Tag Archives: creative writing

Saturday Shorts: Country Roads

Country Roads

Even with the heater going full blast, Susan could barely feel her fingers for the cold. Her thick mittens did little to take the bone deep chill of the truck cabin away. The snow fell thickly outside, reflecting the headlights of the truck in odd ways, making the road more treacherous than it already was, the wipers working furiously. The snow danced like ghosts across the stretch of abandoned back road.

Susan hated early mornings, when the sun was still hours away from rising, and absolutely loathed the cold. Despite these certainties, she loved the snow, as it was beautiful in its own way. It was part of the reason she had stayed in North Dakota, despite her hatred of winter. The other reason she had stayed for so many years was why she was up at such an ungodly hour in the first place, driving when it was likely that every weather and news station in the county was advising against even going out your front door.

The trailer she was towing behind the truck pulled along, following in the ruts created by the full ton trucks winter tires. For all Susan knew, she wasn’t even driving on the actual road, since the only markers that made the stretch a road in this weather was her ingrained memory from having come this way countless times before. Hell, she almost missed the turn off indicator as she came up to it, though in reality it was not an official demarcation of destination, just an old oak tree, branches now heavy with snow, the indicated she had reached her turn. With a hard jerk on the wheel, she managed to make the cut, the chains on her tires gripping the snow and the gravel below it to keep her from sliding; the trailer bounces along behind. In this storm, the tree was her only indication that she was at the pasture. The snow was so uniformly white and even that it was all muscle memory and reflex at this point, keeping her calm and steady behind the wheel.

Another five minutes of steady travel into the pasture, and she was actually beginning to be able to feel her fingers, though it could just as easily been the beginnings of frostbite, as she had had a brush or two with that in the past. It would have been glorious to be able to sit in the cabin of the truck, as the warmth began to slowly leach away the battering cold, but she was at her destination and there was no time to dawdle. She was not the only thing that was likely feeling cold, as it was  ‘ not fit for man nor beast out there’, as her dad had been want to say when he was alive.

With a deft twist, Susan cut the lights on the truck, and shifted to neutral, letting the truck and trailer roll forward to a slow and steady stop. Reaching up, she made sure her knit cap was pulled down tight over her ears, meeting the edge of the heavy scarf she had wound round and round her neck. Quickly, as if she were removing a band-aid, she threw the truck door open and jumped down, trudging through the near knee-high snow towards the back of the trailer. From inside, these was the distinctive sound of hooves on metal, and puffs of steam rose from the small ventilation windows. The bleating of a handful or tired and upset sheep echoed off the bare trailer walls, as the flock made its protest known. The smell of wet wool and lanolin was just strong enough to cut over the cold and crisp air of the storm, which numbed the nose almost to the point of being useless.

Susan could hardly blame the sheep for being disagreeable, their foul mood was something she could relate to, given the circumstances. Being pulled from warm stocks at herded into a semi warm trailer at 3;00 AM would have that effect on anyone, though some would be able to protest in much more horrendous fashions. Susan lowered her scarf ever so slightly and let loose two short, shrill whistles that cut over the wind, and the sheep settled somewhat in the trailer, letting out a few soft baa’s as back talk.

Despite the thickness of her gloves, the little bit of warmth she had begun to feel was already bleeding away, so Susan made quick work of removing the dual lock and pins that held the back ramp in place. The ramp sank down into the snow, not resting fully level, but angling enough that it would be a short transition of trailer to ground for her charges. The latch that held the rolling door secure was a little bit more tricky, especially as the snow continued to fall and quickly cover every surface it could, but years of repetition made quick work of the obstacle. As the door rolled up the sheep, who had been huddled together near the back of the trailer, began moving forward toward the ramp, more out of habit than from any command, given that this was not their first time being transported. Susan moved away from the back of the trailer, the sheep descending the ramp into the snow one after the other in some bizarre game of follow the leader. Once the last of the flock, seven in total, had founds its way down the ramp and did not look like it would be retreating back into the trailer, Susan made quick work of closing the rolling door and locking the ramp back up, before she slowly worked her way back to the open door of the cabin, making sure none of the sheep tried to follow her. They stayed where the were, huddling together in the snow-covered field, their wool blending in with the snow while their black faces stood in stark contrast, even in the relative darkness.

Putting one foot back into the cabin and hoisting herself up with the door, Susan let loose another shrill series of whistles, which set the sheep into a nervous stomping. Taking a deep breath, the cold cutting her lungs like knives, she raised her voice over the storm, shouting into the darkness;

“Come out and get them, they’re all yours!”

With a quick pull and a dive across the seats, her  head down with her arms over it, Susan slammed the door behind her, just as the whoosh of something larger and heavier than a jet engine overtook the pasture, hidden by the snow. Susan did not dare look up, did not dare even breath, until there was nothing left but silence.

