Monday, December 7, 2009
Cornell Box
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Attempts at the Photoshop
Monday, November 23, 2009
2012
So, without getting right into the meat of the review, I planned to have this mini review and retrospect up a full hour ago...that was until I realized that 2012 was 2 and 1/2 hours long instead of 1 and a half.
First thing's first, spoilers will be involved within this post.
Obviously 2012 is centered around the superstition and fear that the world will end on 12-21-12 according to the Mayan Calendar. The plot follows John Cusack and his family around the world as biblical destruction that would make Michael Bay jealous wash across the world (literally). The point in the movie that hooked me was when the Yellowstone supervolcano erupted. Now given that this is a disaster movie, the effects and mithos around Yellowstone are a bit construed, but the sheer impact and causality of the eruption were spot on (save for the fact that the pyroclastic flow would not reach DC, let alone destroy Pittsburg before Las Vegas...)
I was also drawn to this because I have been working for over a year (off and on sadly) on a post-eruption world following a man and a young girl struggling to make thier way from California to Seattle during and after Yellowstone's eruption. As this is an uncompleted work and is still recieving tweaks, I won't be publishing the opening chapter here.
Here are some quick facts about the forthcoming Yellowstone Eruption I have collected in my own research for those interested to see if the movie got it right.
First thing's first, spoilers will be involved within this post.
Obviously 2012 is centered around the superstition and fear that the world will end on 12-21-12 according to the Mayan Calendar. The plot follows John Cusack and his family around the world as biblical destruction that would make Michael Bay jealous wash across the world (literally). The point in the movie that hooked me was when the Yellowstone supervolcano erupted. Now given that this is a disaster movie, the effects and mithos around Yellowstone are a bit construed, but the sheer impact and causality of the eruption were spot on (save for the fact that the pyroclastic flow would not reach DC, let alone destroy Pittsburg before Las Vegas...)
I was also drawn to this because I have been working for over a year (off and on sadly) on a post-eruption world following a man and a young girl struggling to make thier way from California to Seattle during and after Yellowstone's eruption. As this is an uncompleted work and is still recieving tweaks, I won't be publishing the opening chapter here.
Here are some quick facts about the forthcoming Yellowstone Eruption I have collected in my own research for those interested to see if the movie got it right.
- The Yellowstone Caldera, or Yellowstone Valley sits directly above the super volcano magma chamber. This allows for all the geysers and Old Faithful to shoot off.
- When the eruption happens, the pyroclastic flow will consume a 500 mile radius from anywhere to 3 feet to many hundred feet of ash.
- Cheyenne, Denver, Billings, Salt Lake, Reno and quite possibly Las Vegas would be washed aside.
- The ash cloud (not the pyroclastic flow) would hit the East Coast within a day, while it would take a number of weeks to strike the West Coast. The only way it could reach the West Coast is by the air current. This means that the Ash cloud would span the world.
- It's theorized that this ash cloud "could" trigger a rapid drop in temp, possibly creating a new ice age.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Exodus
The spell of words is passing away
To view, to type, to die
To witness the the ink bleed dry.
The harshness and sting of the page
Scrapping beneath the Divine's creation
The words so slowly defined, unique to the penstrokes baine.
To feel or to loafe
Would you take moments to praise a fallen Elm
or chastize the torn normality.
To view, to type, to die
To witness the the ink bleed dry.
The harshness and sting of the page
Scrapping beneath the Divine's creation
The words so slowly defined, unique to the penstrokes baine.
To feel or to loafe
Would you take moments to praise a fallen Elm
or chastize the torn normality.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Scribes
Glass panels sweeping guard above the penitent chasm
twinkling snow drops glisten beneath the unreal city
Devote of instilled aura.
For whom the fisher king cries, hollow silences answers.
Palaces, sanctuaries, graveyards of concrete
A man is a man is a child is a seed
Clutching a branch of regality
While life transcends the fjords of waste.
The hand dips low to blemish the abashed land.
A new man waits, hope dwindles limp from the line, to illuminate the shadows
As missionaries preach the books
of William
of Charles
of Stein
of Dante
Dive through the fog of enlightenment and spring force the desire of paradise.
twinkling snow drops glisten beneath the unreal city
Devote of instilled aura.
For whom the fisher king cries, hollow silences answers.
