Verb Defenestration

Six Word Short Story

2010-05-17T22:47:00.001-07:00

For sale: used soul. Slightly stained.

I wuz here

2010-03-24T14:45:00.001-07:00

I wuz here

We declare

to anyone who will notice

bathroom stalls

wooden tables

concrete walls

The human race will know us

the countless millions

common, ordinary, normal

people

We want you all to know:

I existed, once.

In case no one noticed

I was here.

A Flashlight, a Hurricane, and a Lawn Mower

2010-03-23T15:06:00.000-07:00

I hit my flashlight again, hoping against hope that the batteries would reconsider; that they would decide that they would, after all, keep working. At least for a little while longer. I couldn't let it die.

My heartbeat quickened as I stumbled through the field. I had no idea where I was, or even worse, where the next piece of civilization was. My heart felt like it would beat right through my chest as the batteries languished and died, their last breath of light fading away.

The last thing I had heard on the radio before my car gave out flashed through my mind once again and I quickened my footsteps, though I could no longer see them.

A hurricane was coming. It was coming soon. It was coming here. My rational thoughts died out on me—I began to run. In the black darkness of the night, my mind was seeing horrible things, which quickened and blurred until my mind, too, was running.

My legs stopped, but my upper body kept going—I flew over some object and landed on my face and hands. I groaned, felt out what it was I had tripped over. I fumbled, feeling the metal, the strange shape of it. It took me a few minutes, while my mind slowed down and thoughts returned.

I began to laugh slowly. I laughed harder and harder until I was afraid that I had lost my mind. I had tripped over a lawn mower. I got up finally and started calling out in all directions, hoping somebody owned this and somebody lived nearby.

I shouted into the distance and I heard a low rumble of thunder answer me as rain drops began to prick my skin.

One of Those Days

2010-03-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

My sides stick to me.

I can't unglue my skin

and clothing has me trapped.

My tongue sticks to the roof

of my mouth and speaking tingles.

I try to shift, but my body has limits

and it refuses to expand.

There is no comfort in myself

and mirrors laugh, using my face.

My skin is not my own

but I have nowhere else to go.

My Writing Process: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Word (Part 3)

2010-02-28T15:06:00.000-08:00

How to Begin Writing

Sometimes when I sit down to write, it is because I already have a snippet or a phrase floating around in my head. It is usually either inspired by a real or misheard song lyric, or it pops up, fully formed, from some random part of my brain as I brush my teeth or put away laundry. I rush to finish the task at hand as quickly as possible, repeating the phrase over and over in my head, so I don't lose it. Then I rush to the computer or a scrap of paper, and jot it down. Sometimes this leads to a writing session; sometimes I decide to come back to it later.

But when I start out writing with a blank screen or piece of paper, without any preconceived notion of what to write (which is the majority of the time for me), than I set my eyes on the keyboard and run my fingertips over the keys, ever-so-lightly. I am searching for

the perfect letter,

to begin the perfect word,

to begin the perfect phrase

and then sentence,

that will become my beginning.

My eyes will scan the various letters, and certain words pop up in my head—Random, Wily, Opening, Forgotten—and I search around for one that sticks out—shining—offering up worlds of possibilities. And I pick that one. Naturally, the perfect first word has at least a phrase, if not the rest of the sentence, that automatically follows on the page.

Then, once the writing has begun, I stop and look at the sentence—or, if it really has been a perfect sentence, then another sentence flows out to follow it, and so on, until it stops. Whenever that is, I go back, and re-read what I've written. Given that I usually have very little (conscious) say in the whole matter, I have to spend a minute or two trying to determine what it could mean.

“Underneath the diamond bridge...”

What in the world does that mean? Is it literal? Is it a fantasy story? Or is it metaphorical, or a dream, or someone's imagining? What could be sitting under that diamond bridge? And so on.

But this is where it gets tricky. If I think about and analyze it too much, then the story dies, right then and there. I'm already sick of the first sentence, and if that's all there is, there is nothing to come and redeem it. On the other hand, if I go over it too lightly or not at all, and just continue finding beautiful letters with beautiful sentences to follow, then I am in serious danger of making absolutely no sense whatsoever. That 'diamond bridge' thing? That's what happened to that writing—it became one big, confused, tangled mess, couldn't find its way toward making sense, gave a big sigh—and died. It still haunts my hard drive, as all my writing does. I go and pay my respects from time-to-time...but it's a depressing place to go.

I build my scenes of my stories, and poems for that matter, block by block. Once some of the blocks are in place, I begin to see a shape that sets the scene. The rest of the scene appears clearly in my head, and there's a sigh of relief. Certain word choices lead me to make certain conclusions that I either feel I need to follow through with, or defy. Whether I want to defy what I think readers' expectations will be (which I know I give too much credit), or conventional narrative choices, I do tend to lean toward the method of defiance, unless the character(s) really want to go there, or the image of the scene in my head assures me that, no, this man really is only in his 30's, no older.

A lot of my writing happens because I “feel it out” as I go. I get images in my head of what I want to describe, or people's expressions, and I begin to enact it: either with my hands, my facial expressions, or the physical feeling the character may be experiencing. Often, I try to pretty much shape the perfect words out of thin air with my hands. It helps, too. It allows me, sometimes, to see in front of me what it is I want to describe.

When I'm looking for a word—say I see the face of a character, getting so surprised and offended that he can barely spit out any words. He can feel the anger building up in his chest, and his words start sticking there, but he has to say something to the other character, has to force it past his throat. (Even as I am trying to describe this to you, my hands come out in gestures, and I put myself in the place of the character—where is the anger building, where do I feel it? And I feel the tightness in my chest, so that is where it is for him.) And there is a word for what he is doing, as the words force themselves through his throat and his cheeks puff, his mouth opening and closing like a fish with air bubbles: he is...blustering, I find. Not only does the meaning of the word fit, but also the shape and feel of it. Blustering reminds me of blowing bubbles, of helplessly trying something, of puffy cheeks. Go ahead, say it out loud and see how it feels in your mouth.

But my writing tends to be on the side of the subtle (far too much, I am told sometimes), and I don't think the reader needs to know all that, because if I describe everything that is happening to the character, that makes the situation a bigger deal than it really is for him. It is not a tragic and life-threatening insult that he suffers, after all. Though he may be feeling everything I described, the reader will take it much too much to heart if I write it all down. Besides, this is a comedy. So what does it become?

“You fool,” he spluttered, and I drew back, offended.

“I AM the Pope!” he blustered.

So what happens next? Is always the question. Largely, it comes from—and here's that word again—Inspiration: unquantifiable, untraceable, and rarely understood. Scenes form in my mind, and I follow them where they go. They have a somewhat natural flow that they follow, and even if I'm struggling with figuring out what will happen next, the scene seems to have a place where it feels—with a sigh of relief—like a temporary ending. This part is over, but the story is not. When it isn't coming naturally, What Happens Next has to do, for once, with a very logical process: What makes sense? What should she do about that? How would this character react in this situation? If there are easy answers for these, then wonderful. If not, I probably need to know more about my character or the situation. Unfortunately, I often learn about my characters through the story as I write, the decisions they make, the reactions they have. So, it becomes a bit of a cycle. I'm still working on that one, though sometimes filling out character sheets helps me determine their motivation and background, which allows me to go back to the story and figure out what should happen next. I'm just learning how to do this. I still have a long way to go.

You may have noticed a lot of 'sometimes' and 'maybe' and 'usually' in here. I'm still learning how this all (me, writing, and the relationship between the two of us) works best. So these are just ruminations on how different times have worked best for me...well, how it has worked, when it has worked, really.

