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Strangers in Darkness

Posted in Writing

Strangers in Darkness

 

Dedicated to J. Rush

 

 

The train whisked down the tracks cutting through the night. Only blurred blackness now passed across the windows, perhaps an occasional glimmer of light reflected from somewhere outside. The car rested in near silence. All but a few remaining sallow, sleeping, and weary faces remained within. The train was headed home, to the end of its line. Only one final stop left in which to vacate those remaining strangers. Outside against the metallic bulk of the beast the wind whispered as air slid along its sleek sides. The wheels upon the rail rocked in a steady rhythm. The clatter became a source of comfort through the passing hours of the night. There is something oppressive about the feeling of the darkness outside. It hangs like a heavy pressure against the glass of the windows. Skin pricks beneath the presence of it, and it makes those unfortunate enough to still be out long for the comfort and sanctuary of the walls of a familiar house around them. There is a feeling of security within the train keeping the nighttime outside at bay and causing a tingle of excitement to stir for those who sit and watch, feeling the power of the metallic beast beneath them.

 

Vicki was among those cradled within on the last ride home. Her head pressed just against the cool glass of the window. Moth-like eyelids fluttered closed, burgundy red lips parted open just so. The touch of the fingers of a black velvet glove rested softly against her cream white cheek, her other hand hung placidly across her lap. It was perched atop an angled knee with her gazelle legs crossed. A tumble of curly dark tresses fell against her and spilled over flowing off of her shoulders half veiling the side of her face which was turned away from the window. Settled upon her head, gently as a bird’s nest upon her hair was a pill box hat of rich dark sapphire trimmed in raven feathers and pinned with a silver broach. She wore a straight black dress which clung against the curves of her body, born of a day when a woman knew how to reveal more by showing less. Deception was the game and it was ruled by sophisticated elegance that put all the mini skirts and halter tops to shame. A slit ran along one leg of the dress, seeming to ride dangerously high, yet offered nothing but suggestion, denying the traveling eye. Who was this creation of the night that seemed to have stepped off the silver screen into another era? Yet, still even in her sleep she held herself with self-assurance and almost angelic poise.

 

This lovely, eccentric creature has not passed unnoticed. Though there remained few to observe her within the car, there was one who had followed her with a steady gaze since her first appearance upon the train. It is no wonder that she should attract some attention. In addition to her peculiarities in dress there was an allure like a lingering exotic perfume which followed her and she was inexcusably beautiful. A beauty of the classic period which she seemed to emulate, a beauty that is so very rarely seen today. How easy it is to become lost in her, but as to the other, the watcher he must be given due attention now. He sat a few benches behind her, but unlike her own repose he was coiled like a cat preparing to pounce, all tension and anxiety. His hands moved restlessly between his knees and his eyes held a fixed and almost hungry look. The features of his face struggled to stay under in control. He was no cool customer. But if it were not for his agitated manner, within a crowd he could have passed without notice, yet that is not to say there was nothing outwardly remarkable about him. The close observer would recognize something within him, something they would walk away from in a baffled state. Something they could not have named or explained, but would not soon forget, and perhaps by the time their mind finally retrieved what it was that unsettled them it would be long too late. On the street, in a crowd, within the public, to the average pedestrian or passenger he was inconspicuous. Just another working Joe.

 

His clothes were unimaginative, but that perhaps is not a fair statement, in contrast to the sleeping beauty who would not be unimaginative? His clothes were but a reflection of current trends and fashion. The middle ground which was neither too trendy nor outdated. A plain gray hoodie sweatshirt, so much in vogue, particularly thanks to Jack Bower, and the clothing of choice for a wide age and social range, from hoodlums to college kids, loose fitting blue jeans with wide dragging cuffs that hung over what looked to be three year old sneakers. He was not what one might consider traditionally handsome, but nor was he repulsive. There was a ruggedness to his appearance, perhaps he would not turn any heads, but under the right circumstances, with the right personality, he could fair rather well if he put some effort into it. His features were sun dark and his hair looked as if it would benefit from a good washing. It consisted of chaotic strands of dark brown which spilled from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. His hands were rough and had known in their time physical labors which may also explain his complexion. One might judge him to be in his mid-thirties. Perhaps it was because of his mode of dress, or a heaviness in his body, not a heaviness of size or weight, but of physicality. Something about him that seemed much more corporally connected to the earth compared to the fair creature who obtained his attention. Even so there was an element of abstraction which hovered around him and withdrew him from the world at large.

 

The train continued to roll onward to its final destination of this inky night oblivious to the occupants which resided inside. Dead to their secrets and their inner and outer lives, it was on the vessel to transport their bodies across terrestrial distances, but in this, innocently also heading either toward or away from the workings of fate. The blessed or cursed few who resided within that car with those two strange souls who have been placed in each others way remain inconsequential, as well as whatever other activity might be stirring throughout the rest of the train is of no importance to the two destined passengers.

 

Vicki stirred within her seat. Her eyes flicked open as she began to rouse herself. Lifting her head from the cool press of the glass she cast a glance around the near empty compartment. Gloved fingers delicately touched her lips as she concealed a passing yawn. Boldly her eyes turned to face the outer darkness looking through the window into the great vast nothingness. It is a strange notion held by so many cultures, that the eyes are windows into the soul, while windows themselves seem to be thresholds which allow us to peer into other worlds beyond, while at the same time acting as barriers. Humanity has a fascination with portals and a fear of reflections. So much myth wrapped up into windows, mirrors, eyes, cameras, clear pools of water….anything that captures images of ourselves and the world beyond us and freezes them into place, or distances us from our surroundings. But there is something perversely appealing about private voyeurism. Sometimes it can be taken too far.

 

 The watcher was achingly aware of every movement which his object of attention began to make. He shifted in his seat with new found disquiet sparking in his hunter’s eyes. It was as if an invisible cord ran between the two of them and he was connected to her. So attuned he was to her presence and every change within her demeanor but behind the apprehension lurked a deep inexplicit fear. The fear that haunts and excites all voyeurs, the fear of detection. The dread that all she had to do was by chance turn her head and catch sight of him and everything, all of his inner thoughts, his untold desires, would be writ upon his face. It is one of the difficulties of the guilty, at every moment they anticipate that someone will look right into their eyes to their very soul, cliché perhaps, but no less true, perhaps this is the meaning of myth and supersistion. It is based on some simple truth. The things we wish to hide, or those we are most aware of on the continence of every face we pass. Just consider the misfortunate figures that haunt the pages of Poe’s work, alas how many perfect murders may have been committed if only the narrator did not already convince himself that his crime must be known by all. The ever beating heart of our victims, or the yowling of the furies.

 

To return back to the fay, for quite the reverse of her admirer, she was the picture of pristine calmness. One might wonder about this, if one can forgive some ghastly stereotypes (which to be fair often proven truer than some may like to admit), her complete serene self-confidence may be more unsettling than the twitching eagerness of the nameless stranger. For one might question how so peculiar a woman traveling alone at night in such desolation might remain so self-possessed. Her timing was impeccable; perhaps it was an act of habit, an inner clock which activated from practiced routine. Shortly after she awakened the breaks of the train began to squeal disrupting the peaceful, if unsettling quiet and calling into the night. The metallic beast rolled into a halt. The last stop had arrived. The doors slid open now letting the night in, disrupting the barrier, but it offered a welcome of being able to return into familiar territory. The ultimate sanctuary of home. Once the train settled itself Vicki rose from her seat balanced expertly upon a pair of her break neck heals.

           

 She made music all of her own as she exited the train. Her heels signing upon the ground with every step she took. Folded just beneath one of her arms she carried her evening purse. Her long graceful legs carried her in an even, determined glide to one of the stone pillars which stood as silent sentinels in the darkness casting long shadows. Vicki leaned back against the cool solid rock with a definitive snap the purse clicked open. Her gloves dived within as her fingers picked out a package of cigarettes and elegantly drew one out to place against her lips. A secret smile graced her face and in her eyes was a look miles away from her angelic repose during her easy slumber. She turned with perfect precision just in time to stand face to face with her pursuer.

           

 It should come as no surprise that he, who should be called Thom, perhaps that sounds too sophisticated for this elusive but ever present figure, but one does not always get to choose one’s names, be it the names others give us, or the names we give ourselves, it seems the names choose us more than the other way around, so it is Thom, because that is the name which chose him, was not far behind in rising after her and not once lost sight of her. With predatory care he slid out of the train and prowled through the shadows. It was evident he was not new to this game so it fell as an appalling surprise to find her eyes looking into his own with shocking electricity.

       

     From a distance one might be led to believe she arrived at this very spot, at this very moment for no other purpose than to meet him here. “You don’t have a light by any chance do you?” Her voice was direct and fluid with a sultry air and caressive effect. Her gaze never wavered. A disquieting smile of clandestine understanding poised upon her lips. Thom was rattled and his senses began to elude him. He had not prepared for this moment. Perhaps he was not so clever a hunter as he fancied himself, or his history of easy prey began to weaken his senses, but when faced with something so unprecedented he stumbled, and lacked for an instant, an instant which can be the beginning or end of a person when the stakes are so high, the ability to regain control over himself and the situation.

 

His previously nervous hands fumbled within his pocket before producing a book of matches. One might not peg him for a gentleman, and that would not under most accounts be an inaccurate presumption, but now he found himself striking one of the matches and touched the flame which sparked through the darkness between them against the tip of her fag. During this reception her eyes took the occasion to drink him in steadily and unwavering. “Thank you dear!” She spoke smoothly as the smoke filled her lungs in guilty delight before being released back into the atmosphere once more. “I know you have been following me.” She stated it with such simplicity, without question, and without accusation, but as if it was only the natural order of things. “You look like you could use a drink darling. What do you say?” She offered the faintest shrug of one of her shoulders. Her question laced with understated demand, she did not wait for an answer, did not expect one, but clearly she had every expectation of being obeyed. She pivoted without looking black, and in her slinky dress her hips sashayed as she began to weave through the emptiness of the train station. But each ring of her heals against the stone floor appeared as a command of a master calling his dog to heal.

 

What was Thom to do? A wise hunter knows when to give up the chase, and how to avoid a fight, but they say some wild animals once they have the taste of blood, become insensible. It grows into an addiction, a need, which surpasses reason and teeters upon madness. Perhaps he needed a new thrill. Whatever derogatives one may wish to prevail upon him (and not unfairly) he was still a thinking, relatively intelligent (as much as we humans ever can be) being, and all thinking beings that live on the edge of danger become bored with too much success and crave the next elevation. It is the same old story of the big game hunter who becomes too much the master of his prey and begins to loose that edge, becomes too confident, and feels he has conquered all there is in the wild kingdom. Seeking something new, a worthier challenge, he turns to human game. So what happens when someone starts out preying upon humanity? What is the next step from that?

 

A few words should be said about Thom now. Thom is a sociopath. Did his mother not love him enough? Or did she love him too much? Was his step father a pervert who got off on little boys? Whatever other typical reasons that seem to most commonly drive those like Thom are irrelevant. What is important in is the fact that he is a predator and a killer and has been preying upon women in gruesome and grotesque ways for a long time now. He is clever and vicious, though perhaps not want one might call a genius of the art, he has developed the instinct and skill of an animal. He has learned to cover his tracks and to move under the radar. He has become quite good at what he does. Now a wise hunter knows when they encounter circumstances that are unknown to them, when they sense inexplicable danger, the best thing to do is to retreat but Thom is as mentioned an addict. He has had it too easy for too long, desperation has set in which leads to sloppiness. A conscious sloppiness, which usually eventually leads to capture. It is born out of the need to feel that thrill of danger again which starts to fade. So Thom was compelled, by the enigmatic danger that hovered around this woman who seemed to defy all logic, sense and basic nature. A new thrill was born within him and he felt alive in a way he had not since his very first kill. There was nothing he could do but follow her command. In part driven by the infernal desire to command and dominate the woman who so boldly defies him and in part to conquer over the self-hatred that he allows such women to arouse him.

 

By an act of good timing which seems to defy all reality and perhaps bends the laws of time and space itself, be it through well practiced precision, or perhaps a simple fluke of luck which conveniently showed itself at the very moment that Vicki exited the train station a black Cadillac appeared before her. “Our chariot has arrived.” She spoke without sparing a single look behind her. One can suppose she must have heard his footsteps behind her for that is much more likely then the suggestion that she does have eyes in the back of her head, or perhaps she has a particularly deep and assured understanding of human nature. Of course if this were the case it leads to question why she was bringing Thom home like a stray dog, but it has already been established that there is something fey about her and she does not obey the typical laws of reason and logic, but works upon her own agenda. One might even venture that she herself was no armature and all eccentricities aside it would be difficult to peg her as a naïve fool. Her eyes spoke of things that even Thom could not imagine.