Palaces, sanctuaries, graveyards of concrete
A man is a man is a child is a seed
Clutching a branch of regality
While life transcends the fjords of waste.
The hand dips low to blemish the abashed land.
A new man waits, hope dwindles limp from the line, to illuminate the shadows
As missionaries preach the books
of William
of Charles
of Stein
of Dante
Dive through the fog of enlightenment and spring force the desire of paradise.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Scourge of Dust
Southwest United States
The rising mid-day sun baked the dry brittle land as wave of heat glistened just above the desert floor creating the image of a distant oasis calling to the weary travelers. But Jonathon Billingsly merely readjusted his hair within the cramped sentry post trying to position himself within the feeble breeze whispering from the radial fan. No matter how he tried to justify it, this was not how he foresaw his life the last few years. One training mistake, two degrees further right, and he would be abroad right now, doing his part to answer his nation’s call.
He blinked as the sunlight’s gaze shifted lower within the post, ricocheting off his metal crutches resting against the sidewall. He pushed the pain from his memory. No matter how much rehabilitation he participated in, he couldn’t change the past. Jonathon returned to staring out the same small window he had for the last eight hours for the last shift and every previews shift since he started. He could count the number of animals he had seen on barely one hand, and knew that their were more cactuses surrounding the distant hillside then times a vehicle had entered his base. In all intends and purposes, Jonathon Billingsly was gatekeeper for Hell.
His wristwatch chimed twice, drawing his attention to the telephone resting between a picture of a foreign uninhabited island and three log books. The phone began to ring. He leaned forward, lifting up the receiver knowing that the person on the other line could act all she wanted, but Ensign Julia Jones but her warm compassionate voice hid a bitter anger at her job assignment. “1400 report.”
“I believe that the cactus five hundred yards down is plotting to pillage our base come nightfall. Is your will in order?” Jonathon asked.
“Cut the chatter Billingsly. Report in.”
He sighed. Humor was wasted within the military. “Gate 3 secure.”
The other line clicked off without a words remorse. Jonathon could only smile to himself, knowing that for at least the next ten seconds, Jones’ would be so full of unstated anger that she might mess up and accidentally trigger a warhead to destroy the base. He could only wish—
A streak of silver light materialized from the distant hillside, hovering above the ground. Jonathon sprawled against the wall behind him, trying to determine the location of his binoculars, his hands finally wrapping around the aluminum frame. Desperately, he brought the lens to his eyes trying to understand the unanswered question of what the foreign object was. As he adjusted, his jaw dropped slightly as his left hand knocked the receiver from its cradle and clumsily put it to his ear.
“Billingsly, if this is another wise crack or an attempt to woo me, it’s not going to fly.”
“Get the reserve troops out at Gate 4 immediately, we have a breach. I repeat we have a breach.”
No sooner had the words fallen from his gapping mouth but the distant wail of the base alarm began to roar throughout the canyons as three troop transports leapt from the starting gate, speeding towards Gate 4. Reserve troops checked ammunition clips while some readjusted the hastily thrown together wardrobe of rifles, pistols and grenades.
The phone rang sharply once before it was adhered to Jonathon’s ear once more, his eyes locked on the distant object.
“Billingsly, I want to know exactly what is going on,” barked Commanding Officer George Xanis.
“Under—understood.”
With the click of a toggle, the chain link gate began to slide apart, yielding enough room for the three transports burst past. “The transports are heading out toward the hillside less than a quarter mile from my station. They are preparing to stop, and the unidentified object is still situated on the hill, and appears to be bobbing up and down slowly.”
“What is it son?”
“It’s a silver sphere.” Jonathon whispered through parched lips. “As of five minutes ago when I sent in my proximity report, it was not present. The troops are now getting out of the transports and circling the sphere. I’m not—“
A blue shockwave erupted from the center of the sphere, racing outwards with a furious, unrelenting speed. The troopers were pushed backwards as the shockwave swept over them, a burst of orange light erupted from the sphere, forcing Jonathon to drop the phone to shield his eyes with both fists. The glow slowly subsided as Jonathon struggled to adjust to the sudden shifts in light mixed with the last five minutes worth of development. The phone rested near the floor as the faint electronical impulsive demands leaked out as Jones and Xanis requested answers.