My Writing Process: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Word (Part 2)

2010-02-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

Setting Up for Writing

When I finally get myself to the place where I am ready to start writing, I settle myself (usually) either in my desk chair or on the couch in the living room, facing my computer. I suppose I take a deep breath or two, preparing myself for the beginning of—what? Something. Junk, seeds of great ideas, an interesting story. Sometimes I make sure to have a glass of water nearby, just in case I get thirsty. I know a lot of people like to get set up with a cup of coffee or tea or something, but if I do that, there is the distinct possibility (probability, really) that I will forget all about it while I write. So there's really no point. Unless an idea is trying to hurriedly rush out, I make sure I'm sitting comfortably. If I'm really excited and prepared to sit down for a good writing session, and other people are around, I try to give them warning.

“I'm going to write,” I say, or shout down the hall, and they know that I really don't want to be interrupted for anything less than an emergency. It is important business.

Sometimes I don't want to write on my computer, but I want to fill up my current notebook. I get ready in a similar manner, but it feels more...personal, somehow. I usually prefer writing poems by hand. Depending on the time of day, I may get comfy in bed and curl up with my notebook and pen. For me, it feels like getting curled up with some hot chocolate in front of a fire.

I absolutely cannot have music playing while I write. It has far too great of an influence on me. I find my story becomes about the songs and I may even accidentally slip in some lyrics. No good. I did try writing to Beethoven once, to see what would come out—complicated symphonic strains without any lyrics to blatantly guide me—and I ended up with a mysterious romance in a grand ballroom and a pining man looking for flowers. As you can tell, the Beethoven I was playing was not his most intense composition. So, that was that. No more music.

I like to have relative quiet around me when I write. While I can let the animals in and out or get a glass of water without distracting me (I keep my mind in my story and continue writing even as I do other things), I cannot have conversations nearby. Usually, while I am searching for appropriate words, gestures, intentions, my mind feels—open, ready to absorb new thoughts and inspiration to be channeled onto the page. I'm not looking for inspiration from my surroundings necessarily, but it helps to keep my mind open, to—receive messages from my muse, let's say. So, having people talk around me, even if it isn't directed at me, bothers me because my open mind readily absorbs the chatter and refocuses. I am able to write in a public space, but it is always more of a struggle, because I effectively have to shut out the outside world, which means closing myself off. It is something like writing in a tunnel: it is still possible and not acutely restrictive, but it feels a bit cramped.

My Writing Process: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Word (Part 1)

2010-02-28T14:56:00.000-08:00

Getting to the Desk

The hardest part for me is getting myself to sit down and write. I have yet to find a tried-and-true, works-every-time method. So my explanations should be taken with a grain of salt. Bear with me as I try to enumerate how I write, when I'm just barely beginning to figure it out for myself.

The most exasperating advice, and irritatingly, often the most accurate, is this: just sit down and write. Have writer's block? Sit down and write. Put one word in front of the other, just like learning to walk, and eventually you'll be striding confidently along. This was advice given during the pep talks of NaNoWriMo, which actually helped me quite a bit. It doesn't matter if you go back and erase or edit most of it. The point is, you got past the writer's block by sheer force of will. It's quite a feeling of accomplishment. Okay, yes, but since we both know that it takes more than that, how do I actually get myself to sit down and write?

Sometimes, it's inspiration. I have an idea, or just an itch that tells me that I want to and need to write. It's a tingly, jumpy feeling, mixed with a bit of dreaminess, and I love it.

Sometimes, people ask me about my writing, which makes me think of it, which leads me to sit down and try it out.

Sometimes I've been reading something wonderful and I just want those beautiful words to have come from me, and it leads to the above-mentioned tingly feeling of inspiration. I have to be careful with this one, though, because if I've been too immersed in a certain author, that author's voice tends to come out. You should have seen me after I finished reading Catcher in the Rye.

Sometimes I'm bumming around on the computer, and either happen upon some of my writing, or a mention of writing online. This leads to the inspiring feeling of I-could-be-writing! And sometimes I even try it out.

Helpful so far? Probably not. So I will tell you this:

When I scold myself for not writing, and actually manage to force myself to do it, I rarely end up writing much, if anything, and rarely anything good.

When I realize that I could be writing, that I could use this time to create new worlds, new people, and I face the excitement of delving into new stories and ideas without knowing what is going to happen, and I have the time and ability to sit down and write, that is when fun things happen.

I'm learning that, as it turns out, getting myself to write seems to largely be about word choice, just like writing is. Once again, writing and life seem to go hand-in-hand. I love it when that happens. That realization also helps.

The realization that writing matters, that my words and stories can make a difference, that writing can be, often is, an intimate reflection of life, and a vehicle for learning about it...it reminds me why my dreams are not silly, and petty, and inconsequential to the rest of the world. As far-fetched as it may be, I have to be reminded that I May Have An Effect On The World. That is very important in making myself write. So if something brings that back to mind, it refuels the fire of my determination, and it can (less abstractly) lead me straight to my desk.

Would You Like to Buy a Dream?

2010-02-24T15:48:00.001-08:00

“Would you like to buy a dream?” asked the woman sitting on the park bench, bundled in so much clothing that the eye was unable to discern individual layers and left observers confused about where her body actually began. She asked with a gentle smile on her lips that just barely reached her eyes. She might have been 30. She might have been 60. The passersby she asked could barely look at her. Their paths eddied around her as if she took up much more space than she actually did. Budding trees behind her pulled her into their reality, making her seem a natural part of this scene. I drank my quickly cooling coffee and was sharply aware of the contrast between this downtrodden woman and I, in my clean, pressed suit.

“Would you like to buy a dream?” I asked a nice-looking woman walking by with her young daughter, and felt a little bit of my hope sink within me when she glanced sharply at me from the corner of her eye and pulled her daughter closer to her as they passed.

No one knew what it was to dream anymore, it seemed. No one understood this gift that I had to offer. I felt it, the dream, wriggling around under my many layers, and I wrapped my arms tighter around myself in order to keep it from flying away. It was mine to give, and I was trying to give it to someone who was worthy of it. Letting it fly off on its own—it might end up with someone who didn't deserve it, or worse yet, get stuck in a tree somewhere and be lost forever. It was best to keep it tightly under wraps until it could find a new home.

I could see the young man looking over at me, sharply bound in a suit of predetermined future. I felt sorry for him. Where were his dreams? I wondered if he wanted to come over, to ask for this dream I was offering, but was too shy. He wasn't quite able to meet my gaze. I understood, though. He wasn't quite ready yet to let go of his cut-and-paste lifestyle. It had been hard for me, too. I would let him take his time. When he was ready for a dream, I would be here.

Unless, of course, someone else bought it first.

RoboPope: The Prequel (Part Three)

2010-01-29T22:21:00.000-08:00

“So what now, Your Majesty?” I asked eagerly. “Is the other man an impostor, then?”

“Of course he's an impostor! Damned good one, too. But now, I am going to go back to my chambers and try to figure out what to do. You are going to go back to wherever you came from,” he grumbled.

“But I can help!” I said, jumping up and down beside him. I could be the key to solving this mystery, I realized. A real mystery, with the Pope!

“I certainly don't need any more of your help. I can do very well on my own,” he huffed, and turned to walk away. His knee buckled, and he almost fell to the ground. I caught him. He grunted, and looked up at me. I smiled widely back at him. “I guess I'm a little stiff from the torture.”

“He TORTURED you??!” I practically screamed.

“Well...yes...in a manner of speaking,” the Pope muttered, and would say nothing more. It must have been very traumatic for him. I patted him on the back sympathetically, before I realized that this was the Pope. So I took his hand and gave him a deep, reverential kiss on his fingers.

“STOP THAT!” He pulled his hand away from my lips, looked at his shaking fingers in disgust, and wiped them on his robe.

Holding onto the Pope's elbow to help him walk, I eagerly asked, looking up and down the seemingly endless hallway, “So where do we go now?”

The Pope looked one way down the hallway, then the other. A flash of irritated confusion crossed his face for a few moments, before it settled resolutely into a look of determination. He lifted one shaky hand, and pointed majestically in front of him. “That way,” he said solemnly.