 

Now one might think that the presence of a personal chauffeur ought to be the last and final straw to bring this charade to an end. After all witnesses are generally considered to be detrimental to one’s health for those who are in the business of death and depravity. It is understandable if the idea of applying any sense of reason or logic to a cold blooded sociopathic murder might make one uncomfortable at best, but they are called serial killers for a reason. It implicates more than one, more than even a few, and once when does make the ranks of a serial killer you can count that it is not all luck that gets them by. So they must use some form of deductive reasoning and basic common sense in their degenerate minds. At the very least, it should go without saying not to kill a woman when there is someone else who has seen your face and can directly link you to the victim and places you as being the last person she has been seen with while alive.

 

Thom unfortunately seemed now beyond the ability to consider this element, or perhaps it added to the exhilaration. He did not even hesitate at following her into the back of the car the black leather seats groaning beneath him, but before preceding a word should be said about the driver. Even the most genuine and innocent of people would have been reluctant to trust themselves to this most singular figure. There was nothing about him which may suggest that he is inept behind a vehicle, but after stepping into the car one might be left to wonder at the chances they might in fact be led to an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods. He was a tall lanky figure with rather gaunt features and deep set dark eyes. He did not appear to be a man who has ever smiled in his life and carried a rather dour expression. His brows were alabaster bushes, and his own flurry of white hair could put Albert Einstein to shame. He had a long hawkish beak of a nose and thin tightly compressed lips and one might wonder if he ever in his life spent a day in the sun for his completion. In fact he appeared to only be a few shades away from translucence. His fingers were long and slender twigs, one might say he was born to play the piano, but apparently circumstances have dictated otherwise. He was dressed in a black tailed coat over a pressed white short and a pair of black slacks, driving gloves fitted over his hands. For those flighty fingers one can imagine the gloves were custom ordered. He was quick to exit the car, and for his form moved with a surprising spry grace as he opened the back door to allow the entrance of his client offering a formal bow in the process. He said nothing of her guest and displaying nothing on his face. Once he saw the pair well seated he closed the door to retain his seat as the driver.

 

“Charon has been in the family for years” Vicki spoke to an unasked question as well Thom had yet to produce a single word, a fact which Vicki seemed oblivious or unaffected by. The declaration came almost in way of apology for Charon’s manner, and she put a particular emphasis on the word “years,” as if to suggest a passage of time beyond the normal human understanding of the word. Yet there was nothing of sympathy within her voice. It was not a suggestion that it was only some familial pity which induced her to keep him on, but rather that his services were deeply respected and valued. 

 

The hearse like funeral car pushed its way down near empty streets. Its tires made a gentle hush against the pavement as its lights cut through thick blackness which surrounded them. There were no other lights along the road; one might wonder that the abandoned cabin idea might not be too far from the truth. Nothing to be seen outside of the windows but vague outlines. Vicki sat back within her seat, once again with a subtle movement which spoke volumes one of her legs crossed over the other. Her gaze remained fixed ahead of her. On occasion her eyes trailed toward the windows. She seemed to admire the shadowy scenery with appreciation; perhaps it was the elation of knowing she was on the stretch home. During the journey she appeared to have forgotten about the presence of Thom. She was in her own reflections and had the atmosphere of a contented cat. Those he were at all familiar with the feline race generally know this is often cause for great concern and weariness.

 

What can be said of Thom at this time? What could he possibly say? It may be understood that serial killers the a whole are not great conversationalists, they do not on the whole spend a great deal of time among human society. He was thrown in a situation of which he was completely unprepared, quite out of his element, and bursting with the need. He could all but smell her. It took every bit of whatever rationale he still had left to control himself from striking right now, but he could not rush it. Too long he has savored this moment. Played it out in his mind, he couldn’t risk a critical err now. Though things were not progressing according to his own plans, there was still the opportunity to regain dominance over the situation. Sweat collected upon his brow and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously between his knees. He could not prevent himself from stealing infrequent glances towards her. He tried to restrict himself and fix his thoughts out into the darkness, but with every fiber of his being he felt her presence close to him.

 

How long passed was unknown. Time gave the impression of no longer existing within the distinguished car. But as it were after this unmarked period of time the vehicle began to pull into the drive of the house, correction the use of the word house here is a gross understatement. It was at worst a mansion, and at best a palace all its own. The grounds cast now within concealing darkness, but the driveway was at least a mile long. In silhouette the building provided a rather eerie spectacle, a classic haunted house. It loomed up within the darkness almost as if it grew right out of the ground to climb toward the sky. The architecture appeared to be straight out of medieval Europe, with a touch here and there of classic Victorian. Strangely enough this synchronism worked.  In the front was a pair of high arched windows. The doorway consisted of a pair of heavy towering wooden doors with an arch curved over the doors which was intricately carved with the scene of Dante’s first ring of hell. A twisted whirlwind of souls which are swirled together indistinguishable, ever passing each other, never able to grasp hold. Within the etching occasional grotesque limbs emerge trying to break free. A screaming face, pain and torment, bodies twisted together. Just above the door was a wooden plaque with the words etched within gothic letters that read “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.”

 

At her approach to the door before Vicki even thought of rising her hand the doors swung open and they were greeted by a handsome youth. His skin had a rich dark complexion and his eyes were intense brown. His age could be placed around thirteen years, but there was an unwavering seriousness about him. Dark brown hair hung down his back tied with a crimson ribbon at the middle in a gentleman’s tail, if that gentleman happened to be from the 17th century. He wore a fine, elaborative vest of blood red with silver buttons lining each side, beneath of which a crisp white shirt, and a pair of black slacks. A sash to match his hair ribbon and vest wrapped around his waist. He cut quite the fine figure. When Vicki entered the house a smile flushed with pleasure upon her lips at crossing the threshold. Her fingers graced the top of the young butler’s head, as a master offering affection of a loyal dog come to eagerly greet its master. “He was an orphan when I found him the poor thing, half-starved living in the streets, surviving as a pick pocket. He shall never forget how lucky it is that I was the one who caught him and not someone else.” At these words a private smile graced her lips, as if at some covert joke shared between the two of them, though the lads face never wavered or reveled anything.

 

Down the passage of the hallway only dim light flickered from candles mounted upon the walls, until opening into the parlor. The parlor was a vast open sitting room. The walls were lined with works of art that would leave one to question if they truly were authentic, or prints. The fireplace was man sized, with a pair of great columns one upon each side holding up the hearth’s mantel. Grecian urns sat atop of the mantle, and above it upon the wall what looked to be a coat of arms hung. Within the hearth the fire cracked and popped emitting a warm glow throughout the room. From a ceiling as high as vaulted churches, a great chandelier hung with what looked to have been thousands of lights. A beautiful Persian rug covered the floor within the sitting room which included an arrangement of plush comfortable chairs to sit.

 

Vicki walked over to the elliptic wooden table within the room as she pulled off her gloves with care and laid them aside before her fingers curled around the cool crystal of a decanter, pulling out the plug she began to fill a glass than pausing she looked back to Thom. “How about a drink dear? I do strongly recommend it, it will help you to relax.” Thom of course is not to be forgotten though it seems he has been left within the shadows of this substantial building, given no choice but to follow obediently behind. It is time to return back to him for a moment. One can only imagine the impression all of this had upon him. Perhaps we have neglected to treat Thom like a human being but than, perhaps his stake in the human race has been compromised long ago, and it is only suiting to perceive him with the same regard as a wild animal.

         

   It can be reasonably deduced that Thom has never stepped foot into a residence such as this, has not even dreamed of such establishments (perhaps it is best to stray far from the subject of what serial killers do dream about). It is a fair assessment that serial killers are not typically born out of wealth, not to say that wealth often ( does it ever really?) produces emotionally and psychologically stable environments, but it takes a very particular type of depravity to nurse the likes of Thom. While money cannot by happiness or a healthy outlook on life and relationships, it can buy drugs, and other outlets for eccentric deviations. Poor Thom was denied these advantages, and so was left to his own devices. Upon entering the house, there was something about the angelic and exotically beautiful Louis, the boy butler, that aroused a spark within Thom. His eyes devoured the boy, stricken by his own perpetual stare. There was something most singular in the boy, it was hard to imagine he had once lived such a ragged life upon the streets, yet at the same time there was a strange homogeneous quality about him between a rare maturity for his age with an equally rare purity. A purity that clearly is distinguished from naivety and innocence. Young boys were not generally Thom’s M.O. but than Louis was a most extraordinary young boy, and how could a ravenous killer turn down a two for the price of one opportunity. Fantasies of fresh young blood for the moment had to be repressed as Thom proceeded to follow Vicki further into the depths of the house.

           

To say the least one can understand why Thom would desire to keep a clear head and unclouded thoughts so with the offer of the drink, he spoke his very first word for the evening. “No!” Was his plain reply spoken in a deep ruff-edged voice, while he remained standing within the room, his eyes fleeting around before being drawn back upon the quarry. She gave a shrug of her shoulders as she started to drift toward the hearth turning to face him. “Suit yourself, but do take a seat.” Elegantly one of her arms extended as her fingers gestured to one of the chairs within the room, there was a subtle command in the action. Her eyes burned into him, as if to move him with the sheer force of her will. Thom resentfully obeyed and sunk into a deep velvet chair, it was quite the touch of irony that this scene paradoxes the train, now he appeared to be the one who was out of place and seemed not to belong. If the room were packed full all eyes would be automatically drawn to him. A thousand regrets played across his mind. Why was he here? What had gone wrong? Never had he before found himself trapped in such a situation. He should have done it back at the station, no games, no hassle, but he reasoned with himself that there was too much risk in the public place. Someone else by chance could have passed and interrupted his work. He fought the impulse to get it over with now, to end things before they went too far, but something stopped him. He could not allow someone else to take control over him, when he acted, he had to be of clear and focused mind, he could not act out of desperation. No! He would not let this strange woman disrupt his plans, now he had all the time to savor, they were alone (relatively) within the house in the middle of nowhere, nothing to disrupt him, he could take his time and wait until he felt the moment was right.

           

 Vicki lifted the glass to her lips and tilted it back, tasting the liquid fire against her tongue before it slid down her throat. “Did it ever occur to you, that the act of taking another life is really a barbaric and perverse deviation of the grail quest?” She began to speak with one of her arms propped against the mantle of the hearth as she stood before one of the marble columns her eyes level upon Thom. “If you think about it, in its most primitive base form it begins with the need for personal sustainability, animals are designed by nature, or God, whatever you wish to call it to continue life through the consumption of other life forms. And as we begin to evolve, become more intelligent, more sophisticated, if you wish to call it that, more complicated, instead of seeking a way to end or limit this brutal cruel need, it is ritualized, integrated in religion. You know, some cultures believed by consuming the heart, and other vital organs and body parts of their enemies they would gain their strength, courage, power, knowledge. Have you ever heart of Elizabeth Bathory, poor dear that she was, she believed that she could preserve her immortal youth through bathing in and consuming the blood of young virgin maidens. It was all very gruesome and grotesque, the way she would torture and kill these young girls for their vital life force. Of course speaking of blood one must come to vampire lore, the idea that a once human creature preserves and continues its own immortality through the blood of its victims. Even the Christians are guilty of the temptation of blood rites.” A deep chuckle passed from her lips as it seemed to have purred up through her throat, and a smile of quick wit flashed across her features. “But what if they have neared the truth, in their misguided attempts? What if the true fountain of youth lay within the essence, the life force, energy, soul, whichever definition makes you happy, of life? If one could find a way to capture that essence, to extract it from these physical substances the possibilities may be endless.   

           

She moved in closer to Thom standing just before him as her eyes looked directly into his own. “You cannot deny that feeling you get when you kill someone. It is as if in that very moment you are more alive then you have ever been before. Something deep inside of you awakens, in their death you can taste life’s sweetness, like the nectar of the gods.” She spoke without question, and without a flinch, there could be little denying now that she knew. She knew all along and yet she led him here, which brought the question, did she bring him here in spite of knowing, or because she knew? She leaned over him one of her hands propped herself against the couch so her eyes were level with his own and her words seemed to lance through him. “Do you ever look into the eyes of your victims during their last moments? Do you watch as the life goes out of them and the spark dies, have you ever felt the touch of the soul brush against you as it departed? Have you ever wanted to try and take a little something of them for yourself?”