Jonathon picked up the phone as his senses began to return but stopped as he stared out toward the transports. They were gone, replaced with smoking twisted metal. The reserve troops—Jonathon couldn’t look away from the sheer unimaginable scene before him. The sphere was gone, replaced with a crater 15-20 feet across and the same down. The troops were on their backs, crystallized, their eyes shimmering with fear as they stared at where the sphere had reacted. “They..they are all dead sir. The sphere—it released some kind of an explosion, I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Stay put soldier. We are scrambling an Arrowheart from San Arka to be onsite in less that 2.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I think that that won’t be soon enough.” Jonathon gulped, reaching for his assault rifle.
From within the crater, the outline of a human body appeared from within the burning smoke. Two crystal blue eyes evaluated the carnage before centering on the sentry post. A booted foot appeared from the lip of the crater as the being began to move forward.
“My God…” Sweat rose on his forehead as he released the rifles safety, releasing a single click.
The being spun towards the sound, it’s eyes staring directly into Jonathon’s soul. He froze as the being began to run toward the post as the receiver while distant engines of the incoming Arrowhearts grew closer. Jonathon blinked, clearing his mind as his focus returned, training taking over the place of fear. He brought up the rifle as the being stopped three feet from his door, the head gyrating slowly.
The being resembled that of a young adult human being, wrapped up within a burnt orange combat fatigues. He carried no weapons, his hip holster empty. His hair was disheveled, gray with tinges of golden black strands coursing through. He raised his right hand slowly, his eyes locked calmly on Jonathon while he rose and limped against the doorframe, the rifle unwavering. “You are trespassing on government land. Put your hands behind your head and drop to the ground NOW.”
The man’s jaw twitched. The bullet was slicing through the air before Jonathon could realize his reaction. The bullet zipped forward, arching toward the man, connecting with his sternum, the force of the impact thrusting the man backwards…or should have. His feet shifted, digging in as the bullet dug deep. His eyes transitioned from a calm to a clouded anger. The faintest of fear crossed across his lips as the rifle dipped. The man closed his eyes as his forehead furrowed. A second later, the bullet rematerialized, falling to the ground.
The anger dissolved as the man gasped. He turned motioning toward Jonathon. “What is, what is today’s date?”
The words were forced through a raspy throat. The words struck Jonathon both curiously and suspicious. “Why should I answer this, you are the one that is trespass—“
“Please. It’s important, what is today’s date?!” he demanded shaking his head as he regained his composure, his eyes scanning the sky as the Arrowhearts appeared on the horizon.
“December 5th.”
He shook his head, “I know that. What year.”
“What do you mean what year is this, it’s 1941.”
The man stepped forward, a renewed determination returned to his eyes. “My name is LK-3. I’m here on a matter of national security. I’m here to save the world.”
The rising mid-day sun baked the dry brittle land as wave of heat glistened just above the desert floor creating the image of a distant oasis calling to the weary travelers. But Jonathon Billingsly merely readjusted his hair within the cramped sentry post trying to position himself within the feeble breeze whispering from the radial fan. No matter how he tried to justify it, this was not how he foresaw his life the last few years. One training mistake, two degrees further right, and he would be abroad right now, doing his part to answer his nation’s call.
He blinked as the sunlight’s gaze shifted lower within the post, ricocheting off his metal crutches resting against the sidewall. He pushed the pain from his memory. No matter how much rehabilitation he participated in, he couldn’t change the past. Jonathon returned to staring out the same small window he had for the last eight hours for the last shift and every previews shift since he started. He could count the number of animals he had seen on barely one hand, and knew that their were more cactuses surrounding the distant hillside then times a vehicle had entered his base. In all intends and purposes, Jonathon Billingsly was gatekeeper for Hell.
His wristwatch chimed twice, drawing his attention to the telephone resting between a picture of a foreign uninhabited island and three log books. The phone began to ring. He leaned forward, lifting up the receiver knowing that the person on the other line could act all she wanted, but Ensign Julia Jones but her warm compassionate voice hid a bitter anger at her job assignment. “1400 report.”
“I believe that the cactus five hundred yards down is plotting to pillage our base come nightfall. Is your will in order?” Jonathon asked.
“Cut the chatter Billingsly. Report in.”
He sighed. Humor was wasted within the military. “Gate 3 secure.”
