************************************************************
Silent Confession
Deep inside I feel an anger
with myself begin to rise
Each time my careless glance is cast
upon your dark evasive eyes
Those eyes wherein I know once dwelt
Passions for me no longer felt
I curse my stubborn aching heart
I curse my pride so cruel and cold
I curse my lips for speaking not
Of love for you which still I hold
My proud facade claimed not to care
But, oh, the pain when you weren't there
My gaze now fixed I let my eyes
deliver forth their silent plea -
"Oh free my tortured heart
And feel affection once again for me!"
But lips keep still for I have fears
My cries would fall on deafened ears
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
In a FLASH II - Some 'Super' old Fiction
In my very first Core Curriculum class nearly a year ago - Creative Skills Development - we were instructed to choose a photo of a fictional character online and write about that character doing his or her laundry.
This is literally the first piece I wrote for my degree program! Enjoy:)
***************************************************************************************
He had a love-hate relationship with Sundays.
Even superheroes can use a day off, after all. And just like her densely populated counterparts Los Angeles, New York and even Chicago, Metropolis was relatively peaceful on any given Sunday.
Still, he woke as he did every morning, ready for action, peering out the blinds of his 28th floor apartment, listening for even the faintest cry of help. The morning sun cast thin line of light through the slat, cutting across his statuesque jaw slightly dusted with morning stubble. His thick ebony hair was a wild tousled mess where combating cowlicks battled for control in the absence of gel. In nothing but rumpled cotton boxers, the sun slanted down his uber-chiseled chest. And yet, he continued to strain with all his might to hear the slightest sound that could possibly justify him abandoning his housebound solitude.
Nothing.
His ears were greeted only by a heartily chirping robin, a jingling of a dog’s collar as it dragged a sleepy owner to the next fire hydrant, and an occasional yellow cab slowing in hopes that the person stepping out onto the street might have a destination in mind other than newspaper box outside the front door.
He sighed heavily.
With no kidnapper to foil, to bank heist to halt, Superman had no excuse not to tend to the mountain of blue and red capes and tights heaped up in the corner of his bedroom.
When it came to his Daily Planet crisp white Oxfords and neatly pressed pants, ‘Clark Kent’ could easily drop those at the cleaners like any sensible bachelor and pick them up on Monday with the rest of the bustling throng. However, the burden of keeping a secret identity meant that at least once a week, he had to tend to the mundane domestic duties of ‘doing the wash.’
Laundry day wasn’t without some advantages.
‘Clark Kent’ rarely got even half way through a cup of coffee Monday thru Saturday. But on Sundays, Superman brewed himself a whole pot.
As the water began spitting and sputtering through the filter basket, he stretched his well-muscled back mightily and meandered over his polished maple floor to the bedroom to survey the mass with an elevation that even Muhammad would find daunting.
Sorting was a MUST. He had ruined several suits back in the early days by washing the blues and the reds together. Somehow, flying around in a streaked and mottled purple suit and cape seemed somewhat less intimidating to villains.
The biggest pain, of course, was pulling the red ‘over pants’ off of the blue bodysuit. For no apparent reason the legs would get all tangled up like live serpents mating, or dueling, or whatever live serpents do, and if he wasn’t mindful of his super strength, he wound up ripping his suit to shreds in an effort to free the stretchy red bottoms from the rest of the outfit.
As he continued to sort, he noticed to great dismay that an ink-pack had exploded on his best cape. This would not come out easily, if at all.
Since his alias was a journalist, he kept some denatured alcohol handy to get newsprint off his hands and clothes, but would it work on the cape without making the crimson bleed and fade? He had just ordered this cape custom-made from a costume maker with an Etsy Store. He told her it was for the LA Comic*Con, which confused her when he paid for a ‘rush’ order and delivery since the convention wasn’t until July.
He received it in mid-February and now, only a week into March, some bumbling bank thief had to go and…
This would probably need to soak.
He laid it gently in his bath tub and doused it thoroughly with the methylated spirits, and to raise his own, he trudged back to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee now that his super-hearing had detected it was finished brewing.