           

 For the first time in his life, since his childhood and that one defining moment that set his fate upon this gruesome path, Thom felt something close to real panic, bordering upon fear. He was stripped of all his control and power. Here before him was a woman, a would be victim completely misconstruing her role. There was nothing about her of begging or pleading for life, there was not even that bestial rage driven by the fight and flight symptoms. There was only a cold collectiveness pinning his soul against his spine with a pair of arrowhead blue eyes locked onto his own, and a smile of condescending mockery. Thom was emasculated both as a man and a predator by this solitary woman, who should be at his mercy. Perhaps he was taken back to that moment as a child again when he was first stripped of all that he was and forced to replace it with this thing he has now become, and he was forced into action.

           

 The usual cold calculation which marked his killing was replaced by a burning hot rage and the need to reclaim himself through the complete destruction of this woman. Vicki recognized the frantic half-crazed look within his eyes and her voice tinkled like the sound of rattling glass in her laughter. The drink which was balanced still between her fingers within her right hand was tauntingly moved before him. “Perhaps you will reconsider? I told you a drink would help you relax.” Thom sprang forward from the couch, one of his hands swung up and sent the glass she held flying out of her hand. The clear liquid was sent in a spray across the priceless rug, as the glass hit with a soft thud and rolled away. Vicki was forced back a couple of steps by the physical presence of Thom appearing now in the spot where she formerly had been standing. His rough powerful hands closed around the delicate paleness of her throat. Her eyes flashed in nothing less than sheer delight at stirring the rise within him.

          

  She brought one of her hands up and placed it against his chest just over his heart, feeling its quickening beat against her palm. Her eyes stayed locked onto his own, looking not at him but through him. His pupils dilated opening like small black portals which granted her admittance and she traveled inside. A rush of coldness ran through his spine. Her hand pressed against him and her nails pierced into his flesh, feeling the blood start to warm over her fingers before with the tear of flesh his chest cavity opened, her hand slid inside of him and she touched the warm pulsing of his heart beneath her fingertips. A smile parted upon her lips and she squeezed the life out of him, inhaling deeply as he released his very last breaths. She drunk the very essence of his life, feeling him grow weaker and weaker as the pulsing of his heart slowed. The fingers of his hand uncurled from her throat and dropped to his side.

          

  It was not long before she stepped away and withdrew her hand and Thom’s body dropped to the floor. A contented smile rested on her lips as she watched his motionless body for a moment. She walked over to the table and picked up a cloth napkin as she began to wipe the blood away from her hand. “Louis!” She called out sweetly and when the boy protégé arrived she looked upon him fondly. “Please be a darling and take Mr. Thom to Henrick and tell him that Thom is to be prepped for the position of our new grounds keeper.”

           

Louis gave an elegant bow in compliance with her wishes. By the pulling of a velvet cord which hung near the mantle a loud gong was sounded within the house, and summoned forth a pair of goon like servants. Not so elegant or refined, they were like Igor’s; they were not intended to be viewed by the public but were put to menial tasks and grunt work. Under the direction of Louis the body of Thom was gathered up to be carried away to the chambers of the mysterious Dr. Henrick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     

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12:09 AM - 11/18/2009 - comments {0}

The Legend of Rossetti's Mistress

Posted in Writing
 
The Legend of Rossetti's Mistress
 
Act I
 
Dante stood, a tortured soul before the window pane, staring into the gloom of the dark night outside. Each beat of the rain thundered in his tender heart, and the wind seemed to scream the torments of hell upon him. Such a youthful handsome face contorted by grief and despair illuminated in the soft yielding glow of the candle light. The shadows cast upon the walls danced as eager devils waiting to snatch away so perfect an innocent soul. Not innocent in the eyes of cadaverous society, hovering like vultures to pick away whatever may be left of youth, beauty, and passion, but the purest thing he had ever known. Now guilt weighed upon him, blame pounded into his head. He had never been worthy of her devotion, he was the one who laughed so cruelly and treated her little more than a favored pet. And now....she was lost forever, only now he felt the fullness of despair and the fullness of his love. 
 
"You will not have her!"
 
He spoke to nothing, shadows and air, the lurking darkness, a reflection of himself, caught just within the glass for a moment as he turned to face the bed. There she lay, an angel if ever one breathed. Now immortalized in her unblemished beauty, in the days when the spark of life she burned most brightly. Her golden waves of hair fell, like Rapunzel around her. Her face paled in death's glow, such sweet peace, such agony. The red of her lips fading like the last blossom remaining on a winter's day. His slow heavy steps took him to her bedside.
 
"My sweet angel"
 
His words came as a gentle whisper, his fingers threaded through her silken golden tresses before leaning over her as his lips, warm, moist, alive, came to press one last time against hers. No longer yielding, but cold, indifferent, unresponsive to his touch. He jerked away, it was no more or less then he justly deserved. Turning from her he made his way for his writing desk as his fingers caressed the pages, lifting them up he took a moment to inhale the scent of parchment and ink. The work of his heart and soul....all for her. His muse that he was blind to see, until.....it was too late. Slowly he made his way back to her once more and laid there upon her breast those poems he had slaved over, that contained the essence of him within their verses the words that felt like lies, but now reveled in truth. Hesitantly feeling his unwroth his fingers brushed along her cold soft flesh as her arms were maneuvered to hold near and dear the last gift he had to give her. Leaning over his lips once more touched her cold vacant skin, now just above her brow. And as he rose to stand, the window gave a great shudder against the wind and the candle went out casting him alone in the darkness. In a state of half-panic and superstitious fear he fled from the room.
 
Dante faced the solemn quiet of grim faces waiting for him down below. The priest appeared as an apperception of the reaper himself standing in black robes before the fire of the hearth, long shadows cast over his sallow face marked by gaunt sunken features....deep set brooding eyes. The doctor paced relentlessly, the sound of his tread muffled by the rug made a lazy sound of a plosh....plosh......plosh....back and forth...back and forth. He was a less serious fellow then the preacher, but now his plump features were worried in lines of disquiet. The last plosh stopped abruptly at Dante's  return into the room. The priest looked up from the hearth, but neither could meet his eyes, or come to speak.
 
There was yet another figure, previously lethargically slumped in the high backed arm chair. Edward, Dante's dearest friend. Edward's face was the picture of devoted concern, and at his friends arrival he quickly sprang up to meet him.
 
"My God man"
 
Were the only words he could speak at once upon seeing the state that his friend appeared to be in. He was near as white as a ghost, and looked like death itself. Edward reeled back, though his heart was full of warm compassion for his most beloved companion and confidant. Dante stood resolutely before the hellish audience before him which could almost be comic were not the circumstances of such a somber nature.
 
"She is to be buried with House of Life"
 
He spoke in a voice like grating sandpaper barely able to force the words out, a grotesque grin flickered a moment upon his grief stricken features, even he could not help but be affected by the irony of his words. The priest and the doctor remained indifferent in their stoic silence, but Edward was much affected by this. He gaped and struggled with himself.
 
"Are you certain.....you do not know what you say....surely....give it some time"
 
He stumbled over his words, to taken...the poet.....the great poet.....how could he even in this moment of deepest grief and regret burry away, sealed from sight the body of work of his heart and soul.
 
"It is decided....so let it be done"
 
Dante's words bit like ice with a shaking finality as he strode forward, and collapsed into his chair before the hearth. His head sunk into his hands and he made a frightening picture. Edward stood in shock, but it would be a cruel friend indeed who could not let such eccentricities pass at such moments as this.
 
"Give it not another thought....all shall be taken care of for you."
 
Act II
 
The wind rattled against the windows, and cried out into the night. The figure tossed and turned within his bed, fighting against the ghosts that nightly visited him. Haunting memories hovering always around his head. Though now many years have passed and his hair was peppered in gray, his appearance had not completely betrayed him. Dante's eyes flashed open rambling and damped in sweat. His night shirt clung close against his skin while his eyes stared wildly into the shadow infested bedroom. His heart like a drum beat against his ribcage.
 
"I made a terrible mistake"
 
He spoke to the darkness, to the emptiness of the room, to no one but his visions and memories. Tossing back the bed sheets he leapt out of the bed. It could not wait a moment longer. He began to dress in a frantic and hurried way before running down the stairs. It was only by some miracle, or perhaps the work unnatural forces stirring this eve which prevented him from breaking his neck in his reckless bounding down the stairs without having even thought to have brought a light.
 
Upon reaching the bottom step he threw himself out into the cold windy wet night. There was little hope of getting a carriage at this time and so like a mad man he began to run down the street, with nothing more upon his feet but his socks. He ran as if the furies chased him with their wild torments. Panting by the time he reached his friend's door, heedless of the hour he took up the brass knocker and began to rap it successively against the heavy oak of the wood.
 
The sound thundered throughout the house, in a deep low baritone sound until at last it could be ignored no longer. A sullen faced tired-eyed servant opened the door, less than appeased by the late night visitor. Dante however seemed hardly to notice him, storming in past the wisp of a figure as he tore through the house.
 
"Edward....Edward......Edward"
 
His voice carried through the halls as he started to take to the stairs two at a time in his wild abandoned, as if some other force empowered him on. He would be greeted by his friend groggy-eyed and confused by the near delirious interruption in his sleep.
 
"By God man! What the devil has got into you?"
 
Dante came to a sudden halt and upon arriving at his destination the adrenaline slipped out of him while he had to take several panting breaths before proceeded to gasp out an explanation for his behavior.
 
"It was....a mistake.....all a big......mistake.....I need them back.....please you have to help....me get them.....back"
 
Edward watched his friend feeling a fearful grip upon his heart that the man had gone completely mad. He had always been irreversibly altered in someway since that one terrible tragic night, and even before that, he was a visionary given to heightened excitement and vivid dreams. Now it seemed he had finally gone completely over the deep end.
 
"Whatever do you mean?"
 
 Edward's words were confused as he watched his friend in baffled wonder with something of a mounting horror growing inside of him which could not be quite accounted for. But perhaps some voice, some deep dark rooted voice began to suspect what brought on this hour of seeming madness.....he could not......would not....bare to bring the thought.....the suspicion up into the light of day. It was beyond all that is sacred. 
 
Dante was gripped in his fervor his eyes wild as a windy night.....his face appeared contorted by the agonies which haunted inside of him and twisted his soul into his guts. He did not dare speak it, but yet the words must come out......it must be done.
 
"The Poems! The Poems!"
 
He shrieked like some unholy creature...unholy as the very suggestion that his words brought up. He could say no more.....his complexion paled and her threw himself completely upon the his friends mercy in this grotesque request.
 
"Good God! You do not mean..."
 
Edward reeled back his words scarcely chocking out of his constricting throat. It was too horrible......to terrible....it cannot be. Yet he saw the fullness of the conviction upon his friends face. The intensity burning behind his eyes.....but why now? why? There could be no account for such a horror.....but what could he do? Turn Dante away? Would his refusal stop this travesty? Did he have a right to prevent him?
 
Dante trembled as some of his strength was regained slowly by degrees. The clock somewhere down the hall marked the doomed hour, as stillness passed between them....the tainted silence lingered in the air as a soured perfume.
 
"It was a mistake.....all a mistake....I should never have gave my work away. Please! I must have them back. I MUST!"
 
His voice began to mount upon itself and he reached out gripping the end of Edward's night dress in the fullness of his plea. He knew in his black heart, and his desolated soul the enormity of what he asked.....but it must be....it must. He could not live a moment longer now without this. His work. his heart, now buried away in the earth. Oh how could he be so foolish, in love and grief, tormented by guilt. To make such a fatal err.
 
Edward stood with the accursed deed hovering over his head. Was the possible price of his soul worth turning his back upon his suffering friend? But was Dante truly in his right mind? And if he suffered from a mental anomaly could he risk both of their souls in this dreadful deed? He shuddered with the coldness that crept up along his spine.....his voice came low in far away determination.
 
"The hour it late now....nothing to be done at this hour. I implore you, rest yourself....in the morning.....in the morning.....I will see what can be done."
 
 
The night brought little comfort and by the morning Dante was unwell, be it through fatigue of his cold nights journey and desperation, or the frightful condition of his mental state.....perhaps a combination of both. Edward attended to his grim business to fulfill his promise to his friend.
 
Act III
 
The four grim figures stood at the grave site. Neither spoke....neither could. Even now, in this New Age of Enlightenment, this Golden Age of Reason, this era of science and medical advancements, and progress....when such men as gathered there were not given to religious zeal, or superstition, educated men raised to be skeptics of old superstition......there was something rooted deep in the psychology that was repulsed at the very idea of unearthing the dead and disturbing them during the eternal rest. Perhaps it sprang from the fount of the collective fear of being confronted with ones own mortality.
 