-Megan

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Short Saturday: You Were Warned

You Were Warned

There was no way around it, Arthur admitted to himself. He was going to need a much bigger trash bag to deal with this.

It had been a spur of the moment decision, and act of passion and madness. Now, standing among all the carnage, surrounded by the destruction caused by his own hand and his hammer, there was no denying that he must have been insane to think he would ever be able to get away with it. Carefully, he peels his soaked work gloves from his hands, the material sticking and refusing to let go, Carefully he turned one glove inside out before using it to remove the second, hoping to avoid getting anything on his hands. With a sigh, he left his uncomfortable face mask in place, and did his best to look past the obscure and unnamable matter that speckled his protective goggles. He did not want to risk removing them at this point, as it would likely mean he would need to get more, and he had none left on hand. With his luck, he would drop them onto the floor and they would be unsalvageable for continued use. On top of it all, he knew that it would be stupid to create a reason to leave the room he was in, even for the most innocent reason. If he made an excuse where it caused him to have to leave the house, he knew, deep down in his gut, that it would only complicate matters. If he created a reason to leave the house, he knew he would leave a mess which would indicate to anyone what he had done, or that he would simply leave it all behind and never come back.

He knew that if he left everything as it was, if he didn’t clean up meticulously, he would be caught, and would have to face the full punishment for his actions. The kind of punishment that he was almost certain would completely alter his life, more so than he had altered it when he had taken the hammer in his hands in that moment of absolute certainty.

As calmly as he could, Arthur grabbed the still open bottle of water from the counter, and took a long sip. Even though it was warm, it proved to be refreshing after his exertion. It also gave him the chance to really look around and take in everything that he had done, and all the complications it had created.

He should have listened to his friends told him that remodeling a bathroom was a job best left to those who knew what they were doing, and not a good project to undertake while your wife was away for the weekend. Definitely not a project to start on a Sunday.

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Poetry Tuesday: March 21st

As yet untitled. This is a variation on a theme, perhaps influences from reading a lot of paranormal fiction, and just maybe a touch of manga. The idea of the separation between life and death, between the known and the unknown, between normal and paranormal, natural and supernatural.

Untitled: Variation of Regret and Memory

Staggering the pyramid of broken promises,

Reshaping the dreams of previous lives,

like sand.

They slip between the sleeping and the waking realms,

Unsure if they even ever existed.

Dashed hopes cast off upon a mountain of regret,

Good intentions spoiled for the sake of one more moment,

Caught in that perfect imagining,

The fades as mist after dawn.

From the shore they watch the world,

Sorrow wailing, and they pine

For what they can no longer reach.

Curled fingers of desire and longing come up empty in their desperate bid,

To leech another moment of warmth from their remembered scenes of life.

Caught in a state between one moment and the next,

Skirting on the edge of memories of those still drawing breath.

Slowly, with each longing sigh,

They draw others from that shore to them,

Claiming them to repeat the past one more.

-Megan

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Saturday Shorts: The Doctor Is In

The Doctor Is In

With surgical precision, she peeled the skin back from the muscle. With practices and slow motions, she positioned the flaps of skin down on the mounting blocks, and pinned it in place, the latex of her gloves offering a sure grip, despite the blood which covered the fingers.

Now that the skin was taken care of, moved and held away from the forearm, she could begin her work. It had been hard going, but this was not her first try. It had helped immensely that the chosen patient was in optimal condition, with no other health complications or previous work to put her into more difficult territory.

Now, her gloves were slick with blood, having taken the time to carefully deal with the subject, she knew it could not have been avoided, only made minimal so as not to become a larger concern. The inside of the gloves were even more uncomfortable, coated now with sweat that caused the material to lose a bit of its purchase. She would have rather not had to use the clingy latex gloves, but they were a necessary precaution, and the only thing that had been in stock. That shortage was something she was going to have to see about in the future.

Setting her scalpel down, she picked up her small scissors and got down to the truly challenging work. With the forearm muscles exposed, Flexor Carpi Radialis and  Brachioradialis she reminded herself,  and in such fine condition, it made it very easy to determine where the tendons lay. There was o excess fat to get in the way. Very carefully, with great concentration to keep her hands from shaking even the most imperceptible micron, she snipped the tendons cleaning, watching the tension leave it like a snapped bowstring. Setting aside the scissors, and wiping her bloody hands on her scrub pants, she smile. Carefully, as if touching china, she reached in and took hold of the  tendons, using both hands to take two between her fingers on each hand.

With a triumphant exhalation, she manipulated the tendon as if she was dealing with a human puppet, carefully pulling back on and releasing the tension slowly in order to watch the fingers on the hand open and close. The fingers responded, less smoothly at first, but soon fluidly as she learned the correct amount of force to use, Eventually the fingers waved back in a macabre semblance jazz fingers.