He drank his bold roast black, with plenty of sugar. The warm cup in his hands felt peaceful, like the city on this particular morning. He sipped at the sweet robust liquid gingerly. Maybe he had super taste buds too, but there was no sense in burning them over a simple pleasure.
The man of steel now returned to the inanimate mounds of cerulean and ruby synthetic Lycra blends.
The blues had more mass and would need longer in the dryer, so he began with them.
He laid them in alternating half-moons in the bottom of the washer. No need in throwing the machine off balance and having the super come in wondering why his wet and broken washer was filled with spandex bodysuits and leaking into the pantry of his neighbors on the 27th floor. Again, experience had taught him some of these simple lessons.
He used the detergent of NASCAR champions with the ‘mountain fresh’ scent. It was oddly the exact same shade as his uniform. He poured the syrupy thick liquid over the spandex in tandem with the rushing water from the edge of the washer and then for good measure rinsed the cup out under the miniature raging waterfall gushing behind the agitator. The icy cold water was a stark contrast to the warm ceramic cup of java he’d held moments earlier.
He felt things.
That was a popular misconception.
Just because bullets bounced off of his chest didn’t mean he didn’t feel the sharp sting of the impact. Just because he could walk through fire unscathed didn’t mean he was immune to the sweltering discomfort of the heat. And just because the city was quiet today, didn’t mean that he didn’t feel just a little bit lonely and useless staring at his brand new red cape helplessly suspended in liquid in his bathtub waiting for the stain to fade away…
This is literally the first piece I wrote for my degree program! Enjoy:)
***************************************************************************************
He had a love-hate relationship with Sundays.
Even superheroes can use a day off, after all. And just like her densely populated counterparts Los Angeles, New York and even Chicago, Metropolis was relatively peaceful on any given Sunday.
Still, he woke as he did every morning, ready for action, peering out the blinds of his 28th floor apartment, listening for even the faintest cry of help. The morning sun cast thin line of light through the slat, cutting across his statuesque jaw slightly dusted with morning stubble. His thick ebony hair was a wild tousled mess where combating cowlicks battled for control in the absence of gel. In nothing but rumpled cotton boxers, the sun slanted down his uber-chiseled chest. And yet, he continued to strain with all his might to hear the slightest sound that could possibly justify him abandoning his housebound solitude.
Nothing.
His ears were greeted only by a heartily chirping robin, a jingling of a dog’s collar as it dragged a sleepy owner to the next fire hydrant, and an occasional yellow cab slowing in hopes that the person stepping out onto the street might have a destination in mind other than newspaper box outside the front door.
He sighed heavily.
With no kidnapper to foil, to bank heist to halt, Superman had no excuse not to tend to the mountain of blue and red capes and tights heaped up in the corner of his bedroom.
When it came to his Daily Planet crisp white Oxfords and neatly pressed pants, ‘Clark Kent’ could easily drop those at the cleaners like any sensible bachelor and pick them up on Monday with the rest of the bustling throng. However, the burden of keeping a secret identity meant that at least once a week, he had to tend to the mundane domestic duties of ‘doing the wash.’
Laundry day wasn’t without some advantages.
‘Clark Kent’ rarely got even half way through a cup of coffee Monday thru Saturday. But on Sundays, Superman brewed himself a whole pot.
As the water began spitting and sputtering through the filter basket, he stretched his well-muscled back mightily and meandered over his polished maple floor to the bedroom to survey the mass with an elevation that even Muhammad would find daunting.
Sorting was a MUST. He had ruined several suits back in the early days by washing the blues and the reds together. Somehow, flying around in a streaked and mottled purple suit and cape seemed somewhat less intimidating to villains.
The biggest pain, of course, was pulling the red ‘over pants’ off of the blue bodysuit. For no apparent reason the legs would get all tangled up like live serpents mating, or dueling, or whatever live serpents do, and if he wasn’t mindful of his super strength, he wound up ripping his suit to shreds in an effort to free the stretchy red bottoms from the rest of the outfit.
As he continued to sort, he noticed to great dismay that an ink-pack had exploded on his best cape. This would not come out easily, if at all.