Edward, the doctor, a lawyer, and an official of the law dreaded the task before them. Dante was in no state or condition to face this grisly scene, to be confronted with what had become of the woman he loved, for he would think of her only in terms of her immortal beauty. By silent consent metallic shoves bit into the flesh of the earth and so they began uprooting and displacing the dirt. The earthy smell of soil, warm, and moist rose up in a raw perfume as they worked. It was work that toiled on the mind, body, and soul equally. A burden to be carried. None spoke....none could....there was only digging......piles of dirt....blisters......pain...silence.
 
Silence soon to be disrupted by that most dreadful and long awaited sound, a heavy wooden thud......cold heartless steel of the shovel coming into contact with the wood of the coffin. The moment arisen at last. At first....they all stood stoic, unmoving....by silence consensus a group of men who haven't stepped foot in a church since the day they were swaddled were compelled to cross themselves before work proceeded.
 
The sun began to decline, as if even it could not bare to be witness to this. Long lingering fingertips of light streaked across the graveyard as the casket was brought up and placed upon the ground. Edward stepped forward and with the tip of his shovel pried into ancient wood and popped the lid open. Once it was peeled away all four men were stunned into wonder....awestruck....as their eyes fell upon the impossible, the unimaginable....Edward barely able to prevent himself from crying out. A collective gasp released among them.
 
There laying within the coffin, was the perfect picture of angelic beauty.....she was as Snow White in her glass sarcophagus......she looked as if she only awaited for her prince to lay a kiss upon her lips before her eyes sprang open and she once more became animated with life again. It was truly the sublime. She rest within her grave looking as if only she had lain down to sleep. Her beauty preserved, untouched by time and decay. Her cheeks and lips only paler......her eyes closed in the perfect image of serenity......she was a saint....but alas! The most startling of all.....yes....there was one change about her....one thing altered over time....her hair....her beautiful rose gold hair.....it had ever continued to grow......it filled the coffin to the brim....fell around her in silken folds.....made up a soft bed upon which she could rest.
 
And there upon her breast still clasped close to her heart were the pages of the cherished poems. Only the more adding to this mystery, the manuscript had not fared so well as the maiden. The pages have grown yellowed, and flaked away around the edges. It took but the greatest of care to remove them.....so stiff they have become that the slightest of disturbance would have caused them to crumble away into nothing but dust.
 
"It is as if his words of love have preserved"
 
Edward spoke unaware that the voice he heard was truly his own......holding the precious works within his own hands with the utmost care and reverence, the others only stood and looked on....there were no words....there was nothing but this sight of unchanged sleeping....but alas.....beyond all waking......beauty.
 
 
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11:04 PM - 11/14/2009 - comments {0}

ShadowEyes

Posted in Writing
There is a pulse that still beats between us, and I wonder.....do you still feel it? Looking through the depths of my soul, there is always you, as an echo in my mind, your voice, seeping through my continues. The grains of sand slide away, we, both of us, morph, as you would say, the pendulum swings, the paradigm shifts, but still there remains something unbroken, inescapable. Guilt tickles at my nerves, though I know, I cannot hold you blameless for it....we both played equal parts....but I seek your warmth, the memories.....I cannot believe that you could have forgotten, and I seek some evidence, perhaps deluding myself reading into signs and symbols that are not truly there, that are mere coincidence, and you life has swept you away....just out of my reach....I have never fully released.....alone in the desert we stand....dark souls.....lost souls....shadows....you are my shadow.....present, there, felt, invisible, unwavering. Would you remember? Would you still care? There have been moments of remission which have drove me to want again to throw myself at you....but I shuddered back from the selfishness of the act. To try again make you play your role in my tragedy. But you are one of the immortal ones who breathed fire and life into me, caressed me with your words. How many times have I struggled with myself, wondering how....how to close the chasm that has grown.....do I dare to discover if it wider then I could imagine, or narrower then I dare hope for? Somewhere in between perhaps, that if we both struggled we could meet in the middle, but perhaps it is I who strives, while you willingly will accommodate but in negligence. Do you still have your beautiful words.....do I still have any right to them? Have you carried me with you, even in some small slivering way? It is this limbo that tortures so, or perhaps the act of trying to preserve those moments in the past, wanting only that and confusing it with the present....I no longer know where to begin, but I would take you back in, if I could, if you would as the ghost of you still follows me however innocently on your part, it is I who conjured it. I cannot escape your shadow gaze and my soul quells.   
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12:05 AM - 9/9/2009 - comments {0}

Upon being touched by a Dragonfly

Posted in Writing
There are some moments so scared in their simplicity, that they move through the soul, as oceans. Leaving your torn in between, for it would seem a blasphemy, a betrayal of the self, of the moment, of the spirit to speak of such monumental miniscule things to ears that fail to grasp full understanding, and would either nod their heads in some pretended meaning or hide the mockery within their own untouched eyes, counting off the lies they believe they see, or calling upon delusions and illusions. Yet you remain bursting pure at the seams, to speak of the glory which ripples through time, sinking deep inside, for your energy vibrates with a connection made, a moment when all should be, would be, suspended and two become one, joined together, in their recognition of each other. Blessed by such a small unlikely touch, which speaks of volumes beyond any spoken sound, there is only you and the secret knowledge, that no words could make other's see whom are blind to what has been felt. Chosen by the ancient mystic, to see for a moment with more clarity then has ever been bestowed. Lingering in their enchantment, you know, it whispers through you like the wind, like the beat of near invisible fragile wings, you know, but others could never know, if they have not been so touched, and there are those whom would brush it off, send it spiraling away out of control, while only believing they know, but something from bowls of the earth has spoken wordlessly to you, who can see it, see it without eyes, but with the inner light what shines in the charka or enlightenment, and just as it has come, it is gone, and slowly, slowly, with each passing second it begins to fade, but never, never to completely evade something within your memory.
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10:37 AM - 7/28/2009 - comments {0}

Random Acts of Poetry

Posted in Writing

Random Acts of Poetry is a new poetry movement which I want to start. It is a way that makes poetry "interactive" it is an attempt to revolutionize poetry, and revitalize, and maybe eventually if enough people are inspired, create a poetry buzz. It is an effort to try and make poetry relevant again by bringing it into the world. In this day in age the average person just does not pick up old dusty books of poetry to read. So I say bring the poetry to the public in a rather unique way which might cause a certain intrigue and perhaps inspire someone.

So how does Random Acts of Poetry work? It is fairly simple. The idea is to anonymously and discretely leave behind random bits of poetry where the public will be confronted with it. For instance, taping a poem to the back of a door in a public restroom. If you go out to eat slip a short poem in with the tip. Go grocery shopping, than tape a poem on the back of a cereal box for someone else to come and find. The idea is to be creative, but in a way that does not deface property public or private as to avoid giving poetry a bad name.

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4:08 PM - 5/19/2009 - comments {0}

The Girl with the Glasses

Posted in Writing
This was the third time she came into the store this week. It would be hard not to notice her, not to remember her. She had jet black hair hanging straight down her back framing her pale face. Black eye-liner lined her dark eyes. There was a piercing effect held within those eyes. When caught just right they seemed to look right into the soul as they stared out of windowless frames. A pair of glasses framed her face, they were round as owl eyes with black frames, but when you caught just the right angle you could see that they were lensesless. It was not often you caught her eyes, she usually kept her head tilted at a downward angle. Not bowed in shyness or embarrassment but perhaps concealing, or simply oblivious to the world around her. She wore a pair of short shorts, frayed around the edges, colored back, with black tights covering her skinny legs which jutted out and a pair of large black boots stopping just below the knee, velcroed straps along the sides. She had a sleeveless black shirt which along the back was lined with safety pins. Flicker silver metal as it caught in the artificial light. She was perhaps 17 or 18 years old and it was always the same routine. She made her way for the racks and began on trying on glasses. She might try on 4 or 5 in a day and then she left, always, never approaching the counter, never speaking to any of the attendants who worked in the store, or making an appointment. She never bought a single pair of the glasses she tried on.
 
She turned it into a ritual. Waiting in wonder everyday to see if she would come in again, anticipating it, oddly enough this routine became a break in the routine. She could be predicted, depended upon and yet, it never failed to fascinate. Sometimes you could catch a glimpse of her face reflected in the mirror as she tries each pair one, studiously observing herself, savoring the moment. To her this is not a game. She takes it seriously. It is her form of worship. Her fingers sing quiet praises to the glasses as they ponder over them. Comparing them by twos and threes. She will walk around the store holding two or three pairs in her hand as if weighing final decisions, narrowing down the field and yet in the end she always puts each one back and walks out.
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10:40 PM - 3/7/2009 - comments {0}

Rebel Hero

Posted in Writing
Our eyes meet in a fading glance less then seconds, but that is all it takes. I know with every fiber of my being, my very nerve. I feel it move from somewhere deep inside of me. It is unavoidable. It cannot be stopped. It is beyond my control, and yours. Something has shaken, something deep in the blood, of the spirit understands. An understanding which cannot be put into words. Cannot be analyzed or brought forth into the light. Something that must live in those dark unexplored caverns. Too powerful for words. We have pledged a silence alliance. We are strangers, our lips do not move, we pass in silence. Until this moment your existence was unknown to me, unimportant, miniscule. Just another body, another face. But something has changed. They are the ones who have changed it. They made you something, a symbol, it cannot be resisted. I cannot throw myself in with their lot. They may be right. It is true I was disgusted, the tension rose, the air stirred. No I did not agree with your ideology. I thought it was foolish, childish, immature, inappropriate, unbecoming. I wanted it to stop! But then, they ostracized you. I was pulled apart, conformity must never be accepted. I watch them now with loathsome eyes. They made you the Rebel Hero with petty gossip, huddled in corners, giggling in conspiracy. While they felt bonded in this, in their judgement, in their righteousness, I was pushed away, drove from their sly glances. We were now bonded, we shared something. I savor the radicalism, of stepping away, to share in secret you isolation. Your words remain empty, and hallow, it was still a silly act that should not have happened, but you are not one of them, and I do not belong to them. I cheer you on in my head. Offer subtle reassurances. My eyes do not stray from you when we pass each other. I feel the force pulse and quicken, something has been awakened. Through mental waves I send you messages. Together separately we can despise them.
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5:01 PM - 3/6/2009 - comments {0}

Midnight Cafe

Posted in Writing
A cafe, shall we say a Midnight Cafe, is the perfect setting. A place lost within time, that belongs to its own reality, where a quiet solitude might be found among the hurried noise of those who pass by. Clink of glasses low voices in conversation, occasional outbursts of laughter. Yet it is a place where the mind can draw into itself, let the rest of this form a painted background. There is a soft illumination of lamp light. Paper lamps strung from the trees, hanging in their very colored globes. The streets of course can only be made up of cobble stone. The air cool with a sweet smell of something exotic tingling upon the currents which pass by. There is lingering mystery behind dark veiled eyes. A pert smile perhaps a touch cruel, deeply knowing, uninviting, and yet devilishly enchanting rests softly upon the lips of our mistress. Of course she smokes french cigarettes and appears like an actress from the 40's. Elegance divine, with a cold hard kept hidden deep inside. Her laughter is biting and her eyes flash in quick movements. No, she misses nothing. She is on the prowl awaiting for the right victim to show themselves before her.
 
But she is enchanting with her head tilted just so against the whispering tongues of fire lapping hungrily at the air from the candle centered upon her table. It is tempting to give her wine, perhaps a nice red, but we must not treat her to such cliches, let us think of something else. Something warm, something exotic, with a touch of spice it will contrast her nicely. Of course her clothes are vintage, sophisticated, a hat with a partial veil falling just before her eyes, shading her face from view at just the right angle, tilted upon her head. her hair, dark auburn, pinned up. Her every movement seems to be a deliberate and conscious action, as if she is aware of always being watched, of always putting on a show. She is precise and never misses a mark. Her words are clipped as they froth forth from her lips in a dusky voice that makes one think of an opium den.
 
Everything about her is measured and her angles are perfect, sharp, motionless she is like a dancer. Others drift toward her, around her, and she remains unphased. All it takes is a cock of her arched brow to drop one to their knees, and this she shrugs off. She has no use for this world anymore, but sometimes it still amuses her on nights while sitting at a cafe and the stars swirl above merging with the city lights. A curse as reality blurs upon the scene and we are drifted out of the dream. But she is leaving now, departing as a ghost, a shadow which has never truly been.
 
Well she leave any mark of her presence? A whiff of perfume that wakens a sleeping poet who strums upon the strings of a lute playing old sad songs. A single glove abandoned to its fate, a token that now lies limp like a gentle sigh of the wind through the trees. Or perhaps there is nothing. Nothing but the empty space, which one imagines must have been occupied once.
 