The other line clicked off without a words remorse. Jonathon could only smile to himself, knowing that for at least the next ten seconds, Jones’ would be so full of unstated anger that she might mess up and accidentally trigger a warhead to destroy the base. He could only wish—
A streak of silver light materialized from the distant hillside, hovering above the ground. Jonathon sprawled against the wall behind him, trying to determine the location of his binoculars, his hands finally wrapping around the aluminum frame. Desperately, he brought the lens to his eyes trying to understand the unanswered question of what the foreign object was. As he adjusted, his jaw dropped slightly as his left hand knocked the receiver from its cradle and clumsily put it to his ear.
“Billingsly, if this is another wise crack or an attempt to woo me, it’s not going to fly.”
“Get the reserve troops out at Gate 4 immediately, we have a breach. I repeat we have a breach.”
No sooner had the words fallen from his gapping mouth but the distant wail of the base alarm began to roar throughout the canyons as three troop transports leapt from the starting gate, speeding towards Gate 4. Reserve troops checked ammunition clips while some readjusted the hastily thrown together wardrobe of rifles, pistols and grenades.
The phone rang sharply once before it was adhered to Jonathon’s ear once more, his eyes locked on the distant object.
“Billingsly, I want to know exactly what is going on,” barked Commanding Officer George Xanis.
“Under—understood.”
With the click of a toggle, the chain link gate began to slide apart, yielding enough room for the three transports burst past. “The transports are heading out toward the hillside less than a quarter mile from my station. They are preparing to stop, and the unidentified object is still situated on the hill, and appears to be bobbing up and down slowly.”
“What is it son?”
“It’s a silver sphere.” Jonathon whispered through parched lips. “As of five minutes ago when I sent in my proximity report, it was not present. The troops are now getting out of the transports and circling the sphere. I’m not—“
A blue shockwave erupted from the center of the sphere, racing outwards with a furious, unrelenting speed. The troopers were pushed backwards as the shockwave swept over them, a burst of orange light erupted from the sphere, forcing Jonathon to drop the phone to shield his eyes with both fists. The glow slowly subsided as Jonathon struggled to adjust to the sudden shifts in light mixed with the last five minutes worth of development. The phone rested near the floor as the faint electronical impulsive demands leaked out as Jones and Xanis requested answers.
Jonathon picked up the phone as his senses began to return but stopped as he stared out toward the transports. They were gone, replaced with smoking twisted metal. The reserve troops—Jonathon couldn’t look away from the sheer unimaginable scene before him. The sphere was gone, replaced with a crater 15-20 feet across and the same down. The troops were on their backs, crystallized, their eyes shimmering with fear as they stared at where the sphere had reacted. “They..they are all dead sir. The sphere—it released some kind of an explosion, I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Stay put soldier. We are scrambling an Arrowheart from San Arka to be onsite in less that 2.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I think that that won’t be soon enough.” Jonathon gulped, reaching for his assault rifle.
From within the crater, the outline of a human body appeared from within the burning smoke. Two crystal blue eyes evaluated the carnage before centering on the sentry post. A booted foot appeared from the lip of the crater as the being began to move forward.
“My God…” Sweat rose on his forehead as he released the rifles safety, releasing a single click.
The being spun towards the sound, it’s eyes staring directly into Jonathon’s soul. He froze as the being began to run toward the post as the receiver while distant engines of the incoming Arrowhearts grew closer. Jonathon blinked, clearing his mind as his focus returned, training taking over the place of fear. He brought up the rifle as the being stopped three feet from his door, the head gyrating slowly.
The being resembled that of a young adult human being, wrapped up within a burnt orange combat fatigues. He carried no weapons, his hip holster empty. His hair was disheveled, gray with tinges of golden black strands coursing through. He raised his right hand slowly, his eyes locked calmly on Jonathon while he rose and limped against the doorframe, the rifle unwavering. “You are trespassing on government land. Put your hands behind your head and drop to the ground NOW.”
The man’s jaw twitched. The bullet was slicing through the air before Jonathon could realize his reaction. The bullet zipped forward, arching toward the man, connecting with his sternum, the force of the impact thrusting the man backwards…or should have. His feet shifted, digging in as the bullet dug deep. His eyes transitioned from a calm to a clouded anger. The faintest of fear crossed across his lips as the rifle dipped. The man closed his eyes as his forehead furrowed. A second later, the bullet rematerialized, falling to the ground.