Since his alias was a journalist, he kept some denatured alcohol handy to get newsprint off his hands and clothes, but would it work on the cape without making the crimson bleed and fade? He had just ordered this cape custom-made from a costume maker with an Etsy Store. He told her it was for the LA Comic*Con, which confused her when he paid for a ‘rush’ order and delivery since the convention wasn’t until July.
He received it in mid-February and now, only a week into March, some bumbling bank thief had to go and…
This would probably need to soak.
He laid it gently in his bath tub and doused it thoroughly with the methylated spirits, and to raise his own, he trudged back to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee now that his super-hearing had detected it was finished brewing.
He drank his bold roast black, with plenty of sugar. The warm cup in his hands felt peaceful, like the city on this particular morning. He sipped at the sweet robust liquid gingerly. Maybe he had super taste buds too, but there was no sense in burning them over a simple pleasure.
The man of steel now returned to the inanimate mounds of cerulean and ruby synthetic Lycra blends.
The blues had more mass and would need longer in the dryer, so he began with them.
He laid them in alternating half-moons in the bottom of the washer. No need in throwing the machine off balance and having the super come in wondering why his wet and broken washer was filled with spandex bodysuits and leaking into the pantry of his neighbors on the 27th floor. Again, experience had taught him some of these simple lessons.
He used the detergent of NASCAR champions with the ‘mountain fresh’ scent. It was oddly the exact same shade as his uniform. He poured the syrupy thick liquid over the spandex in tandem with the rushing water from the edge of the washer and then for good measure rinsed the cup out under the miniature raging waterfall gushing behind the agitator. The icy cold water was a stark contrast to the warm ceramic cup of java he’d held moments earlier.
He felt things.
That was a popular misconception.
Just because bullets bounced off of his chest didn’t mean he didn’t feel the sharp sting of the impact. Just because he could walk through fire unscathed didn’t mean he was immune to the sweltering discomfort of the heat. And just because the city was quiet today, didn’t mean that he didn’t feel just a little bit lonely and useless staring at his brand new red cape helplessly suspended in liquid in his bathtub waiting for the stain to fade away…
Thursday, November 1, 2012
In a FLASH...
The tricky thing about going to school for writing, is that I have to do a lot of, well, writing - which somehow cuts into the time I have to just write...
But in my coursework, I have been introduced to what we 'writer types' call Flash Fiction.
So now I'm writing all these fun short stories, but I have pretty much nothing to do with them after I'm done. Sure - I COULD shop some of them out to journals, magazines anthologies seeking to get the work 'published.'
But honestly, at this particular moment in time, it's just more a time issue than anything else. So, I figure, why not nurse my own 'market' for my writing - right here?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the first in what I'm pretty sure will become fairly routine installments of "In a Flash!" entries, where I will share with you some of my Flash Fiction.
These are short pieces, just for fun! Please enjoy them as such! I welcome thoughts, feedback etc. Mainly, I just feel I've been cranking out way too much work not to share some of it!
This first piece is a glimpse at how the future might view us as a part of their past. I offer you nightly news piece about life in the 21st Century "Frozen in Time..."
**************************************************************************************
Today, in the ruins of what archeologists agree used to be the city of Orlando on what remains of the northern reaching peninsula, a new mystery has come to light regarding how pre-polar shift peoples lived their lives here in Mexerida. Researches are working to unearth a newly discovered fully intact complex they are calling a ‘Gold’s Gym.’
Lead archeologist Dr. Jacques Smithsuela believes the complex was an augmented form of punishment for early criminals in the late 20th and early 21st centuries.
He explained his findings to news crews on site earlier today.
“What we know about pre-polar shift people, especially in the center of the continent, was that they were obsessed with crime and punishment. They had many, large internment facilities. Evidence even suggests they regularly broadcast stories revolving around particularly violent crimes and the methodology by which these criminals were hunted down and then punished. This may have either been for entertainment or education or even as a cautionary measure to deter further crime.
So this society was engulfed in crime, and, as a byproduct, various punishments. What we see here in this ‘gym’ facility – and this is the first one we’ve discovered with intact bodies actually positioned on the machines – are some very brutal torture devices. You can see people are actually strapped in to some of the machines. You can see the straining of their muscles and looks of pain on their faces. So in spite of some of the documentation that suggests 21st century society did not favor torture, complexes like the Gold’s Gyms were obviously places where maybe the very worst of the worst were sent to endure excruciating physical punishment. “
Dr. Roberto Saint-Brown offered an alternate explanation that perhaps the people frozen in the gym during the sudden emergence and eruption of the Mexican Gulf Super Volcano were there voluntarily for augmented physical conditioning. Dr. Smithsuela however dismissed this competing theory.