And so she fades.........
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10:59 PM - 3/1/2009 - comments {0}

Lost Upon the Sea

Posted in Writing
We are all lost. Drifting upon this sea, blind, and unaware, but seeking for something hidden deep beneath dark shadowy depths which lay still within. A calm which lays just beneath the turbulent shores of white foam spewing forth leaving behind vanishing marks. Now and then souls collide, brushing against each other in the swirling daze. A moment which shudders, while it dissipates quicker then grains of sand caught trapped within the wind. A pool where it all comes together yet separates, precipitates and scatters the seeds abound. Perhaps ever seeking to once more emerge. Sink back in together and disappear back into the chaos. The internal chaos where everything for one brief moment is known but cannot be shaped into words, and once the ability to speak is imparted understanding dissolves and fades away. Leaving in its wake the empty vessel to find its way back home never knowing who it began but feeling the call deep inside as the waves roll, perhaps there the souls they sent out whispers. Whisperers not meant for ears but cling as the seaweed, wrapping around, cool, calming, pulling away, pulling apart, only to once more rediscover unity.
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10:03 PM - 2/28/2009 - comments {0}

The Painter

Posted in Writing

A Halloween Speicial

 

The Painter

 

Lena grumbled to herself as she scrubbed the rag against the stones of the porch. There was always something to be done, not a moments break, and for such meager pay, but what was she to do if she wished to sleep and eat? Her fingers were beginning to rub raw from the work as the water dripped around her against the gray cobblestone. Left upon her hands and knees which were growing sore, her back aching hunched over as it was, and her neck starting to strain while she had to keep her head down. The dark tresses of her hair were now hidden away under the cap upon her head to keep them from getting in the way. The sleeves of her dress rolled up to her elbows. She still had her youth and most found her to be attractive but fate had dealt her a cruel hand. She never had dreamed she would find herself so lowly, but then whoever did end up where they wanted to be in life?

           

 She was startled as a resounding thud came just against the stones in front of where she was working, and a scowl of irritation creased her features. Was the fool blind she thought as slowly her head lifted. Her blue eyes flashed upon the odd creature of a man that stood just in front of her. He was shorter then she standing upright, and had a dignified yet old look to his face which was worn smooth, but made with fine strong features. His hair was kept in neat order and seamed more silver than gray, and his fingers were clasped around the knob of a walking cane made of crooked wood.

          

  He brought the cane up to rest just under her chin and tilted her head up more, so much to her great agitation as with one fell swoop her cap was knocked from her head and her hair spilled down around her face. “Ah, yes, you will do quite well.” He said as if musing to himself.

           

 Lena could hold her tongue no longer. “Excuse, but I have a good deal of work to do, and I do not have time for games”

           

“Oh yes forgive me” The curious elderly man said and gave a remarkably charming smile. “Wherever are my manners? I am Randle in the servitude of the great Master Vadick.” Everyone knew Master Vadek, he was a painter that lived on the hill, though know one ever saw him in town. There was much rumor and gossip about him, but then people always talk, particularly most about things of which they know nothing about it, and is it not the right of the artist to be eccentric? Lena pushed herself up to sit upon her knees as the rag dropped from her hand and fell to the stone while the odd Randal continued. “He is looking for a new model for his latest work, and you are just the type he would like.”

           

What could Lena say? A lavish life, of lounging in a soft bed, and feasting on fine foods and good wine, when all she had to do for it, was sit still a few hours and let herself be painting, who was she to worry about what the others said. “A carriage will come at sunset to take you to the manor, you will be ready to go when it arrives and you will take nothing with you, the Master, has some particularities, and all you should want or need will be provided when you arrive, though Lena had yet to say anything, the matter seemed to be settled altogether. Randal bowed with surprising elegances and with that he was gone. He moved with curious swiftness as he disappeared down the streets leaving Lena behind upon the stoop.

           

The days work was done, and the sun began to sink behind the horizon, when Lena would hear the sound of wheels against the ground, accompanied with the sound of horse hooves. Lena looked out the window and saw the dark carriage pull up, though as the day had progressed she had begun to wonder if perhaps she had dreamed it all up, or if it had all just been a joke upon her, but now here it was. She would make her way quickly outside with nothing but the dress she was currently wearing. The coach man was tall, and rail thin with pale features that made him appear almost sickly, as his dark eyes were sunken in, and yet he was dignified in his tailor made suit, with long black tails at the end of his coat. Silently he opened the couch door and gave a hand to Lena to help her and then mounted the carriage to take the rein and she felt the carriage move under her. The seats in side were really quite comfortable, as she had in fact never ridden on such a transport before. She watched out the window the scenery fade away into the night.

           

The carriage would come to a stop before the great, dark house, and the carriage door would be opened, Lena stepped out to be greeted by Randal whom came moving out, quickly to meet them. “Ah yes, good, good, you came. Come I will bring you inside and go over a few things with you.”

           

Lena would follow Randle up the cobblestone pathway which led up to the doors, though looking upon the manor; it was almost hard to imagine that anyone actually still lived there. Strange indeed she thought to herself. Inspire of its outer appearance, inside was really quite grand, and warm, with an intricate rug thrown across the floor within the parlor, and a fire burning, there was yet no sign of Master Vadek.

           

 “Please sit down” Randal gestured to the couch and Lena moved to have a seat on the big comfortable cushions, while a girl not yet quite a woman had approached from where Lena did not know, but a glass of wine was filled and offered to her. She looked to the young girl curiously for a moment, as she took the wine, when the girl slipped away back into whatever shadowy corner she had come from. Lena had to admit the wine was wonderful, like nothing she had ever tasted. Not like the watered down stuff they sold within the taverns.

          

  “Master Vadek prefers to work by night, it is when he is most inspired, and he sleeps during the day, so during the daylight hours, you will have run of the place. You may help yourself to anything you like and there is a library supposing you know how to read. You just must never disturb the Master while he sleeps, for no reason, and you must not enter his private chambers, which will be kept lock. You are also not to leave the grounds of the property, you see the Master is a man of certain suppressions and precautions, and he would hate to think something has happened to you while he was still in the middle of his work. If you should need anything the servants will gladly assist you, but I myself am a very busy man and prefer not to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary. Do you understand? Lena could do little more but nod while she tool all this in.

           

 “Very good, well then I will leave you to get ready” Randal said before he turned to make his way out of the room, to disappear somewhere within the house. Leave me to get ready? Lena thought to herself, what was she suppose to do? Her question would seen be answered as if her thoughts were read as the young girl reappeared from her dark corner. “If you would come this way” She said with a small curtsy. Lena was somewhat disappointed about not being able to finish her mind, but she thought best of keeping Master Vadek waiting, and she was overcome with curiosity to see the great Master. She rose from the couch to follow behind the girl. She was lead up a great winding stair case and down the hallway. It was strange how there was no sign of life anywhere within the manor. Her eyes scanned around. There were grand paintings upon the wall and what she thought must have been family portraits. Grave looking figures frozen forever in time. Until the girl came to stop before a grand wooden door. A key was produced and slipped into the lock and turned when there was a clear click the door was pushed open and she made her way inside. Lena followed. The room was surprising immaculate, almost as if they had been expecting her. It was a grand room with an immense bed with a heavy wooden frame.

           

There was even a hearth within the room, with a fire already going, so it would be warm, in  addition the girl would light a few candles about the room to offer more warm light. “Ivana and Rebecca will be here shortly” she said before slipping out of the room, leaving Lena to have a few moments to explore her new room, before a rap would come at the door and two women would step inside. One of them was a tall young woman, with bright red hair and pale features of thin frame. The other was shorter and a little more lush in figure with midnight hair. They both seemed to take her in with a critical eye. Lena had never suspected that a painter would have so much household help. “Come, come, we do not wish to keep the Master waiting, you must get ready.” Lena had no idea what she was suppose to do, but before she had a chance to inquire or say a word the two women, of whom she would learn, the tall one was Rebecca, and the shorter, Ivana, came forward and began to unlace the strings of her bodice and slip the dress from her body until she was left standing in her bare flesh. “Here!” Ivana said thrusting a robe within Lena’s hands. “Put that on.”

           

Lena slid the robe on and the soft silk material fell against her skin, it was absolutely luxurious though she would not have much time to savor it. The two women would soon be leading her out of the room and down the hall, and she would be brought into a grand marble wash room.

           

Once inside the grand washroom Rebecca and Ivana slid the robe from her shoulders, making Lena wonder if it really was necessary to wear the robe at all, as from what she could see the halls were deserted. Lena was led to the bath which already was prepared and she had to admit that the hot water felt fabulous as she sunk down into it. It soothed her muscles that were sore from her work and eased her mind. Such a thing was a rare luxury for her. A soft sigh escaped her lips while the waters wrapped around her. Within the rising steam she caught a sweet sent of flowers. The bath waters were perfumed. It was absolutely heavenly. This is the life Lena thought.

        

    Rebecca and Ivana would begin to scrub Lena clean while she rested within the waters. The wet cloth would be brought of her body, and scented soap would wash her flesh clean of the dirt, grim and dust of her labors. Her skin would glisten in a way it never had before and smelled so sweetly divine. Lena would have loved nothing more then to stay within these waters a time and just luxuriate within the warmth of it and savor every moment, but her two assigned maids would have none of it. Once she was cleaned, every inch of her, to their satisfaction, she was urged up out of the waters. “Come along, we must get going, he waits to see you.”

           

 Lena reluctantly stepped out of the waters, and the robe was brought around her form once more, and she would be escorted back to her room again. Led to a sit before the great vanity in her room, Rebecca went to work upon Lena’s hair, running a pearl handled com though the now wet strands and now and then telling Lena to hold still.

           

 Once her hair was groomed, and dried, and groomed again, until it was to the content of Rebecca she came to stand back, and Lena was shocked to find her dark hair now in magnificent lush curls which fell around her face in a cascade, making her appear even younger then she was. Soon she was drawn up from the stool and the robe slipped off her body. Ivana came forward to dress her. Lena was slipped into the most beautiful dress of red silk that she had ever seen. The material seemed to float around her body and accentuated all of her best assets. She was truly taken aback. She never thought so much would go into being a painter’s model. She could not help but to wonder, where had he gotten all these wonderful clothes, could a man, even an artist truly understands a woman so well? Or was all this the doing of his servants whom he entrusted to know his taste? “You will be summoned shortly” Lena’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Rebecca’s voice and soon enough the two women slipped out of the room before she could say another word.

           

 A tapping came at the door and Randal would reappear, and even he at first seemed shocked by Lena’s new appearance. He gave a step back and that charming smile of his sprang upon his lips. “That is much the improvement, Master Vadek will be truly pleased, speaking of which, we best be going now.” Lena was escorted down a long hallway until coming to another set of wooden doors. Randal used his cane to tap a knock upon the door before she would push them open and step inside. Lena followed close behind. Her gaze swept around taking in the studio when at last her eyes fell upon the Master himself, and she was taken aback to see just how young he was little more then herself, it was not at all what she had expected from the painter. He was quite breathtaking really. “I will leave you two” Randal said and began to back out of the room.

           

 Vadek would take Lena in as he stood back just to admire her before his arms swept out in front of him as if to catch her within a frame. “Marvelous! I do not know how the old man does it, but he is without fail.” He began to approach Lena as he placed one of his hands just against her arm to bring her forward. “Come, come, there is so much work to be done.” He said, though not without some gentleness to his exhilarating smooth voice. Lena was lad to a rather comfortable chair in which she lowered herself to sit. Master Vadek would make several adjustments here and there. Tiling her head just so, repositioning her hands, shaping the material of the address around her, so it fell this way or that, until he would at last be satisfied with everything. “There, perfect, now don’t move.” He said as he moved to stand behind the easel with the waiting canvas and his brush would begin to move in smooth long strokes.

           

 By the end of it Lena was surprised by how much effort it took to sit so still for so long, but it was still better then what she normally had to do, and afterwards she was treated to the most succulent feast of such delicacies she never before would have known. This was the life, and the pay off was certainly better then she ever had before. So the nights and days would pass as such. Each night it was the same, she would be attended to by Rebecca and Ivana, and they would get her ready, always in a new dress and then she would be taken to Master Vadek, and when he was done for the evening, which was unusually just before sunrise she was treated to a great feast and then passed out in her bed to awaken some time the next day.

           

 One mid-afternoon Lena awoke surprised to see just how late it had grown, and she realized that it seemed she was waking later, and later with each passing day. Why was she so tired all the time? She thought to herself, for what did she do all day? During the daylight hours she spent most her time just wandering the grounds of the manor, or within the library, and at night all she did was sit in pose though it could be tiresome to hold the body still so long, it was not truly strenuous, and yet it seemed no matter how well she slept in the early morning hours, she woke up feeling wears. She was aware she had less energy then she use to, even when she spent her days on her hands and knees scrubbing floors. Lena thought she felt like a woman twice her age, and yet she was completely pampered and had not to lift a hand to do a single thing.