The anger dissolved as the man gasped. He turned motioning toward Jonathon. “What is, what is today’s date?”
The words were forced through a raspy throat. The words struck Jonathon both curiously and suspicious. “Why should I answer this, you are the one that is trespass—“
“Please. It’s important, what is today’s date?!” he demanded shaking his head as he regained his composure, his eyes scanning the sky as the Arrowhearts appeared on the horizon.
“December 5th.”
He shook his head, “I know that. What year.”
“What do you mean what year is this, it’s 1941.”
The man stepped forward, a renewed determination returned to his eyes. “My name is LK-3. I’m here on a matter of national security. I’m here to save the world.”
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sepia Moon - short story
Moonlight crept across the cobble stone path, blistering and puncturing the canyons with sweeps of pale white light. A cold mist clung to the edges of the forest, anchored by the contorted limps of long dead Aspen Pine trees. Between the edges of the guarded path, the evening darkness stretched, clawing to take you into its care.
A whisper of autumn leaves danced across the path as branches bent and cracked far off, displacing creatures deeper into the untold world within the forest. Lights twinkled mischievously from beneath the brush as a large wooden beast rumbled atop the uneven road. The eyes followed the beast, staring up in hesitation as a glowing orange fire filled the beasts body, leaking from slits along the side. The beast’s head turned, surveying the night as it tightened around its soul. The beast lurched as a cobble stone fell apart, damaging a mighty foot as those curious raced away.
A long blast of shaky air left the coach driver as he dropped from the high backed drivers bench, muttering in frustration, as the wooden wheel lay splintered and dead, smashed beneath the broken axel.
It was destined, he swore, that tonight of all nights the mysteries of the world would rear up to lay claim to the chaos. He tightened the coat harder, the blood draining from his hands as the cold air enveloped him. Quickly, he risked a glance into the coach, relived to see the jarring had not awakened his passenger. He added a quarter can of oil to the lamp to ensure it would not extinguish, and prepared to replace the axel.
Metal clicked and scraped as the driver struggled, all the while his mind drifting into memories of a warm fire set within the heart of a seaside living area. High backed plush chairs rested as a woman hid in the shadows, a hand reaching out, slowly stroking the coals. The driver stood in the archway, coat and top hat clenched in his hands, his eyes transfixed on the fire.
“They claim that you are the best Mr. Davien,” the woman spoke airily, her words sewn together in a hint of a foreign tongue.
Mr. Davien smiled for the first time since entering. “I do not consider myself the best ma’am, I do however take my profession serious.”
“They also stated your modesty.”
“I promise nothing less than getting you to your destination.”
The hand paused, considering his answer. Mr. Davien shifted on his heels, feeling that unseen eyes were stripping away his clothes and skin, penetrating his will and soul.
“You would need to leave within the hour.”
“I am prepared to depart now ma’am, if you are ready.”
“Not me Mr. Davien, something far more valuable.”
This stopped him. He held his tongue and remained silent as the details were announced, a knot tightening in his stomach, his eyes growing slowly. Once she had concluded Davien cleared his throat. “It shall be done ma’am.”
A crow cawed within the trees, ripping Mr. Davien back to reality. He chastised himself for the momentary lapse of relaxation, knowing that he had to be at the destination before the morning sun awoke
He continued jockeying the wheel and axel into place but froze, hearing the distant footfalls of an animal. He whirled, racing a wrench in self-defense. The path behind him was deserted save for a shaft of moonlight. The footfall’s continued, growing louder and closer. Davien strained his eyes staring at the bend in the road as a shadow materialized, bathed in the light.
A horse stood on the cobblestone path, its head shaking as two bursts of air bled from the snout. A figure rode atop, all discernable details lost in the shadow. “Hello there!” Davien shouted, drawing the attention of the horse. “May I request momentary assistance?”
The horse remained still, the figure reached into his overcoat, extracting a thin object that glinted in the light. He brought the object up to lip as the horse nayed. All at once, the air around Davien tightened and collided against his body. His eyes burst open in pain as he crashed to his knees, screaming air roared in his ears while a weak gurgle of air seeped from Davien’s mouth. The pain seared deeper crushing nerve endings in his back and arms. Davien smashed his eyes closed, praying the pain would pass swiftly.