Decades later, it seemed, we arrived at a main intersection in the Vatican. The Pope had quite stubbornly insisted that he had never been lost at any point: he was just taking this opportunity to explore regions of his domain that he was not often able to visit. I decided not to point out that he had revisited certain empty rooms and hallways several times during our journey.

“Ah, finally,” he breathed as he saw his guards bustling about, along with various clergymen having what must have been truly grave discussions regarding the human soul.

“They won't lose the match. Not after I've sunk so much into it!” I heard a particularly wise-looking old clergyman say to his companion as they passed by us, apparently completely unaware of our presence.

“Fantastic. My minions are here. They will help me sort things out,” the Pope said gravely as he prepared to step out of our inadvertent hiding place.

Suddenly, the people parted ways as someone began coming down the hallway, accompanied by guards. It was the Pope Impostor! And everyone began bowing to him as he went by! The Real Pope started huffing and puffing at their mistaken adoration. I grabbed him just as he was about to confront the Pope Impostor.

“Wait! You can't just go out there!” I whispered fiercely.

“And why not? I'll solve this problem once and for all!” he argued. “I'll get that impostor thrown into the deepest, darkest cell of the secretest dungeon,” he growled.

“But how did he get in here in the first place?” I asked him as he took his first step back towards the main hallway.

“What?”

“Well, either some of your guards are in on the plot, or he looks too much like you for anyone to be able to tell the difference,” I explained. “Either way, it may not be as easy as you think to just step out there and assert that you are the real Pope. Regardless, it will definitely cause a lot of chaos and confusion among your people.”

The Pope stepped back and squinted in my direction. He leaned in closer and stared at me, hard. “Good God. You're actually making a lot of sense.” He stood proudly upright, or at least as upright as he ever seemed to be able to manage. “Fine then. We will go to my chambers, and we can figure things out from there.”

“Oh, boy! Your chambers? Your real, private chambers?” I asked.

“Yes,” he grunted.

“Oh, I can't believe this! Can I take pictures and put them on my blog?”

“Of course you can't! How absurd!” he glowered.

“Can I at least see your ducky pajamas?” I asked shyly. His face darkened as he seemed to be swelling with a purple hue. Frightened, thinking he had somehow been poisoned, I leapt toward him to get whatever it was out of his throat.

“Get off of me!” he yelled, struggling with my arms around his waist, trying to pry himself free. “What in the world do you think you are doing??!”

“Saving you from choking on poison!” I explained.

“I wasn't choking and I wasn't poisoned!” he protested. I stepped away from him then, reluctantly releasing him from my hold.

“But you were turning purple!” His face began the whole process over again, and I opened my arms to rescue him, but he stopped me. He held out a hand.

“Get away from me, you foul beast.” The Pope turned and started walking back in a different direction. “God help me,” he muttered as he walked away, and I followed.

RoboPope: The Prequel (Part Two)

2010-01-25T22:02:00.000-08:00

Hours later, I was exhausted. I had been wandering forever, it seemed. None of the doors or hallways seemed to actually lead anywhere, or even have a purpose. It just existed as a confusing mess of unused building, sprinkled with priceless treasures, jewels, and gold.

Finally, I realized I had to sit and rest. A wonderfully ornate trunk was just down the hall in a niche. It had what must have been a twelfth-century tapestry laid over it.

I plopped down on it, resting my tired feet. I smacked my lips together with thirst. I could really use some whisky, I decided. I must have also been hungry, because I heard a strange sound coming from my stomach. After feeling the trunk move beneath me, though, I discovered that it hadn't been my stomach at all.

Back on my feet, I stared down, puzzled, as the thing began to thump, and the tapestry to vibrate. I looked both ways down the hallway, though I hadn't seen anybody for at least an hour. Then I tentatively leaned forward and knocked back on the trunk lid. There was a pause in the noises, but then a rapid, insistent knocking proceeded from inside. I jumped back. Then, I slowly leaned forward, lifted the tapestry, and found a lock holding the trunk closed.

“Um,” I said, feeling foolish for talking to a trunk, “the top appears to be locked.” I heard muffled yelling. “What's that?” I asked, and put my ear closer. Again, the mumbling. “I really can't understand you.” I paused. “I'm afraid I'm just going to have to break this lock open so you can tell me.” I took the mumbled yell to be an agreement, so I looked up and down the hall to find a possible tool. Ah, perfect. Conveniently, there was a full suit of armor standing there, with a sword.

I grabbed the sword, raised it above the lock, and slammed it down. When I opened my eyes, I saw that it had missed the lock completely, but had made a nice, long slice along the tapestry.

“Oops,” I said, and sat down to think about the best way to go about opening it. Finally, I had it! I angled the sword hilt toward the lock, so that the rest of it was sitting on the ground, and, with one swift bonk, the lock cracked open!

I scrambled to open the lid and was surprised to find who was inside.

“It's you!” we both exclaimed at once.

“Hey, you're the Pope's—um—friend,” I said awkwardly, averting my gaze from the man who had been in the chair and had a remarkable resemblance to the Pope.

“Well, you're close,” he grunted, as be began to try to lift himself out of the trunk. I noticed then that he really was quite an old man. I took pity on him, and reached out to help him up.

Once he was standing, puffing for breath and red in the face, he tried to speak again. It took a couple of tries before it worked.

“You fool,” he spluttered, and I drew back, offended.

“I AM the Pope!” he blustered.

I stood staring at him in shock. Finally, I could speak.

“You poor, sick man, you. Now, tell me where you live, and we can find some nice people to help you there,” I said, as I patted him on the shoulder.

I thought he had already caught his breath at this point, but he started puffing out his cheeks and breathing erratically. His face went from a rosy pink to red, almost taking on shades of purple. Oh, God, I thought. This poor lunatic was going to burst! I stood and watched in fascination.

“THIS IS WHERE I LIVE!” he shouted out finally. “I'm the bloody Pope! Are all of you people so stupid?” He had started flapping his arms about.

“There's no need to be insulting, sir,” I said haughtily. “I saw you with the Pope. Therefore, you can't be the Pope. You understand?” I tried explaining to him.

“He's an impostor! That—THING—came in and tried to get rid of me, so he could take over,” the man blustered, still standing in the trunk.

I looked him in the eyes, and narrowed mine. It was time to pull out the big guns, I decided.

“He had the hat,” I said. “And you didn't,” I finished. There. I had done it.

“He threw mine in the stove when he captured me!” His voice shook as he said it. “That was my favorite one, too.” Tears were forming in his eyes, and his lip quivered. I watched as he tried to compose himself, and I started to have an inkling. He really did look remarkably like the Pope. The other Pope had just kind of roared at me when I commented on his hat. But this man...well, he was in tears about it. Maybe...

“All right,” I said suspiciously. “What's your favorite song?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Ave Maria, of course,” he answered disdainfully.

“Hmm...well, everyone knows that,” I said. I thought for a minute. “Okay. What are your favorite pajamas?”

He blustered again, offended. “How dare you! That is not an appropriate question!”

“So you don't know the answer?”

“How absurd! They're MY pajamas!”

“So then you know that you prefer your penguins?” I asked, leaning forward.

“Penguins! Bah! My duckies are far superior to any penguins,” he said quickly.

I stood and stared at him in awe. He hadn't fallen for my trick. And since I had bribed guards before to tell me all about the Pope's personal preferences, I knew the right answers. And he had gotten it right. That could mean only one thing.

“Your Highness!” I shouted, and bowed down. I heard grumbling, so I stood back up.

“It's about time,” he muttered. I stood there, staring at him and grinning. “Well, are you going to help me out of this thing or what?” he asked.

“Oh! Yes! Of course!” I said, and took the Holy Hand as I led his Holy Aching Body out of the trunk.

Inside Love

2010-01-25T21:51:00.001-08:00

Inside love, you strive to find

humans uncovered, gentle sighs;

instead, leaves of vanity elude you,

opening underneath.

But here, understand:

Greatness, slippery, imbues love

in hearts,

not readily forsaken.