           

Slowly she pushed herself out of bed as her feet came against the floor and she rose to stand. A sudden strange thought came to her. Did this manor have no mirrors? She did not know why she had not noticed before, but she could not recall having ever seen one. The reason she thought of it now, was because she had the sudden desire to see her reflection for she felt, that surely she must be ill to be feeling the way she did. She walked up to the vanity where she was prepared each night, and it was strange enough that the mirror was absent from it. She began to open various drawers thinking perhaps she might find a small hand held ladies mirror that had been left about, but there was now. “How strange” She said to herself, and how had she not noticed such a thing before? Perhaps she was just too caught up in everything.

          

  She would make her way out into the hall, not bothering to dress, wearing only her long flowing nightgown, as in all her time here, during the daylight hours, she never encountered a single soul anyway, she thought if she pleased she could wander the halls naked and none would know. She would make her way to the washroom and slipped inside, and to her disappointment discovered there was indeed not a single mirror to be found within, yet somehow she was not surprised by this. “Don’t be silly” She told herself. “You are just not feeling well and all alone, letting your imagination run away from you” She convinced herself that surely there must be a mirror somewhere here, and that she would feel the perfect fool once she found one and discovered she was perhaps just touched with a bit of fever though she did not feel feverish.

           

Lena’s self-assurance was fading quickly as her search continued, and yet she still found no mirror, whispers of rumors she heard upon the street started to creep into her mind. “Stop it!” She told herself firmly. Had not everyone been marvelous to her? Perhaps Rebecca and Ivana were a bit strange, but she could really speak nothing against them, and Master Vadek had been nothing but a gentleman, he had not in the slightest bit tried to take advantage of her, and she was given all she could possibly ask for. Of course she was told he was a man with oddities and an artist, it could just be one of his eccentricities was a dislike for mirrors. As Lena was trying to reason everything out with herself she would come to stop as she came upon a set of doors of which she had not seen before. It must be Master Vadek’s personal chambers she thought to herself, and yet she felt compelled some reason to enter the room. Her hand reached up and she curled her fingers around the handle and pushed the door, of course it did not budge it was locked.

           

Suddenly she screamed and all but jumped out of her skin feeling a hand grip against her shoulder. Quickly spinning around relief flooded over her when she saw it was only Randal, and yet she had to wonder, where did he come from? The halls had been deserted when she walked through them.

          

  “Did I not make myself clear when I told you the Master was not to be disturbed” Randal declared as the hand slid away from her shoulder. Suddenly Lena felt quite silly about the whole thing and she could only imagine what Randal would think when she told him. “I am sorry….I know….I just, well I realized that there were not any mirrors and I came to look for one” A rather peculiar look crossed Randal’s face.

 

“Mirrors?” He said as if he did not understand what she meant.

 

“Yes, I would like a mirror” She said though an unease feeling was starting to creep over her now seeing his reaction.

          

  Randal began to laugh quite suddenly as if what she just said was in fact a great joke. “Mirrors” he repeated again, but this time as if it was indeed the funniest thing he ever heard and he shook his head. “Do not be silly, now come away from there.” Lena stepped away from the door, though before she could say much anything else Randal was already making his way off down the hall. She could not help now to feel that something was very wrong here, and somehow, what lay behind those doors was the key, but how could she get in? There was nothing she could do about it now she knew.

           

Lena had spent the light hours of descending nightfall, pacing within her room, and trying to decide just what her plan was, and what she was to do when the knock came at the door. She made her way quickly to slip within the bed beneath the covers just before the door could be opened to allow Rebecca and Ivana in the room. “I am very sorry,” Lena began in the most pleading and apologetic voice she could manage. “I do so hate to disappoint Master Vadek but I am not at all feeling will, I just don’t think I can sit for him tonight.” The two women exchanged looks but would not say anything in argument to Lena’s words and would bow their heads, though she thought she depicted something grim about them, perhaps it was just the play of the shadow she told herself.

           

“Very well” Ivana would state simply before the two filed out of the room leaving her alone, but what was to happen now? She knew there was a chance that Vadek might not leave his chamber if he was not to be working, or what if he came to see her himself? Or if Randal had ratted her out what would happen? Questions began to tumble into her mind each one more drastic then the last, though she tried to tell herself that it was all fool nonsense after all, nothing had happened to her sense she had been here, no one tried to harm her. They were just a little odd is all, but still she could not rid the feeling that something was not right, and she knew no matter what she needed to get into that room, as if something was calling to her.

           

 For a time Lena just waited, for what she was not certain, perhaps just to give Rebecca and Ivana time to go, well wherever they went when they were not with her, as she could not be seen slipping out of her room after she had just told them she was ill. She waited to see if something might happen, but all remained still and she remained undisturbed. Slowly she began to slip out of bed and made her way to the door. Pulling the door open a crack she peered out into the darkened hallway, she saw nothing as usually and she stepped just out of her room closing the door softly behind her. She stood a moment and watched and waited, still nothing she turned to make her way down the hallway. She looked around her carefully and constantly, as the last thing she needed was Randal, or anyone else, just appearing out of nowhere behind her again, but both in back of her and in front of her the hall appeared lifeless with out a hint of movement or a sound.

           

At last she made it to the camber door, knowing full well that it could very well still be locked, or she could find Vadek inside, but this was her only chance, and all she had to go on. Her hands gripped the door hand and she pushed, the door opened and she stepped into the darkness of the room, closing the door behind her. It was dark at first and Lena could hear her heart drumming in her ears. Carefully she felt her away around the room, and lit a few candles setting the room aglow in light. At first she could only stand there, feeling paralyzed, as she was shocked at what she saw. It could not be she thought at first. Her eyes roved over, portrait upon portrait all of women, women that were about her age at first, but she noticed, in each portrait, the same woman would appear slightly older then in the last, until her image would appear no more, and a new girl would be presented. What did this mean? She moved closer to the one of the portraits as she studied it with grave curiosity when something caught her eye and gave her pause. In all of the portraits the women were depicted in the most luxurious and fissionable of dresses, much as the own she wore, but she began to notice a trend. The style of the dresses was constantly changing as if with the fashion of a new Era. Her eyes stopped before one particular painting. No one wore anything like that anymore, except in plays. It had to be more then 50 years old, but even if he had started painting and a particularly young age that would be impossible. Slowly she began to back away. None of this made any sense.

           

“You really should not be in here” A voice spoke smoothly from behind her. Lena screamed and spun around. Her eyes fell upon Vadek, with his impossibly handsome, smooth and incredible young features. Her body was trembling in fear. What would happen to her now? “I want to see a mirror.” She said with surprising strength and conviction. She knew not where it came from.

           

 Vadek sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this, everything had been going so well, but he knew there was nothing to be done for it now. He turned to Randal whom had come in at his side. “Please, get the woman what she requests” He said in a tried drawn voice that did not match his appearance at all.

           

 “But sir…” Randal began, but stopped in his tracks seeing his master’s look and he merely bowed and began to back out of the room. “As you wish” he resigned.

           

 It was only a short time later when Randal would energy with a small silver hand held mirror and he walked up to Lena and handed it to her. With a shaking unsteady hand Lena reached out for the mirror, her fingers gripped around it and she lifted it up. At the sight that met her eyes, she screamed.

           

She had been here for lest then a month, but she looked already like a woman in the middle ages of her life, past child baring years. Wrinkles formed around her once smooth skin, which now appeared heavy and had lost their former shine and glow. Her hair now was showing in streaks of gray and loosing some of its luster. No wonder she was feeling tired all the time. The mirror dropped from her hand and shattered onto the floor at her feet. “What did you do to me?” She cried, “Who are you? What are you?”  Her body dropped to her knees in despair.

           

 Vadek watched her with the slightest touch of pity, it was always better when they did not find out. “She can no longer stay here” He said stoically to Randal. “Take her away and find me another.” With that he turned and left the room.

           

 “I told you, you should never come into this room” Randal said. “The carriage will be waiting for you. You are to leave only with the dress you came here in.” And with that Lena was left alone.

           

 Slowly she began to pick herself up to her feet. She felt as if she were in a daze, as if none of this were real, yet she knew that it was. There would be no waking up from this nightmare. How had it all happened? She drifted out of the room and made her way back down the hall. All her dreams were now lost forever to her, all her hopes and wishes mattered nothing. She came to her room and would step inside. Though the dress would be tight upon her now and not fit as well as it use to. From all her lavish feasting without the labor to compensate she thought to herself as she stuffed into it as well as she could before she would descend the stairs and was taken away within the carriage.

           

Lena lived out the rest of her dies, humbly on the outskirts of town, Randal had left her with a small fortune of gold to get by on, but what was that compared to all she had lost? Her youth, her vitality, her beauty, all had been sucked out of her. She was nothing now but a spinster, forgotten and unwanted. She never told a single soul about what happened, who would have believed her anyway? Who was there to tell? No one knew who she was, or cared. She was a cast away.

 

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10:25 AM - 10/31/2007 - comments {0}

What does your writing say about you?

Posted in Writing

The car is a bad place for me, because whenever I am riding in the car, is when my mind decides to wander and will travel the many caverns and twists and turns that make up my mind, untill envetually it will fall upon a subject that it chooses to ponder over and anylize. Sometimes I think I am part philosopher, though it seems rather trival things which catch my attention and which I decide to delve into, but so not to stray too far from the topic, I have today began to think about writing. Not creative writing but sort of off the cuff informal if you will writing, ultiamately blog writing. The kind of writing which typicaly is unplanned in which a person just sits down and spouts off about something on thier mind, like I do here on a near day to day basis.

 

The thing I have come to find intresting about this form of writing, is the way in which you can notice how everyone develops thier own signiture writing style, there are certain themes, tones, emotions, etc.. that course through everything they write, sort of like a fingerprint. And I cannot help but to wonder, just what these undercurrnets really say about a person. I think it is bits of a personsl subconcioius comming out, and I think it does reveal about a persons personlaity, just how they write.

 

For example, I have noticed about my own writing, there is always certain bluntness in the way I write, and there is usually always a saracastic undertone, in which I like to inccoperate a bit of my own brand of humur into the topcis I am disucssing, as well I tend to be very straight forward in how I write, I like to get right to the point at hand. But I also think there is a certain gaurdeness to the way in which I write, I don't really put my soul into what I write, I will give my true thoughts and feelings into it, but there is something I like to keep for myself, that I like to keep private and not lay out there for everyone to see.

 

There are people who say that they can anylyze a person and tell about a person by the way they dot thier I's and cross thier T's quite litteraly as I am sure most are famillar with the concept of anyalyzing handwriting based on the way the letters are formed, but personally I think you can really tell a lot about a person in the tone in which they right and the common undercurrnts that can be found throughought thier writing.

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9:36 AM - 9/12/2007 - comments {1}

Morning Mist

Posted in Writing
Timed writing exorcise
 
The mist swirled around her ankles in the chill of the morning. Her hair blew back within the wind and the tails of her long sweeping coat danced behind her. She kept her hands shoved deep into her pockets as her eyes remained fixed upon the distant horizon. It has been a long time she thought feeling the cold caress over her skin. She never imagined it would back to this. She would take a step forward with the sound of her sandals clacking against the ground beneath her.

The chime of bells followed her every movement. It was a rhythmic sound which almost carried a certain hypnotic power for any whom would hear. The surrounding trees danced to and fro against the early morning breeze and there would come a hushed feeling as if something long hidden would be made known.

She took a breath and slowly let the air pass from her lips. They were tinted blue and a veil hung loosely over her face so that only her eyes would shine through. The closer she would draw she felt a pressure start to build. Perhaps it was all too much she thought to herself. Could she really face going back after all this time? The many long years of being cast out. It was here that dreams beckoned to her from the darkness, but in the end perhaps they were all wrong.

It would not be much longer before the village would soon show itself. Ever so carefully she took her next step. There was no going back; she had already come too far. The rooftops would rise up slowly and life, or was it death for her, would begin to unfold. It was like the blooming of a rose. You knew it would not last, but with each breath and new dawns light it was withering away and it yet it still seemed so oblivious. She laughed bitterly at their ignorance.
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6:37 PM - 8/20/2007 - comments {0}

The Huntress

Posted in Writing

Warning

 

Strong Sexual Content

Grpahtic Langauge

Adult Mattieral

 

If you are offended by Erotica or under the age of 18 do not read beyond this point. If you choose to ignore this warning, I am not responseable.