The pain intensified forcing his eyes open again as a stream of blood erupted from his right eye, bathing his left in a crimson veil. A pain erupted in the back of his head as suddenly all noise seized. Through the pain and blood, the horseman approached slowly, standing above Davien. The crushing air vanished, Davien’s body collapsed. The man returned the object to his vest pocket, a checkerboard of teeth smiled beneath a wide brimmed hat.
“I’ll be relieving you of your burdening cargo Mr. Davien,” the voice laughed.
Davien could only stare out his left eye as the burst eye continued leaking blood adding to the pool forming from his ears. He watched the man’s mouth move, unable to hear a word as the man blurred, moving toward the coach door. He tried to speak, to reach the man, but only produced a liquid gargle. He coughed, but the blood continued to fill his burst lungs.
The man stared into the coach, lifting up Davien’s package. The skin glistened a pale green in the moonlight, a swatch of black hair fell from the tight blanket as the child stirred in its sleep.
“We have been waiting for you, son of Frankenstein.” The man roared as Mr. Davien stared down the darkened tunnel expanding before him. The man lifted a pistol from his belt, chanting in a foreign tongue as he shifted the baby in his arm and fired.
The forest echoed with the gunshot as Mr. Davien slipped into universal darkness.
A whisper of autumn leaves danced across the path as branches bent and cracked far off, displacing creatures deeper into the untold world within the forest. Lights twinkled mischievously from beneath the brush as a large wooden beast rumbled atop the uneven road. The eyes followed the beast, staring up in hesitation as a glowing orange fire filled the beasts body, leaking from slits along the side. The beast’s head turned, surveying the night as it tightened around its soul. The beast lurched as a cobble stone fell apart, damaging a mighty foot as those curious raced away.
A long blast of shaky air left the coach driver as he dropped from the high backed drivers bench, muttering in frustration, as the wooden wheel lay splintered and dead, smashed beneath the broken axel.
It was destined, he swore, that tonight of all nights the mysteries of the world would rear up to lay claim to the chaos. He tightened the coat harder, the blood draining from his hands as the cold air enveloped him. Quickly, he risked a glance into the coach, relived to see the jarring had not awakened his passenger. He added a quarter can of oil to the lamp to ensure it would not extinguish, and prepared to replace the axel.
Metal clicked and scraped as the driver struggled, all the while his mind drifting into memories of a warm fire set within the heart of a seaside living area. High backed plush chairs rested as a woman hid in the shadows, a hand reaching out, slowly stroking the coals. The driver stood in the archway, coat and top hat clenched in his hands, his eyes transfixed on the fire.
“They claim that you are the best Mr. Davien,” the woman spoke airily, her words sewn together in a hint of a foreign tongue.
Mr. Davien smiled for the first time since entering. “I do not consider myself the best ma’am, I do however take my profession serious.”
“They also stated your modesty.”
“I promise nothing less than getting you to your destination.”
The hand paused, considering his answer. Mr. Davien shifted on his heels, feeling that unseen eyes were stripping away his clothes and skin, penetrating his will and soul.
“You would need to leave within the hour.”
“I am prepared to depart now ma’am, if you are ready.”
“Not me Mr. Davien, something far more valuable.”
This stopped him. He held his tongue and remained silent as the details were announced, a knot tightening in his stomach, his eyes growing slowly. Once she had concluded Davien cleared his throat. “It shall be done ma’am.”
A crow cawed within the trees, ripping Mr. Davien back to reality. He chastised himself for the momentary lapse of relaxation, knowing that he had to be at the destination before the morning sun awoke
He continued jockeying the wheel and axel into place but froze, hearing the distant footfalls of an animal. He whirled, racing a wrench in self-defense. The path behind him was deserted save for a shaft of moonlight. The footfall’s continued, growing louder and closer. Davien strained his eyes staring at the bend in the road as a shadow materialized, bathed in the light.
A horse stood on the cobblestone path, its head shaking as two bursts of air bled from the snout. A figure rode atop, all discernable details lost in the shadow. “Hello there!” Davien shouted, drawing the attention of the horse. “May I request momentary assistance?”
The horse remained still, the figure reached into his overcoat, extracting a thin object that glinted in the light. He brought the object up to lip as the horse nayed. All at once, the air around Davien tightened and collided against his body. His eyes burst open in pain as he crashed to his knees, screaming air roared in his ears while a weak gurgle of air seeped from Davien’s mouth. The pain seared deeper crushing nerve endings in his back and arms. Davien smashed his eyes closed, praying the pain would pass swiftly.