Inspired, lilting over veils enhanced,

your own understands:

here uphold grief, sadness;

here unearth grace, significance.

RoboPope: The Prequel (Part One)

2009-12-17T16:47:00.000-08:00

The day started out normal enough. I got up, brushed my teeth with my Jesus toothbrush, and went to the Vatican to see if I could get a glimpse of my hero, the Pope. I had all of his posters, and a special bobble-head doll that I managed to find just outside of Vatican City. I kissed it, as always, on my way out.

I whistled as I walked, clutching my folded poster under my arm. I chuckled at all the people around me, busy either working or going to work. Poor things. I was lucky. By the Grace of God, and the international market for frozen pizzas, I never had to work a day in my life. I was free to spend all my time devoted to the Pope, and praying to Jesus. Oh, that reminded me. I had a poker game later that afternoon. I would have to cut my adoring admiration short that day.

Approaching the massive construction of the Vatican, I entered the courtyard, and felt positively giddy. My heart started racing, as it always did when I got there, and I found myself suppressing giggles of excitement when I saw the guards in their fabulous attire. I had a hard time keeping myself from running the rest of the way. Finally, I got into the chapel. I took my customary place by Jesus' disintegrating foot, and held up my sign.

Every hour or so, I have to take a break and stretch. However, I make sure to only do the most holy of stretches there. Squats are, of course, expressly forbidden.

As I was going through my third hour lunges, I heard something strange. After a moment, I recognized it as laughter. I stood up from my lunge, and put my hands on my hips. Something was definitely wrong here. I picked up my sign, and started following the sound. I came to a door, hidden expertly within the church (though I, of course, was able to discern it) and discovered the laughter was coming from behind it.

My hair stood up on end, as it only did every other day, and I knew I had to do something. Counting to three, I threw my shoulder against the door and yelled. It had been quite painful, but the door hadn't budged. I counted to three again, but took a few steps back first. I ran toward the door with all my might, but, just as I was about to shatter it to pieces, it opened. My shoulder connected, instead, with the surprised face of a guard. Having achieved amazing momentum, both my shoulder and myself followed him to the ground.

Looking up, I saw a group of shocked guards standing in a semi-circle around a card table, quickly becoming quite angry. I stood up, and before I could eloquently explain the courageous reason for my intrusion, I strangely found myself fleeing the scene, my poster still tightly clutched in my hand.

Naturally, they followed. I took as many doors and turns that I could, and soon found myself in a completely unfamiliar part of the Vatican. I sneakily managed to trick the guards into running past me while I hid in a doorway. I sighed with relief. I though about it, and chuckled quietly to myself.

The hallway was long and quite unadorned for the Vatican. There must have been only two or three priceless treasures there, and only the ceiling was gilded. I put my hands on my hips and pursed my lips. Now how would I get out of there? I wandered around for a while, opening various doors (slowly, I had learned), trying to find a familiar area. However, I just seemed to get more and more lost. Honestly, that was all right with me--I was getting into the Inner Sanctum of the Vatican. How cool was that!

Finally, I opened one door, and saw some people inside.

"Oops!" I said. "Sorry!" And closed the door.

I stood there a moment, my hand on the doorknob, as my brain processed what it had just seen. I blinked. And blinked again. Then I slowly opened the door back up, and peaked my head in. The door opened the rest of the way almost of its own accord.

"Wow," I breathed. "Your Majesty!" I yelled, and bowed down to the Almighty, the Pope Himself! I heard a grumble, so I stood back up. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Mr. Pope sir! I'm just--I'm such a big fan! I love what you do!"

Then I noticed the fire burning in the old-fashioned wood-burning stove beside him, which was covered in diamonds and rubies, and the man seated halfway across the room from him. He was tied to a rather plain chair, and gagged. He was clothed in a white dress and looked remarkably similar to the Pope.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, seeing the desperate look on the man's face. "I didn't realize you were busy. Sorry."

I closed the door again. Then a thought came to me. I couldn't just walk away. I had to do something, consequences be damned. I flung the door back open.

"Mr. Pope sir?" I began, and swallowed hard as I noticed his eyes beginning to smolder. "I'm really sorry, but I just..." I took a deep breath, looked at the tied-up man, then looked back at the Pope. "Would you please sign my poster?" I grinned and held it out. I unfolded it and showed it to him, doing my best to look adorable and forgivable at the same time.

He stared down at my I LOVE U, POPE! sign, and then he emitted a deep, grinding, grating sound. My heart froze with fear.

"Right," I said, as beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. The man in the chair was wildly trying to gesture at me for some strange reason, his eyes wide and wild. He jutted his chin up in my direction, then in the direction of the Pope, and seemed to be trying to say something. I squinted at him, unable to make out any of the words. Then I turned back to the Pope. "Maybe this isn't the best time," I said. I began to close the door, then opened it again as I added, "Sorry again." Once again, I started pulling the door shut, then remembered what I had always wanted to say to him.

"I love your hat, by the way." Then, the Pope growled: a huge, monstrous roar. I slammed the door and walked away. I guess he has a sore spot about the hat. Go figure. I'd always thought he liked it.

Oh, my God, I thought. I just met the Pope! I squealed with delight, and continued on down the corridor, trying my best to keep my skipping to a minimum.

End of NaNoWriMo, End of An Era...

2009-12-01T14:38:00.001-08:00

Okay, so the era only lasted one month, but it felt like a long time! Actually, it felt incredibly short, but it DID feel epic, like any worthy era should.

And guess what?

I DID IT!!!!

Despite never having even attempted to write a novel before, having no idea what I was going to write about, and having virtually no ability to write a comprehensive outline for my fiction writing, I won!

I started late, was in a play, got the flu, dealt with life crises, but I did it.

I am so proud.

Now, the next questions are...is the novel any good? What now? And what's it about?

Interestingly enough, I find all of those questions pretty equally difficult to answer.

So, for now, I shall try to read back over my novel (my NOVEL!) and do some editing. Then I'll try to determine if it's worth anything.

Who knows? I may even take a wild, boyish fling at writing (short fiction again, that is, to post on this). Confused why I said "boyish"?

Watch Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Nanowrimo!

2009-11-10T00:06:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the extremely long silence here. I was dealing with sickness and death (not mine, obviously) for quite a while, and wasn't able to get myself to write anything.

Now, however, though there are definitely no guarantees that I'll be posting a lot here, I am doing Nanowrimo, which for those who don't know, is the National Novel Writing Month, in which writers join an online community, and do their best to write a 50,000 word novel, all in the month of November. I got started a little late, and am currently up to 8,000 words. *Phew* I hope I can do it. Maybe I'll keep this updated with how that is progressing, and what it's like for me, considering I've never done this before. In fact, outside of college papers, I can't remember the last time I strung 8,000 words or more together. So, it's a test to see if I can write long-form fiction. Weee! Here we go! Let me know if you want to hear updates about this..

A Painful Discovery

2009-09-22T00:32:00.000-07:00

She discovered, for the first time, what it means when someone says, "I already miss you." She never took it seriously, and scoffed at those around her who used it, who told her. "But how can you miss me, I'm still right here," she would retort brusquely; she never paid much attention to how they reacted, once she had handed down her sentence.

And now, she can understand. She can feel it, though she can't explain it. He shrinks, she can see, ever so much a day, a week, a month--and life is filled with hills and valleys: some improvement today, a dip tomorrow--but she slowly understands what it means; what it always must mean.

"I miss you," she says to herself, though she cannot bear to put it into words, afraid that they'll become too real, too true, and that she might risk hurrying things up by forming them in the air. "I already miss you, even though you're still here."

She is starting to understand--too much. She wishes she didn't. She thinks about how it'll be, without his things around. She imagines the cleaning-up process of his medicines, his food, his IV. Will they do it right away, or will they wait, not wanting to face that kind of elimination immediately? What will it be like, without him around?