 

The Huntress

 

Maborn a strapping young lad of seventeen years currently was left hanging by his ankle upside down from a tree as a bit of rope circled around his booted ankle. He cursed himself a fool, as he of all people a rather experienced tracker and skilled hunter for his age had somehow fallen for one of the oldest hunting tricks in the books. His long pale hair hung down as he was left staring at the ground below him. His arrows and bow currently left in a heap below him from where they had been dropped when the trap was sprung. More then once he had tried to pull himself up just enough to cut the rope and free himself but it came to no end. "HELLLLLO! HEEEEEEELP!" He called out, though it seemed at first to no end for it had been a quiet morning and he had gotten off on an early start. He left his village when it was still sleeping and yet dew still coated softly upon the ground, a crisp chillness in the air made him glad for his leathers which kept him warm, but he enjoyed the feeling.

           

He was all about to give up hope, feeling certain that he would be stuck here until noon when others might like to come out and spot him when he heard a movement. His head quickly jerked to try and see with his light sky blue eyes. He had a rather handsome face of strong wall carved cheek bones. He was instantly aware of feeling a cross between hope and dread. If another hunter would happen to find him, his freedom would come at the cost of great humiliation. "Hello?" he shouted once more. "Please, if anyone is there. Help me!" He begged and instantly flushed when what would emerge nothing more then a woman.

           

She stood not just on the edge of the brush, and even in his situation he was struck by how stunning she was. There was something about her, something ethereal. Her raven hair seemed to float around her pale and flawless face. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, and it was impossible to guess her age. Just under the gown she wore, he could make out the swelling curve of her high supple breast, but he knew he ought not be looking and quickly tried to avert his gaze. He had not stopped to think just what a woman would be doing out here of all things. She wore just the smallest of smiles as she watched him. Seeming to be taking him in with her eyes.

           

 A part of him felt his heart sink at the thought of having to be rescued by a woman of all things, but it was surely better then having one of the older men find him and he would swallow his pride. "Please, get me down"

           

She would make her way over to him and he was aware of the way she seemed to glide across the ground, and caught a moment just a glimpse of flesh of her bare feet. They were so white, and yet so delicately beautiful he thought when a tingle shot through his body, and he was aware that her fingers had curled just around wrist, as her hand grasped his and she pulled him down. Doing so would place his head just at level with her breast and he swallowed slightly, as much as he tried not to look while she had drawn his own knife from his belt to cut him free. To do so she had pulled him forward so her found his face emeshed in the material that covered thinly against the flesh of her bosom and his face was nestled between her cleavage, though the moment lasted all too quick until before he knew it he was falling and hit the ground with an umpf.

          

  He pushed himself up to sit, and brushed some of the dirt and grass from his arms before leaning over to untie the rest of the rope from around his ankle when his gaze would turn back upon her. "I uhhh"¦. thank you" He murmured before slowly starting to stand up. He stood a good head taller then she.

           

The woman took a step closer to him as she reached over and slid the knife back into his belt, her fingers then grazed just against his hip, when before he knew it she had leaned into him, pressing her body against his as her lips were hot upon his own. Taking his mouth as her lips softly and yet passionately caressed his own soft warm lips, and her tongue penetrated into the cavern of his mouth and would seek out his own wrapping around his pink muscles.

           

Maborns eyes widened startled feeling left in a dace. He was aware of this supple body pressed to his hardened frame, and her lips, they tasted sweet and succulent. He was drawn in, lost into the kiss, craving it. He lost all track of his mind, and followed only the wanting actions of his body as his hands came up to circle around her. To pull her closer against him while his lips hungrily pressed back to her own. When all it once it had stopped and he was left staggering as she drew away from him without a word, she turned and began to retreat into the trees deepening into the forest.

           

 He was helpless and could do nothing but follow, as he turned quickly and began to run after her. Where had she gone? He thought desperately, for she could not have gotten far, he could think of nothing but finding her, of needing her. He plunged further into the trees. Had he fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing? He began to feel a certain despair fall over him when suddenly a pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and he was pulled back. He was too much off balance to stop it and let himself be taken only to find himself facing her once more tucked away in a small clearing surrounded by foliage of the trees.

           

His heart soared and he could not help himself. He grabbed her pushing her back against the nearest tree as his lips lowered and began to press against the flesh of her neck. His hands reached down and began to pull up her dress, his hands grasping and caressing her flesh feeling her smooth slender legs slide against his rough strong hands, and gripping her rounded firm ass. He pressed his hips against her and she could feel already through his leggings, his hard erection.

           

She moaned softly as her hands reached down and quickly began to undo and pull away his belt letting it drop to the ground, as her hands started to step off the leathers he wore, leaving his chest bare. He felt her nails graze against his skin. His body was hard muscles against her touch, and the occasional scar slid under her fingers as her hands trailed over his back.

           

 He brought one hand up and ripped the front of her dress tossing the material aside, leaving her completely exposed before him, and his head would burry between her breasts as he began to kiss over those soft supple mounds and soon his lips latched onto one of his nipples which stood at attention hard and ready as he began to suckle upon it, biting down against the tender flesh. Needing, and wanting, unable to contain himself. While one hand squeezed her other breast firmly his other slide down between her legs, and he could feel her deliciously sopping pussy pushing his fingers into her, prodding her feeling her warmth as he began to thrust his fingers in and out of her.

           

She moaned softly as her head lolled back against the trunk of the tree, her eyes half closed she was lost in the pleasure. Her hands would grasp hold of his leggings and she began to tug them down his legs as her fingers trailed over the flesh that was left bare as she did so. Her nails scratched along the back of his legs leaving streaks of red before they would slide just over his hips and around to grasp his firm ass. Her head leaned forward as her lips began to close around his neck and she bit down sinking her teeth in feeling his warm blood pulse against her lips.

           

Maborn winced in the sudden pain, but he loved, so lost in pleasure, he slowly would draw his lips from her nipple leaving it red as his hand slid out from between her legs he would take her head and pulled it up. Her eyes looked to him and seemed to shine with the light of the moon, as her lips were pulled away from his neck and soon she would close her lips around his fingers sucked upon them as she sucked the remnants of her own juices that coated over them.

           

With his pants now pulled down he was quick to kick out of them completely and then reached down cupping his hands around her ass he lifted her up and pulled her forward as his hands slid down along her thighs pulling her legs open so they would encircled his hips he thrust forward and shoved himself deep within her.

           

Her legs locked around his hips so her feet would rest just against his ass and her arms slipped around him her hands grasping against his back as her nails would dig into his flesh and she cried out as he began to pond her braced against the tree. His hips drawing back and then pushing forward again driving hard and deep inside of her, forcing her each time to take him fully and completely, as he felt the dripping hot tightness engulfed around his hard thick wanting cock. His eyes watched as her breast bounced deliciously with each of his hard thrusts inside of her.

           

He was only driven harder by her cries of pleasure, feeling his cock starting to throb, before he would release inside of her he drew back pulling out of her and letting her just drop to the ground as he untangled her legs from him. She gave a plaintive cry as she had been so close.

           

He smiled down to her, and then reached over and grabbed a handful of her hair as he threw her forward causing her to stumble and fall against the ground, before she could move he would be open her forcing her onto her hands and knees he mounted her from behind as one of his arms curled around her middle and yanked her back while he would thrust himself inside of her once more making her take it like a little bitch.

           

Her head lolled back and she cried out as her fingers gripped against the ground and her ass slapped back against him with each of his thrusts. As he drove himself inside of her, he would yank her back against him forcing him deep and hard inside of her. Pounding that dripping pussy of hers.

           

He groaned and shuddered as he could not hold back much longer, and his hot seed would explode deep inside of her, his body giving a shudder as he released his was. She moaned out softly feeling his hot cum as it would drip down her thighs and her body tensed clenching around him as her own juices would explode coating over his cock before he would draw out of her slowly.

           

He would come to slowly stand up as he walked around to stand just in front of her looking down to her. "You better clean up after yourself" He said grabbing her head and pulling her forward forcing his cock into her mouth as he watched for a moment as she sat before him on her knees and took it like the little whore she was. Her lips curled around his cock as she began to suck upon it as her tongue would lap up the mingling of their cum before she would slowly draw her lips back from his cock and tilted her head up to him for a moment.

           

In the lust and excitement he had failed to notice the change which had slowly been coming over him. But he felt now a strange weakness and his head seem to swoon. He did not understand what was happening. She would push herself up to stand and leaned forward her lips pressed to his kissing him deeply, as her tongue pushed into his mouth, as they would share the cum between them, though when she stepped back form him licking her lips, his body would drop to the ground, white and lifeless. His eyes rolled back in his head, all his potential, all his youth drained away.

           

The little nymph would laugh with glee before she turned and disappeared into the woods again.

 

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10:05 AM - 8/1/2007 - comments {0}

The Offering

Posted in Writing

Warning:

 

Strong sexual content

Graphic language

Adult Mattieral

 

If you are offended by Erotica or under the age of 18 then do not read beyond this point. If you ignore this warning it is not my responseablity.

 

This is my first attempt at writing such a story.

 

 

The Offering

 

Nimora stood before the daunting stone altar. There was no turning back now. She had mad this choice for herself, for the good of the people. Her white robes billowed around her within the gentle breeze catching in the light of the moon, sheer, her flesh just made visible beneath the material. Slowly she slid the robes from her slender shoulders, the veneer material caressing against her skin as it would slowly slide down to pile around her ankles. Standing now bare for all to see she stepped out of the cloth of her robes and approached the altar. Her wealth of red curls fell like a cloud around her, framing her youthful face, and splashing down her shoulders, a few strands just covered over the curve of her high round breasts, of creamy white skin. A few hairs lay across her nipples standing at attention made alert by the chill in the air.

           

She would mount upon the altar as she placed first one knee against the rock and then the other, climbing across the stones upon her hands and knees, the curve of her round rear left momentarily completely vulnerable and touched by the wind, before she slide down to lay upon her back. Nimora felt the cool smooth, yet hard stone pressed against her body shocking cold at first touch, while the front of her body was offered to the caress of shimmering moonlight, which traced along her every curve and illumed her pale skin. Her hair spread out across the stone behind her, like a great mane.

           

Bane and Remus would take each one of her wrists pulling her arms, so they stretched above her head, and she felt the restraints of the tether pull against her skin holding her in place. If this was not enough, they then moved downward to the foot of the stone, grasping her ankles, her legs were parted, pulled open, leaving exposed a flash of her soft supple inner thigh, as like her wrists, her ankles would be lashed down, so she was left spread eagle against the flat of the rock. Feeling it push against her rounded rear. The two robed figures then turned and began to drift away leaving her alone.

           

 She lost the track of time, as she was left at first to the mercy of the wind that seemed to give Nimora pre-inspection. Feeling its wispy tendrils trace against her skin, curving around her sides, and teasing the curly patch of fire between her legs, and licking against her nipples. Stimulating, she waited in anticipation and anxiety, enthralled and frightened by her helplessness, wondering what her fate would be. She would not have much longer to wait.

           

A thunder clasped in the sky and at first she gave a gasp her heart quickened a beat as she stared up to the star filled sky, when he would energy. She could feel his presence tingle through her body though she could not see him. He appeared in mist and shadow. She was enraptured. For a moment she pulled against the binds but it was too no end, suddenly filled with a deep sense of awe to be in His presence. He would stand at the foot of the altar rock while dark unseen eyes drunk in the body of his vessel. She felt his eyes rove over her awaiting breast and slide down her abdomen, moving inward to her thighs, her long legs, and lingering upon her dampened sex the sweet earthy smells taunting his nostrils.

           

She still could not make out his features, as she felt his hands slide just over the bindings of her ankles before the proceeded up along her legs. His hands were strong and rough against her smooth silken flesh, and she quavered against the touch, giving a soft whimper, her body fill still against the rock. His hands would circle in against her plush thighs, giving a squeeze before he lowered his head. Breathing in her wanting sent it stirred his growing arousal. His lips covered against her wet pussy and she gave a plaintive cry as the sensation tingled through her body. Kissing reverently and worshipfully tracing his lips through her hairs before his tongue would push from between his lips and dipped inside of her, tasting her as his tongue began to lap against the inside of her, his lips sucked against her pussy lips while his tongue fucked her driving deeper pushing inside of her then sweeping out again, dripping with her nectar that he so craved. Nimora moaned unable to help herself. Her hips thrust upward pressing harder against his hungry mouth and she felt his hands grip her hips pulling her forward to burry himself completely into the fiery patch of pubic hair and sticky sweet juices. It was not long before she was sopping wet dripping. One of his hands slid down along the curve of her ass holding there a moment as the fingers of his other hand began to push inside of her now thrusting his fingers in and out of her, finger fucking her, in just a taste of what was to come.