The pain intensified forcing his eyes open again as a stream of blood erupted from his right eye, bathing his left in a crimson veil. A pain erupted in the back of his head as suddenly all noise seized. Through the pain and blood, the horseman approached slowly, standing above Davien. The crushing air vanished, Davien’s body collapsed. The man returned the object to his vest pocket, a checkerboard of teeth smiled beneath a wide brimmed hat.
“I’ll be relieving you of your burdening cargo Mr. Davien,” the voice laughed.
Davien could only stare out his left eye as the burst eye continued leaking blood adding to the pool forming from his ears. He watched the man’s mouth move, unable to hear a word as the man blurred, moving toward the coach door. He tried to speak, to reach the man, but only produced a liquid gargle. He coughed, but the blood continued to fill his burst lungs.
The man stared into the coach, lifting up Davien’s package. The skin glistened a pale green in the moonlight, a swatch of black hair fell from the tight blanket as the child stirred in its sleep.
“We have been waiting for you, son of Frankenstein.” The man roared as Mr. Davien stared down the darkened tunnel expanding before him. The man lifted a pistol from his belt, chanting in a foreign tongue as he shifted the baby in his arm and fired.
The forest echoed with the gunshot as Mr. Davien slipped into universal darkness.
Oh Sweet Wand
Poetic and lyrical
Creative or critical
Language sings, words rythme
While the muse dictates the time
Flow of ink
No moment to think
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Imagination or exploitation
A smatter of fantasy
A whisper of reality
The hand transcribes
Whilst the mind describes
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Brain twists and Plot storms
The page demands a form
A rhetoric from tip to tale
The current rips across the sail
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Chapters pass and bend
Stanzas meet a tragic end
Prose dips below the stage
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Mystify forgotten dream
Characters driven into team
Write, oh sweet wand write.
How to carry on the flame once the story meets reframe
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Creative or critical
Language sings, words rythme
While the muse dictates the time
Flow of ink
No moment to think
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Imagination or exploitation
A smatter of fantasy
A whisper of reality
The hand transcribes
Whilst the mind describes
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Brain twists and Plot storms
The page demands a form
A rhetoric from tip to tale
The current rips across the sail
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Chapters pass and bend
Stanzas meet a tragic end
Prose dips below the stage
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Mystify forgotten dream
Characters driven into team
Write, oh sweet wand write.
How to carry on the flame once the story meets reframe
Write, oh sweet wand write.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Snow
Silence mystifies the darkened eve
Crystallized tears cascade from humble guardian angels
Blanketing my freshly shoveled driveway.
Crystallized tears cascade from humble guardian angels
Blanketing my freshly shoveled driveway.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Books
I'm changing forcus for a second, switching from posting poems to the other source of inspiration: books. I'll be the first to admit that books are like crack for me, specifically the Star Wars brand. Just the feeling of reading a book, watching a world explode around you, diving into another person's insane Wonderland and not knowing exactly what will be on the next page is exilerating.
Recently (against my better judgement and with protest from homework) I read Dan Brown's "The Lost Symbol". I won't spoil this but it has weaved together the speed and feel of Angel's and Demons with the skepticism of Da Vinci Code.
Set in present day Washington DC, Robert Langdon is once again thrown into a world of symbolism, shady history and life and death situations. I won't spoil the plot, but this is one of the best Brown's written.
One of the things about this author's approach to writing I like is the weaving of fact with fiction and maintaining a skeptical protagonist as a parallel with those who believe that Dan Brown is merely writing from a Conspiracy Theorist standpoint.
Recently (against my better judgement and with protest from homework) I read Dan Brown's "The Lost Symbol". I won't spoil this but it has weaved together the speed and feel of Angel's and Demons with the skepticism of Da Vinci Code.
Set in present day Washington DC, Robert Langdon is once again thrown into a world of symbolism, shady history and life and death situations. I won't spoil the plot, but this is one of the best Brown's written.
One of the things about this author's approach to writing I like is the weaving of fact with fiction and maintaining a skeptical protagonist as a parallel with those who believe that Dan Brown is merely writing from a Conspiracy Theorist standpoint.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)