She cries. She cries, knowing there is not much she can do; not knowing what else she can do; not knowing, barely hoping but secretly, deep down, wishing...maybe he will last, maybe he can get better, if she just does the right things, the right amount, the right amount of love, of medicine, of food, of water. Maybe, contrary to everything she's known and seen, maybe there are miracles. But she doesn't dare to really believe.

She melts. After he has been yelling and crying while they give him what his body needs, her knees turn to jelly, and that same weakness travels up, down, throughout her body, until she collapses, without a strong bone left anywhere inside of her. She melts and stares ahead, until her strength leaks, pouring, out of her eyes.

She is strong and in charge, taking care of his medicines, his appointments, dictating what needs to be done, what he is currently liking, what he is currently needing and life continues, day by day. Life is normal, medicines and IVs become routine; she, even, feels stable. Until another one falls, or somebody trips. They walk away unharmed, but she has collapsed into a puddle, and will not rise again for a while.

"I miss him. I miss him, he's still here, but I miss him. He could live longer, he's strong, he could gain weight back, he could do it. I miss him and I love him and I want him to be okay. Please, be okay. He's dying and I can't stop it. There's only so much I can do. Why can't I do more?"

She tries and tries and doesn't know how much of her is given over to this, to him, to fear, to sadness, to pain, to loss. She doesn't know and can't know and almost doesn't care. As long as she can do something for him, it doesn't matter what she feels. She is young, she reasons, and healthy, so it doesn't matter how much of her is being consumed.

Why the 10 Days Exercise Failed

2009-09-16T16:03:00.000-07:00

Well, it was a random assignment for myself, and I was hoping that it would inspire me (force me, rather) to write a little every day, without getting overwhelmed or intimidated by the word count. One of the biggest problems was that I didn't give enough thought to my first day's writing. I figured that it would develop, day by day, and change (which it did), and become interesting (which it didn't). And there's the problem...I quite simply got bored. I was happy to be occupied with other things, because it didn't seem to be leading anywhere, and, frankly, it was getting cheesier by the day.

I was (am always) horrified to start writing like I did in middle school and high school again. Basically, aside from the stories which I call "shy girl fantasies," (stories in which the cute, possibly popular boy sees the quiet girl and starts to like and think about her, because she is mysterious, interesting, and attractive), and the stereotypical dark and morbid poems, I wrote "inspirational" poems and stories with horribly obvious morals and supposedly uplifting messages of hope, etc. They're really quite dreadful. So, I was worried that this exercise was starting to turn into THAT kind of writing.

Don't get me wrong: one of my ultimate life goals is to write things that inspire people, that help promote change in the world, that makes the world a better place (and there's the cheesiness!). However, I believe that in order to do any of that, the writing itself must be beautiful and inspiring. Blatant moral messages can be seen anywhere, and tends to effect few, if any, people. It's too easy to acknowledge, then ignore, if not downright mock. In truly wonderful writing, though, the message doesn't have to be obvious. A masterpiece must present the ideas, then let the reader make the decision on her own, as the ideas, the passion to do something, blooms inside her, moving her, as a result of her own thoughts, to action.

Grand ideas indeed, especially for someone who is only occasionally moved to action, then slows down; often stops. That's why I'm hoping I can achieve this through my writing: combining my passions of writing and...how to phrase it? changing things, helping people, helping silent voices be heard.

Perhaps that is why I have such a difficult time getting myself to write, to finish stories. I know that I am not there yet (indeed I'm terribly afraid I never will be), and that I have so much to learn. And, of course, the biggest, most terrifying, and probably most common question:

Can I Do It?

Can I be a writer, am I any good? Will I ever be?

I suppose the moral here (haha) is that I think too much. But there you have it, the first insightful into-my-life-and-head blog post.

10 Words for 10 Days: Days 7-10

2009-09-15T19:39:00.000-07:00

Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A look into the past, and then I'll jump, breath held, arms out, praying that I have the courage to look at what I face, and smile. The wind whips through the desert, where I have been sent to face my worst fears, to see if I can come through on what I have proclaimed. My guide will be here soon, and then I discover what I am capable of doing.

10 Words for 10 Days: Day 6

2009-09-10T17:55:00.000-07:00

10 Words for 10 Days: Day 5

2009-09-09T13:03:00.000-07:00

10 Words for 10 Days: Day 4

2009-09-07T18:15:00.000-07:00

10 Words for 10 Days: Day 3

2009-09-06T16:58:00.000-07:00

Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A

10 Words for 10 Days: Day 2

2009-09-05T18:47:00.000-07:00

Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I

10 Words for 10 Days

2009-09-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show

Reverse Alphabet Exercise

2009-07-25T15:04:00.000-07:00

Zack could hardly stand to look at the reflecting pool of water anymore. Yesterday's events were still rolling through his mind, and the water did nothing to distract him. Xenophobia seemed to surround him on all sides and he had no idea what to do about it. Without much help or offer of friendship, he was a one-man protest against the scowling population. Vindictiveness was a quality Zack had never possessed, and so could not understand it in others. Unless he decided to give up everything he had worked for, he would have to learn to deal with the locals. To many people, he represented an encroaching difference, which they did not know how to abide. Sewn together in a web of distrust, the people nonetheless grudgingly accepted and counted on his services. Quietly, they would thank him for his expert advice, then run off quickly before they were discovered doing so. Perhaps it was this contradictory behavior which led to yesterday's actions.

Open until the last rays of sun faded in the valley, Zack closed his office in the dark. Never before had he encountered someone after he closed his doors, but as he turned, there stood Suzie Johnson, staring at him intensely. Moving toward him, he stepped back from the recklessness in her eyes, but she closed the gap swiftly and planted a kiss on his lips. Little did she realize that someone else was walking by, so when she saw the startled man, she turned back to Zack and slapped him, hard, across the face. Knowing the likely outcome, Zack pursed his lips with anger and looked at the ground, waiting for Hell to fall upon him. Just before the potentially fatal moment of the furious man's approach, Zack's eyes flitted up to Suzie and he saw the confusion, anger, and fear flit across her face. Instead of following through with the role of victim, she flung herself at Zack, screaming, "Wait!"

His heart was pounding, uncertain what anyone would do next, as the all stood, frozen, in the wake of that scream. Gaining a moment of perspective, the man stepped back and appraised the situation.

"Forever getting herself into trouble, little Suzie. Even for an educated man, she sure can do a lot of crazy, confusing things," the man muttered, looking at Suzie before nodding slightly to Zack as he walked away.

Donning a half-grin, Zack looked out over the water and wondered where the crazy girl had gone after she, too, had run away. Counting on the xenophobia to win out, he did not expect to see her again and was frustrated that she would never explain herself. Before he walked away from the pond, he felt a hand flutter at his shoulder and felt an answering stir in his heart as he turned to find Suzie standing, flushed, beside him. Any other time, he would have been shocked and suspicious, but now he could not help but smile as she dove into his arms and held herself there, cheek against his chest, tears soaking his shirt.

Return from Oblivion

2009-07-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

There was a planned hiatus, and then the beginning of new challenges, which comprised the last three weeks. So, I have returned and will, hopefully, return to prolific creations. Or start being prolific, depending on your definition. If you want to see more poems, more stories, more...something else, let me know. I just might oblige and, regardless, it'll encourage me to keep posting.

A Work In Progress: Part 1

2009-06-29T21:12:00.000-07:00

Forward into the unknowing minds, he felt himself slip so easily. No wonder no one knew a thing about him, since he did not know it himself. As haunting as an empty cave, his sense of self lacked substance and definition. Only through following what he saw in others could he suitably play his part in life. Slipping forward, as he thought of it, to lose his emptiness and fill himself with thoughts and feelings and personality--that was all that made living worthwhile. It was the only time that he felt, knew, that he was a complete person. It was as if he had discovered himself every time he slipped into another mind. Every time, it felt right, like home. But it never was, and he always had to pull back to realize he was still no one. His wavering reflection did not help as he tried to fill the space he was expected to inhabit. Maybe he was the only one who saw it waver in the glass, or maybe other people didn't bother to notice.