“Included in the complex are rooms full of lockers where the personal belongings of these people have been removed from them, kept under lock and key, and they are wearing clothing that was obviously intended to embarrass them on another level of psychological torture. Besides, a people this advanced would have understood human physiology well enough to know that regular calisthenics would be safer and yield better results than these bulky machines. I find no evidence to support the idea that these people were here voluntarily.”
Since its initial discovery in 4007, the Orlando site has provided an unprecedented look at what life was like on this continent during the Fossil Fuel Age. It has enabled scientists to begin sifting through the mythology surrounding that time-period, and offers us a glimpse at our own past. For Mexerida South District 1 News, I’m Antoinette Walkeros. Good night.
But in my coursework, I have been introduced to what we 'writer types' call Flash Fiction.
So now I'm writing all these fun short stories, but I have pretty much nothing to do with them after I'm done. Sure - I COULD shop some of them out to journals, magazines anthologies seeking to get the work 'published.'
But honestly, at this particular moment in time, it's just more a time issue than anything else. So, I figure, why not nurse my own 'market' for my writing - right here?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the first in what I'm pretty sure will become fairly routine installments of "In a Flash!" entries, where I will share with you some of my Flash Fiction.
These are short pieces, just for fun! Please enjoy them as such! I welcome thoughts, feedback etc. Mainly, I just feel I've been cranking out way too much work not to share some of it!
This first piece is a glimpse at how the future might view us as a part of their past. I offer you nightly news piece about life in the 21st Century "Frozen in Time..."
**************************************************************************************
Today, in the ruins of what archeologists agree used to be the city of Orlando on what remains of the northern reaching peninsula, a new mystery has come to light regarding how pre-polar shift peoples lived their lives here in Mexerida. Researches are working to unearth a newly discovered fully intact complex they are calling a ‘Gold’s Gym.’
Lead archeologist Dr. Jacques Smithsuela believes the complex was an augmented form of punishment for early criminals in the late 20th and early 21st centuries.
He explained his findings to news crews on site earlier today.
“What we know about pre-polar shift people, especially in the center of the continent, was that they were obsessed with crime and punishment. They had many, large internment facilities. Evidence even suggests they regularly broadcast stories revolving around particularly violent crimes and the methodology by which these criminals were hunted down and then punished. This may have either been for entertainment or education or even as a cautionary measure to deter further crime.
So this society was engulfed in crime, and, as a byproduct, various punishments. What we see here in this ‘gym’ facility – and this is the first one we’ve discovered with intact bodies actually positioned on the machines – are some very brutal torture devices. You can see people are actually strapped in to some of the machines. You can see the straining of their muscles and looks of pain on their faces. So in spite of some of the documentation that suggests 21st century society did not favor torture, complexes like the Gold’s Gyms were obviously places where maybe the very worst of the worst were sent to endure excruciating physical punishment. “
Dr. Roberto Saint-Brown offered an alternate explanation that perhaps the people frozen in the gym during the sudden emergence and eruption of the Mexican Gulf Super Volcano were there voluntarily for augmented physical conditioning. Dr. Smithsuela however dismissed this competing theory.
“Included in the complex are rooms full of lockers where the personal belongings of these people have been removed from them, kept under lock and key, and they are wearing clothing that was obviously intended to embarrass them on another level of psychological torture. Besides, a people this advanced would have understood human physiology well enough to know that regular calisthenics would be safer and yield better results than these bulky machines. I find no evidence to support the idea that these people were here voluntarily.”
Since its initial discovery in 4007, the Orlando site has provided an unprecedented look at what life was like on this continent during the Fossil Fuel Age. It has enabled scientists to begin sifting through the mythology surrounding that time-period, and offers us a glimpse at our own past. For Mexerida South District 1 News, I’m Antoinette Walkeros. Good night.
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