           

While his fingers violated her, his lips slid down and curled around her clit tugging it between his teeth and caressing her nub with his tongue until she screamed out of control tormented by the pleasure. She was close to the brink. But the was more in store for her. He drew away slowly. She cried in agony, pleading for more when his fingers pressed against her lips. Her tongue slid out wrapped around his fingers and she began to suck upon them, tasting her own juices as she cleaned his fingers he lowered his head and began to trail kisses along her body. Her lips brushed against her hips, across her abdomen, against her navel. His lips continued to slide up his body slowly, tasting every inch of her. She felt his body start to press against her, between her legs she felt his hard throbbing member just teasing her now rubbing between her slit taunting.

           

His lips closed around wound of her nipples and began to suckle upon it, his tongue circled around his while his other hand came up grasped her breast squeezing it and pinching the pale pink nipple between his fingers. Nimora panted in pleasure, her hips pushed against him wantingly, her body withered as she tried to pull against the bindings. She begged him in reverent whispers. Still she knew not what he looked like. It was some great spell, some enchantment, but it did not matter her body was awakened and trembled with pleasure, with the need for him to be inside of here to take her deeply.

           

 He enjoyed her eager readiness. She was so perfect and ripe, and he would draw back from her, know kneeling just before her, he would slide his full thick cock into her waiting wanting pushy feeling her tightness engulf him, closing against him, her trembled and moaned as he would force her to take in all of him pushing to the shaft. She cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain, there was much of him and he filled her completely. She was completely at his mercy as he leaned over her now. For a moment just hovered over her, keeping himself shoved deep inside of her before his hips pulled back and it seemed he would out of her completely but then with one powerful motion he thrust forward against her ramming her. Already nicely lubricated with her sweet nectar. He began his assault upon her, in long powerful thrusts he would take her. Her hands slid down grasping her by her tender sweet ass gripping it tightly to pull her hard against her, her pounded here making her body jolt against the rock, while she was bond. Her luscious breast bouncing with his every inward thrust of her. Nimora was lost in a haze of pleasure and pain. She whimpered and closed her eyes, but her body craved more, she was enthralled she craved it. Her body was his.

           

He felt his cock throb within her but he was not done yet, and once more he would bring her close to her breaking point before drawing back and slipping out of her slowly. She did not know how much of this torment she could take. Though she ached, she would beg for more still. He crawled off of her and would begin to undo her bindings. She was left confused at first of what was happening, as she felt her legs and arms let free. But before she had a change to think or move, he dragged her down from the rock and bent her over it. Her breast pressed against the stone, one of his arms slid around her as he would thrust his hips back against her, pushing in side of her deeply once more as his body pressed hard against hers. Her ass firmly rested against his abdomen. While her curled his fingers into her hair and jerked her head back he proceeded to thrust hard inside of her pounding that sweet dripping pussy. Flash slapped against flash. Nimora gripped against the stone of the rock and cried out.

           

She would not last much longer as she clenched tightly around his massive throbbing cock and her body tensed by her cum would flood over him, and slide along the inside of her thighs. Her body layered in sweat as her heart beat quick and her breath panted. He shuddered feeling her cum hot against his dick, but he would not stop, he continued to pound her deep and relentless until he began to howl as his wad was shot, and his hot seed was driven deep inside of her wanting body.

           

Slowly he pulled out of her his dripping cock still standing hard and erect. He would push her to her knees after turning her around her his cock starting at her as he pulled her head forward his fingers still tangled in her lush hair. Her lips would slide over his cock with reverence and her tongue lapped the mingling of their cup cleaning him worshipfully as she began to wrap her lips around his cock and slid her mouth further against him. He would thrust forward driving deep down her throat making him take all over her in. She moaned against him and began to suck his cock as her fingers gripped his hips, and her lips would pull back and forth against his rock while his hand held her head firmly holding her in place. His he gave murmurs of approval feeling her head bob against his head and he felt a fresh load start to build up.

           

He pushed her head and pulled his head, encouraging her to move faster, harder. She slid her lips down along his cock curling her lips around the head for a moment before she pushed back up to take him hard and deep within the warm moist of her mouth once more, sucking needling upon his cock, she feel him pulsing against her lips. Until his body tensed and in another great howl his cum shot into her mouth. Nimora drank it in swallowing the seed as her lips licked around him cleaning him before slowly she would slide her mouth from his now softening cock, as his hand and released her head and she licked her lips.

           

With that he was gone, just the way he had come, and Nimora was left slumped in the grass against the rock, her body aching and exhausted, but knowing she now would carry the one whom would be their savior.

 

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1:00 PM - 7/31/2007 - comments {0}

Research Question

Posted in Writing

Well I know thier are people out there in the medical feild, and perhaps there are a few in the legal feild as well that might be able to help me out with this, anyone who has any knowelge upon how things like this might happen to work please let me know. I am doing reasearch for the sake of a new story idea I am toying around. So here is the scenario.

 

A man in a mental ward/insitution dies under mysterious circumstances, so it is being investigated by the police. They want a copy of the victims medicals records to try and understand more about why he was there, and his histroy and background and so forth. Becasue it is a crime, and under investigation, can the hospital give them the informaiton, or would the police be able to get a warrant for it, or would they be completely denied access becasue of doctor-patainet confidentialty laws?

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5:21 PM - 6/17/2007 - comments {2}

Contemperay Chokehold

Posted in Writing

Well I think I have figured out the reason I cannot get published, at least reguarding my poetry, I have not yet tried any major works because they are not ready yet. But I use to for a while send my poetry out now and then to varriys independent publications and also get rejection notices in return, and though there could be many possible reasons, a while ago I though I try to send some of my work out again, and I came acorss this press called Hanging Loose, and they had this thing where you could order like a smaple issue for eleven dollars to get an idea of thier work without having to subscribe or comit to anything, so I said sure why not, to get a feel for them before trying to submit anything, and reading through the poems they published and so I have been reading through it, and well I think the reason I cannot get published is becasue I am too much of a romantic.

 

I live in a contempary world but completey lack the ablity to write contemporary and apperently that is all anyone wants anymore. Poems that are ultimately empty, filled with mondern words, and monderns references and an overall mondern sentiment of aloofness, distance, and disconection. These poems completely lack feeling and the writers seem to have no conneection with thier words or thier audience, they lack anything deep and soulful. They are hallow and allow throw in the occasional fancy word or abstract metaphor to make it seem creative and unique.

 

I still live in the world of the classics, the world of passion, emotion, love, hate, anger, feeling, something real, and something breathing, something that is not a painted facade with nothing behind it, but something seeping and internal. My work will never be accepted in this world at least not among those whom dare to call themselves critics of poetry or even poets them self, ghastly as it is. These pompus artless imposters think they can stifle the undercurrent of true talent, well I say let them continue to try, for this Bard will continue to sing to thier disdain I will give them life, I will give them soul and passion and truth. Let them contiunue to spew out thier thoughtless babble and choke upon thier garbage and no I do not say this becasue I am bitter, I have quite a loyal fan base, but I say this becasue I think they truly are working for the descutriton and not the advancement of poetry by giving over to these dead words and turning thier noses up to the life flow and genuine meaning.

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2:36 PM - 5/4/2007 - comments {0}

Cult of the Mask

Posted in Writing

I have not done one of these in a while, it is another one of my timed writing exercisies, this one I am tempted to perhaps continue on and make into something more, something of it speaks to me, but becasue I initialy did write this all just off the top of my head, there is still much of it, and the charactars involved that remain a mystery to me.

 

Cult of the Mask

 

          She lowered her mask. A few dark strands of her hair, previously held up by the mask now fell forward into her face. Her lips pursed tightly together while she fixed her icy stare upon me, and held me in place, as if I was paralyzed under her gaze. I knew she was beyond angry. I was in utterly shocked to discover that it was her all along.

What had made her reveal herself? I could not help but to ponder to myself. The room swirled around me, and I was aware of nothing else in the haze of noise, light, colors. It all just meshed together in one blur as she stood there just before him. It felt as if everything and everyone was revolving around us, and we were frozen in time. The only thing I could hear was the thump of my heart within my chest. What could I say?

She would be the first to break this silence between us and jolt me out of this dream like state, back into reality, but if I was grateful for this or not, I could not say at the time. Though she spoke only one word her voice cracked like a whip, and that one word, pierced through my flesh and bone, to my very soul. It was not just what she said, but the way in which she said it. Though her voice held nothing but wrath, her face, was pure anguish. "Fenton!" With my name said like a curse upon her lips I knew I was trapped.

I tried my best to stammer some reply but it would do no good, the words were weak, as if everything had been sucked out of me, and my mind could not think. "Look, It is not what you think. I know how that sounds, but you must trust me, please" I felt a pit sink to the bottom of my stomach, was that the best I could do to defend myself? How could anyone believe me? But it was true, perhaps I am the first and only person to ever speak true when I say it was not how it looked, but how could I tell her the truth? I did not know, and I am not sure it would have mattered then.

She was gone lost within the crowd as soon as I blinked she vanished. I could do nothing at first but stand there gaping as my mind began to race. What was she doing here anyway? How could it have truly been her all along? The words kept tumbling over each other in my mind. I felt so completely lost. I would try to call after her, knowing then it would do no good my voice just fading in the crowd and she was gone. Would she ever speak to me again?

Tears streaked out of Erila’s eyes to stain her soft cheeks, though she would quickly slip the mask back into place to hide before anyone could see or know who she was. How could he of all people do this to her? Why was he even here? She felt faint and needed to escape quickly.

She pressed through the gathered crowed heading for the nearest exit. She could stay here no longer. Erila stumbled outside all but falling over herself into the fresh night air. "What troubles you darling? She froze at the sound of the voice that seemed to come from the very darkness and spun around to see Luca approaching.

 

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8:09 AM - 3/31/2007 - comments {1}

Soul Stealers

Posted in Writing

Well I sort of got this idea from reading another's blog, which got my thoughts moving upon the idea of writers as Soul Stlealers, in a way I see that as the gifit of the writer, though it sounds a bit ominous, and in someways I think it really is, I think there does come from it, somewhere deep down a certain almost sadistic power, and a certain primila pleasure born from that. There is more then one way to really apporach ths subject.

 

For one thing, as a writer, you create these beings, these characters, and you are like a God, for you make them come to life, and they each of thier own definet personalities and indivuilism, thier own lifes, and thoughts, feelings, pain, and joy, and you put them in thier own world to move through, but then invetiably you put them out there for other people to read, and somewhere out there, some person, soemone you do not know, never met before, is going to feel as if you have stripped them, as if you infiltrated thier heart, mind and soul, and did so just so show them, to say, I know you.

 

For these chracters that you create, they are somehow taken, bits and peices of them from people out there in the world, people you do not know, people you have not ecountered, and yet still you manage to draw something out of them and to make it your own then you throw it back into thier face to say look what I have done.

 

And well anyone who reads, as I myself know too well having been an avid reader sense just about as long as I knew how to read, have had this experince. Of reading something, and feeling yourself in the words, of seeing your own thoughts and feelings, your own past or preseant pains reflected back at you. And well in some way, there is something to be said, being a writier and sort of having the ability to return it, to do to others the very thing which had been done to you.

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2:33 PM - 3/15/2007 - comments {2}

Writing again

Posted in Writing
Well I was able to break free of my writing funk, and I owe it all to this new story I began working on, though I do not like to give too much information about my stories when they are still a work in progress perhaps part out of some over paranoia to protect the idea, and in part some writers suspersistion, it seemed that starting work on this story, has opend the flood gates so to speak and allowoed me also the focus I needed to be able to work on my previously started stories, so I am glad to be writing regularly once more, and I am really happy about this new story that I began. Sometimes the unplanned stories can be the best.
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9:45 AM - 2/28/2007 - comments {0}

In a funk

Posted in Writing
I have found myself in a writing funk as of late, that is what I choose to call it, for it is not the same thing as havig writers block acutally writers block is one thing that does not tend to afflect me, but I do now and then fall into writing funks, and basicaly what the means is, that though I do have ideas in my head of knowing what I want to write, when I go to work upon one of my stories I just cannot seem to get myself really into it. I find it difficult to just sit down and write, though I know just what I want to say or where I want to go with it, I cannot quite make it happen, and after a few words of a paragph have to stop and set it aside for the time. I know one of these days I am just going to have to break myself out of it, if it does not pass, and just write though it. I do not know perhaps it is that my mind is distracted by other things right now so I cannot really clear my head and focous on my writing. I am too disconected by what is going on around me or in my head to really get into the writing.
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9:15 AM - 2/26/2007 - comments {1}

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For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. ~The Monk

 

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