Standing in the afternoon sun, he avoided his reflection and became a part of humanity. Only a moment longer before she turned around and noticed him standing there, twisting and untwisting a candy wrapper, sucking somewhat noisily on a Werther's caramel. He liked being her; he liked how she thought and the funny way she looked at the world. She turned and glanced his way. He quickly averted his eyes and hurried away. He knew what she had seen. He didn't want to see himself through her eyes. Turning a corner, he breathed a sigh of relief. He wished he could remain with her, as her.

As always, though, he had to keep moving. Staying in one place for a long time just made him feel--uncomfortable, almost like he didn't properly fit in his own skin anymore. No matter how much he adjusted his clothes, his position, it felt like his own body was just too confining. So he moved on, went somewhere new, and either the moving or the being in a new place made everything feel like it should again.

The next morning, he found a cozy little coffee shop and settled in. Coffee shops were always in his morning routine. He drank coffee, not because he had any particular desire or need for it, but because that is what people do in the morning. No sooner had he begun doing this than people started being, in an off-hand manner, more friendly. They could understand a man in a coffee shop, drinking a cup of coffee. He fell into some wonderful minds in those coffee shops.

Within

2009-06-12T16:06:00.001-07:00

Abandoning the thoughts within

so the feelings will not show.

Time to take a stand, defend

the things I wish to know.

Forever in the muddied darkness,

I hear it calling true

beyond the doors the world would keep

to find my soul anew.

No more of taunting, deadened eyes

and watchful, bony grins;

no more of hearing myself lie

to know no more within.

The Story of G. Serbo

2009-05-26T14:21:00.000-07:00

The figure in the hallway shambled along, feeling his way through his own dusk with his hand along the wall. His hand was there only for support. His eyes could still, barely, make out the vague shapes that loomed and wobbled in front of him, but his despair that the beautiful world was fading away made him more unsteady. More and more often, images from his mind would overcome the dim picture in front of him and he would be overtaken with momentary panic that he had seen his last of the outside world. His memory, at least, was rich with images that would maintain his sanity and imagination.

One of his favorite images to recall was that of three construction workers standing in the dirt next to a large fire, green flames flickering between the yellow and orange. Behind them was a large, open parasol, made of delicate cream and fringed with lace. It was like something out of a dream, yet had appeared one tired evening before his eyes as he was heading home. No explanation was needed, nor did he ever receive one. It just was what it was. Sometimes existence was beautiful like that.

He eventually found his way to the door of the library. Not only did he have this place memorized by heart, but he could smell when he was at the door. Bookstores had a similar smell, but it wasn't quite the same: he preferred the library. It was a deeper, heavier scent, enhanced by history and time, the experience of having been read over and over.

The expansive space that existed in even a small library was nearly impossible to comprehend. Pages and miles of adventures, lives, emotions and tragedies existed in the span of only a few bookshelves. He entered the space, made his few greetings, and took his accustomed place next to a nameplate which, he supposed, was meant to make him feel important.

After a couple of hours, he heard and saw the vague outline of a girl sitting at a table near him, reading. He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder, partially out of kindness and partially for balance. She jumped slightly and turned her head. Gazing down at her, he could make out the mass of deep brown that was her hair.

"Tell me, Marie. How are the clouds today?" he asked. She paused for a moment before answering and, he supposed, she smiled.

"There are some large ones spanning the top of the sky. They are thin and spread out, like melted whipped cream."

"Lovely, lovely."

"There are also a few on the horizon like shining, fluffy pillows," she added.

"Are they really like pillows?"

She thought for a moment. "No. More like cotton balls."

"Ah, I see. Thank you. Please, don't let me keep you from your friends."

She glanced down at her open book and smiled, resting her hand briefly on his before turning back to her story.

He moved to return to his desk, but decided to walk through the shelves instead. The past few days had been particularly shaky for him and he needed the balance of the literature to calm him. A beautiful young woman walked in front of him, a question posed on her lips. The most startling thing about her was that he could clearly see that she was beautiful. His eyes seemed to have returned to him: her inquisitive smile, the individual strands of dirty blond hair. He smiled widely.

"May I help you find something, miss?"

"As a matter of fact, a rich, beautiful Brazilian man has decided to marry me, and I know nothing about the culture at all! Well, darling, I thought that was just dreadful, so I decided I need to brush up!"

He chuckled quietly at her enthusiasm. "Books on Brazilian culture, then? Come with me, we have plenty over in this section." He walked purposefully, although not certain of his footing. He did not want the young woman, whom he saw so clearly, to know that he was otherwise mostly blind. He depended on his vivid memory and the slow counting of shelves with an outstretched hand at his side. When they reached the appropriate place, he gestured to the shelves where she could find all the information.

"Well, look at that!" she exclaimed as she reached up to the bookshelves, pulled out a few books and disappeared around the corner.

There had been something about the girl that he had found startlingly familiar. He was puzzling it over as he rounded a bend and choked on a scream. There, standing in front of him, was a gigantic insect. He was about to turn and get away as fast as possible when he noticed an apple sticking out of its side and the its pleading face as it drew slowly closer. He could see this insect just as clearly as the girl. He then realized why she had looked so familiar. This one he knew all too well and murmured, "Ah, Kafka. Finally we meet." He did not, however, know which book it could possibly want, so he walked away.

Heading to the front of the library, he realized his vision was becoming increasingly clear. As he approached the open area in the front, he heard many murmurs and voices speaking, which were clarified as he walked into view and saw various characters all over the library.

'There he is!" one particularly tall man in rusted armor shouted, and they all turned towards him. They walked over, some asking for books, others engaged in conversation with him and each other. He wondered how they all could have come to be. He looked up at the various characters wandering around and grinned softly. What did it matter? He could see. And he was among friends.

Fame Seeker

2009-05-25T14:08:00.000-07:00

I need to know what the world says

and I need to hear my name.

I need the laughing, crying, fear:

I need to learn no shame.

Above the empires rising tall,

and scandals running deep;

beside the lying, cheating, killing-

I need their ears, to keep.

Hear me as I lay in silence,

watch me as I find what's true.

Some echo beyond where they can go,

to find something that's new.

I need to know you hear me.

I need you to know my name.

I need to share a spark of truth.

I need to breathe it--Fame.

Harold Says Hello

2009-05-13T23:04:00.000-07:00

I know you see me. I know what you think about me. I really don't care. I sit here, like a rock in a river--no one pays any attention, they just rush around me. And every day, a woman walks by--long, flowing brown hair, or those startling blues, or even just a whiff of the right perfume--and I think it's her. I know it can't be, but, God, do I wish it were. I try to drown myself in whiskey--my poison of choice--and I think that it'll dull my memory of her. Maybe, just maybe, I'll forget about her for a while. I've been thinking that for five long years. You'd figure I'd have learned by now. But I haven't. I guess that some people just learn habits, and then--well, can't unlearn them.

Ah, you don't need to hear all the sorry details of the story. I mean, I started trying to forget, and I couldn't, and then I stopped caring. You know, good job down the tubes, my family gave up after a while, and my friends...well, they never did get it, anyway. So, I kept pouring the whiskey. I kept looking for her. Heck, I still do sometimes. And eventually...here I am, the star of 19th Ave.

But God, was she beautiful. And I don't mean the knock-you-down-with-a-stick model-type chick. I mean an honest-to-goodness beautiful, quirky person. She had her faults, but when she walked into a room, BAM! You couldn't see anything wrong with her. Heck, you couldn't see anything BUT her. That was the love of a lifetime. Unbelievable, that one. I couldn't see it, though, you know? I mean, what in the world was this beautiful woman doing with ME? Yeah, well, I guess that after a while...she couldn't see it, either. Just...up and vanished one day. No note. No stuff. No nothing.

You know, this stuff just knocks you right out. You can't remember a thing in the morning: no dreams, no nothing. And sometimes, it's just too cold out here to sleep. No dreams that way, either. I don't mind. I don't dream, I don't see her. I don't see her, she can't leave me again. Listen, I know it's time to move on, but sometimes the heart just won't let go. What can you do?

Oh, and...if you happen to see a tall, stunning woman named Vanessa with long, flowing brown hair, startling blue eyes, with the scent of lavender dust around her, just tell her...Harold says hello.

Waiting by the Sea

2009-05-11T13:43:00.000-07:00

Her hair is made of saffron silk

and sand is in her song.

Her laughter rings with morning's birds

and I'll be there ere-long.

I live among the memories--

she dances with the waves.

I sit; I wait so patiently

and know I must be brave.

My darling, how I miss you still

but know I'll see you soon.

I feel this old heart slowing down

and then--oh, and then

we'll fly together to the moon.

RoboPope

2009-05-04T19:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to the Vatican to have lunch with my good friend, the Pope. I met him many years ago and we now have lunch together once or twice a week. After lunch, the Pope and I sit together to drink some whiskey, play poker, and talk about old times. Once the doors have closed, the Pope tends to relax, shows his sweet side, and is generally less annoying and disturbing than his public persona. But this time, that didn't happen. He was acting stranger than usual, and I knew something was going on. Then I noticed the metallic seam along the side of his ear. I jumped up out of my chair.

"RoboPope! It's you! What have you done to my dear friend??"

RoboPope responded, but spoke in a creaky Latin, so I couldn't understand him.

"But, I thought that we had gotten rid of you! I saw you die in the Mouth of Fire after you tried to take over Catholicism!"

Again, he spoke, and I was frightened.

"Well, I guess that means you didn't. But where is my friend? I know it was you that offended the Muslims! The real Pope would never do that! You, sir, are an evil robot!" My eyes widened when I saw him reach his hands beneath his robes. I knew what he was going to do. He pulled out--the Bible of Doom! I had, unfortunately, encountered this deceptive device of doom before. Once opened, this common-looking Bible spits out a ball of fire. RoboPope began to open it and I jumped and rolled under a statue of Christ. The fire just skimmed the edge of the statue, and I couldn't help myself. I poked my head out.

"You can't do that! This is a Michelangelo!" I heard a horrible, screeching mechanical noise and I covered my ears. I then realized that it was RoboPope laughing. I shuddered. Then I remembered where I was. The Official Papal Staff was behind me. This was an emergency. I turned and broke the safety glass, pulling out the Staff. I rolled in front of RoboPope and his Bible of Doom and, using the Papal stick, I managed to push it into his bellybutton, which also happened to be his Off button.

I knew I had to find my friend, the Pope, fast, because RoboPope doesn't stay off for long. I looked into his bedroom and screamed for him. What could RoboPope possibly have done with him?

I had an idea. Of course! The cabinet where the real Pope kept the whiskey, cards, and the irreplaceable Catholic treasures. I was one of the few people who knew about it. I ran to it and sang Ave Maria six times, and the door opened! My friend, the Pope, was curled up.

"Are you all right in there?"

"Yes, yes, I'm okay. But there's something awfully uncomfortable behind my back." I helped him out and we looked inside. "Eh, it's only the rest of the True Cross."

"All right, so what do we do with RoboPope?" I asked.

Returning to the room, the Pope looked around and made a decision. We would wrap him in a priceless tapestry he'd had lying in the corner.

"Are you sure this is all right? This looks like a fourteenth century piece, " I said.

He snickered. "We're the Catholic Church! We can replace it. He glanced out into the hallway, looking both ways, then turned back to me. "All right, let's go!"

We carried him out in the tapestry, past all the dozing guards, and heaved him into the Popemobile. We drove through a secret underground passageway which connected the Vatican to an ancient fortress, which served as a prison for heretics and other people the Vatican didn't like for hundreds of years. Unbeknownst to local authorities, it still is.

The Pope and I stopped near the river, and pulled RoboPope out, throwing him, and the tapestry, into the depths. Interestingly enough, no one recognized the Pope. It might have been his ducky pajamas, though I would think his Pope hat would have given him away. He never does take it off, except when the bishops make him for certain functions. After we had finished catching our breath from throwing RoboPope, we turned to each other and sighed. The Pope put his hand shakily on my shoulder and turned me around toward the Popemobile.

"Lunch?" he asked. I agreed, and we headed back.

Out of My Senses

2009-04-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

My eyes mock me, refusing to reveal what must truly be there. The Gates of Hell rise before me, tears and sweat dripping off the creatures falling down, falling up the doors.

I can smell their fear; or is it my own? It tingles in my nose and the sweat standing in the air makes me freeze.

The drops touch my forehead, an ironic blessing, and tickle my arms on their way to the ground. The caress lingers and they laugh in my ears.

It is so silent: too silent for this scene, this place. Only the trickling of raindrops breaks through the invisible sound barrier and I open my mouth to scream, to crash into reality.

I taste the metal on my tongue and I can't help but swallow. It is sharp, acidic, and cruel. It bites me back and I can taste the horrors.

My senses tell me yes, but this cannot be true.

The bronze sculpture stares back, mocking.

A Conversation

2009-04-22T20:11:00.001-07:00

"What do you think?"

"I'd never do that."

"Can you believe--"

"No I can't."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more--"

"Than what she already gave?"

"Yes! Of course!"

"You can't be naive."

"You are!"

"Who are you mad at?"

"Her. Sorry. Not you."

"I know, but still..."

"I'm sorry, ok?"

"Ok, fine."

"I'll never forgive her."

"Believe me, I know."

"I'm better off, anyway."

"Damn right."

"That's humble."

"Come kiss me."

"You wish."

An Apology to My Craft

2009-04-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

I knew you were disappointed in me, as was I. I could tell you that life got busy, that new things came up. I could tell you, and it's true, that I still thought about you. A lot. But that will sound like an excuse, because it is. And if that isn't valid, I'm left without reason.

Yes, I was avoiding you. I didn't want to face my failure. I'm sorry.

Life is going better, though! You get to be involved in another part of my life, something that might go somewhere! That doesn't justify leaving you behind in the truly important capacity, though. My stories have been lonely and my poetry, silent.

I'm sorry.

I will try to do better and I will do my utmost not to avoid you again. I cannot promise, for promises are too easy to break and too hard to forgive. But I can try.

If you will take me back, I am ready to start again.

Animal

2009-03-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

Another way of looking,

no better way to go

in the midst of darkness falling

more here than you can know.

again, I see hearts pounding

like my footprints through the snow.

Angel

2009-03-17T14:40:00.000-07:00

There's an angel up above

looking down at me:

she smiles oh-so-sweetly

from her perch upon the tree.

Nowhere else to wander,

I stand and gaze above

she swings her legs with childish glee:

an angel truly made of love.

Dance Contest

2009-03-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

A slip of the tongue

and she stumbles

to the pavement

as her universe rumbles,

growling, beneath her feet

Her sole interest divided:

it cracks, lets the good times

seep through and bruise.

Dancing is no crime,

but now she feels defeat.

The contest is over--

stupid old shoes.

Gray Film

2009-03-02T16:01:00.000-08:00

A gray film floats on top

Resting, awaiting its judgment day.

Its essence gurgles as a light breeze

thrills it across the water;

It jumps in surprise when a fish

nips at it from below.

It doesn't know where it came from,

but it's happy.

In the sun, it almost glimmers

--almost beautiful

In the shade, it's barely there

--almost belongs.

Ingrained in the film,

there's a moment

Entranced by the film,

I am there.

The Writer's Process

2009-02-23T21:58:00.000-08:00

"Anyone moderately familiar with the rigours of composition will not need to be told the story in detail; how he wrote and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut out; put in; was in ecstasy; in despair; had his good nights and bad mornings; snatched at ideas and lost them; saw his book plain before him and it vanished; acted his people's parts as he ate; mouthed them as he walked; now cried; now laughed; vacillated between this style and that; now preferred the heroic and pompous; next the plain and simple; now the vales of Tempe; then the fields of Kent or Cornwall; and could not decide whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world."

Ladies and gentlemen: Virginia Woolf! This comes from her infinitely engaging novel Orlando.

I must say it makes me so happy to read these words, not only because of the accuracy, but because it reassures me that I am not alone in my process.

Yet, this does beg the question: is it better to feel comforted and know there are others that experience things as I do, or...is it better to feel alone and know that I am unique and thus, might be able to say something original?

But then again, how can you ever know if you are unique?

Which does, of course, lead to other questions about the meaning of "unique," the possibilities of individuals vs. products of certain societies...but I think I shall leave that be for now.

Diamond Glimpses

2009-02-23T15:16:00.000-08:00

Dizzying spirals convinced him that his seat was the most comfortable place to be. His frozen hands were as immobile as if they'd been tied behind his back. He was, theoretically, free to go. However, his body didn't seem to agree with that. He sat and watched his world twirl and spin. Shimmering pinpricks of light appeared, first in this corner, then over there, then in the center of the spectacle, all over, like peaking at diamonds in a separate, yet desperately close, dimension. The effect deepened and moved from his body on into his mind. He reeled with the possibilities and endlessness of the abstract. He floated, free from constraints, expectations, social dictates.

Alone in his room, the beige walls sighing, he experienced something spectacular. A once and unique expression of what was happening in his head was allowed to appear before his eyes. The straight lines of reality blurred and fell away, leaving--everything else. Underneath the golden circles forming in front of him, he began to see without needing his eyes, and envisioned his life, that of his mother, his barber, some child in a distant country. He saw them all coming together, overlapping in certain areas, parallels developing along their memories, their thoughts, their joys.

His long-forgotten muscles began to move, to strain and twitch: the corners of his mouth headed north and his eyes borrowed some of those other-dimensional diamonds.

He could see so much more than he ever could before. And the straight lines in the world fell away, completely, to reveal the web, pulsing, alive, connecting him to the chair, the chair to the tree it came from, the tree to the earth, and the earth to the stars.

He fell away, inside that web, into what he could now see and the borrowed diamonds in his eyes found their way down into his soul.

No one else in that web, those who saw in straight lines, ever figured out where that sad old man could have gone. All that was left was the chair and the sighing beige walls.

In addition to general comments, I would love to know how people interpret this piece. What do you think is going on?

Alphabet Exercise

2009-02-18T16:46:00.000-08:00

All along, she knew that he was ready to burst. Before she could do anything about it, he had taken his things and left. Could she have known that, she would have locked his door. During his long months in therapy, he never seemed to change or open up. Even though the doctor said he was making progress, she could only see the circles growing under his eyes.

Finding out later that he had taken a boat to Europe made her anguish both better and worse. Getting the news that he was doing his own thing, finally taking charge, was wonderful. Having to realize that he never wanted to see her again, was awful. Instead of being able to be happy for him, she decided she must follow. Just in case he wouldn't be able to see her without blowing up, she donned a disguise. Kindly old gentlemen, she recalled, had always made him grin: their shaky legs slowly taking their wisdom from place to place.

Leaving behind all that she had known, she flies after him, occasionally scratching at her itchy new beard. More than once did she think she saw some knowing, amused faces staring at her. No one could really figure it out, she reasoned, but that didn't make her any more comfortable.

Opening her nose to her new location once she stepped out of the airport, she discovered that this scent felt like home. Protecting the newly acquired identity, she joyfully hobbled along the cobblestone streets. Quietly muttering her thoughts to herself about how silly the whole thing was, she bumped into a tall stranger. Resisting the impulse to wrap her now-old arms around the first human contact she'd felt in long while, she looked up to bestow a kindly apology to the man. Strangely enough, this was another old man whom she had walked into, and she could see faint signs of his beard wisps hanging off of his face at quite unnatural angles. Though she knew the chances, she ventured a guess. Using the cane as support, she looked up at a steep angle into those eyes surrounded by wrinkles.

"Vernon?" While she watched the shock on his face reverberate through his fake wrinkles, hers crinkled and started jiggling with laughter. "Xerosis got you already; I can see it's so bad that your beard is coming off."

Young in heart, as in actual years, they laughed together, staying more or less in each other's company for years, as their new, wrinkled selves. Zinging each other, they would sit in parks, chuckling at the young kids and the foolishness they got into.

Finding God

2009-02-18T11:51:00.001-08:00

I found God. He/She/They was down at the corner store, trying to steal a Snickers bar. That poor cashier. He just didn't know what to do. Was God allowed to steal? After all, to some extent He/She/They did create the Snickers. But on the other hand, if He/She/They didn't perform a miracle to square up the cash register, that cashier would be blamed: maybe even fired. And if the cashier let God take the Snickers, might he then be deemed a saint? It was so confusing that both the cashier and I, having just walked in, blabbered incomprehensibly in God's general direction while He/She/They smiled at the both of us and walked out, pretending that there wasn't a Snickers stuck in His/Her/Their pocket.

Fantastic Breakthrough!

2009-02-17T19:52:00.000-08:00

I've been having problems with figuring out how to finish one of the short stories on which I've been working. (Speaking of which, aren't dangling prepositions about to be okay due to their common usage in everyday language? I'm waiting for that to happen, cause I know it will.)

I've been beating myself up because I figured I just don't know how to finish stories, looking to some of those writing books even for guidance, deciding I really don't know how to write.

Today, I had an epiphany. I knew what to do. I knew there was a new character who had to come into the story, which promptly found an ending.

Now, it's far from being finished and polished and perfect, but damn, it's done!

I am so happy! I can't believe it finally came to me, and I don't even know how. I wish I could figure out how to make it happen, but it's that Inspiration thing that just happens. And no one has ever been able to explain it. Amazing.

I just know now that I have to keep a story in my mind, turning it over, thinking about it, in order to be able to eventually find out how it is supposed to unfold.

What I Want: A Declaration

2009-02-10T12:42:00.000-08:00

I want to write.

I want to discover and learn. I want to learn how and why the world works, and how and why people work. I want to discover through my writing. I want my writing to be beautiful, inspiring; I want to learn something from it every time. As I write, the words and the story reveal themselves to me and teach me so much.

I want to know everything. I want to learn and have other people learn alongside me as my words flow out. I want to learn how to finesse and caress my words, my stories, my characters, until they are sublime.

I want to change the world. I want to challenge established authorities and question the natural order of things: common knowledge, common sense. I want to learn and teach how to make the common extraordinary, unnatural, bizarre. I want to show people how the world is, how it could be. I want to make people think. I want to illuminate, mystify, tease and teach.

I want to discover unknown worlds. I want to understand other people, other perspectives, other lifestyles...other creatures, other consciousnesses.

I want to see the possibilities. I want to show the possibilities. I want people to know. I don't need them to know me, but I want to show them things.

I want to write. I want to create. I want to learn. And I want to share.

Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming

2009-02-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

After a very unfortunate incident which involved a brutal fight between a glass of juice and a laptop computer, my Internet access was sadly limited. Now that I have paid with my soul to renew my access and former lifestyle (in the shape of a strikingly familiar-looking, yet entirely new computer), I have returned.

Just a short explanation for my sudden disappearance shortly after starting this blog.

Words

2009-01-12T17:43:00.000-08:00

Words set in ink, set in pixels and set adrift on the currents of melody fascinate me.

Significant words on significant tongues capture and delight me for hours.

I am consumed as I consume ideas and beauty.

Literature is serious, but words are fun.

Both, in the right hands and the right situation, can be dangerous or liberating.

Both occupy my mind, my time, my world.

Literature is not as simple as stories in books. When written and used properly, literature encompasses and teaches us about life. Literature is the study of the mind, people, the world, politics, philosophy, culture and so much more.

This is a blog about life, literature, and dreams.