“See,” the girl grinned broadly, glancing up the table at the man, gagged and restrained firmly to the table, eyes wide in fear and pain not fully dulled by the sleeping pill she had slipped him earlier in the evening when she had suggested their next activity, ” I told you it would be fun if we played doctor.”

-Megan

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Saturday Short: Just Like Granny Annie

Granny Annie’s apple pies!

Nothing like a heaping helping of delicious apple pie to chase away a busy day.

Try Granny Annie’s and you’ll be surprised at how the worries just melt away.

You haven’t had a pie until you’ve tried Granny Annie’s Granny Apple Pie!

The radio switched back to the afternoon’s smooth jazz, its sounds filling the small kitchen as Alice worked. Alice had always prided herself on her pie making ability, and her crusts were simply the flakiest in the neighbourhood. She  made apple pies that made judges cry, and she had the county and state faire ribbons to prove it. She had even been in the Great Northwest Exposition Finals, beaten only by the creations of Granny Annie herself. That was nothing to bat an eye at, since Granny Annie had been winning first place ribbons for her pie since before Alice had even been born.

Of course, now that Granny Annie had gone to meet the Almighty Pie Man in the sky, Alice saw nothing between her and complete victory in the upcoming Country and State Fair competition. She would even be so bold as to go beyond and say that there was no one left in the whole Midwest region who could come close to her skill with a crust. of course, she would only ever think that in the privacy of her own home kitchen; best to be humble and gracious in the public eye, don’t you know.

Alice had been practicing all winter, adding new twists to her crust, and tweaking the flavours just so. She had redoubled her efforts since the news had announced the passing of Annie, knowing that there would be housewives and gastronomy aficionados coming out of the woodwork to try to snatch up the accolades and sponsorships that had once belonged to the old women. A gap had been created at the very to of the massive pyramid of pie backers, and there would be stiff competition ahead. But Alice had something that none of the others had, something that she had ventured far afield to get, and secret back to her home.

Now, Alice had that ace of her proverbial dress sleeve, and a sprinkle of new magic on her apron. Delicately, she cut herself a piece from the pie she had just removed from the oven, letting the savoury scent cascade through the small room, curling her toes at the warmth of it. She hoped that it would taste as good as it smelled, this was her first savoury pie, and she could not afford to have it not be delicious down to the last bite. Alice smiled as she carefully pressed her fork through the golden crust, the gravy leaking out across the plate. With measured steps, she brought the fork up, being sure that no drops fell on her apron. Raising it in salute to the other side of her kitchen counter, she took a bite, closing her eyes to enjoy as the flavour slipped over her palate. She found it delicate, the texture not that much unlike chopped roast beef, but the flavour more mellow, like a slow roasted pork loin. She ate the bite and exhaled slowly before smiling, all in all, it could use more spice, but it was edible, and that was what Alice needed most

” Oh, Granny Annie, for all your prizes, your pies lack a little in the kick department. Still, you certainly make a very nice pie.”

Alice smiled again and winked at the skull set at the other end of the counter, over seeing the oven. It provided no comeback, no quip. Granny Annie had always been humble and very soft spoken.

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Wanted: Avid Listener

 

He could hear her voice, even with his ears full of screams. Despite his efforts, the voice was no louder or clearer than what he had first begun to hear it speak. Some words echoed, and if he listened hard enough he was able to decipher some of the words, to begin to make sense what t was she was asking of him. However, most of her words were still too faint, still beyond his ability to comprehend. Sometimes he wanted to cry, to scream so long and so loud that it hurt. Until his throat was raw and bloody. All in the hopes the somehow, his own suffering would make the words come more clearly.

Shakily, he ran his hands down his unkempt face, over coarse whiskers and craggy skin, leaving trails of filth in the wake of his fingers. He repeated the actions over and over, until his face was just as dirty as his hands, just as imperfect and flawed. He did it without seeming to take notice, sweat from his brown joining in to the mess.

The room where he lived and did most of his work was barely lit, the merger light emanating from the crude braziers and a single lantern which hung from the lower timber rafters cast more shadows than illumination. Despite the small space, it was by no means a hovel. He strived to keep it clean especially when he had guests. They were the ones who ended up making a mess of the place, who abused his generous hospitality. It wasn’t as if he asked for much from his guests in exchange for all that he did for from. He was a humble man, and his requests were no sort of imposition. He didn’t ask them for money, or favours exchange for his generosity. He would give anything that was asked of him, his possessions were of little consequence to him, and he would offer every last piece of himself and all that was his to anyone who asked, provided they did not seek it out of personal greed.

Truthfully speaking, he felt that was he asked from his guests, his only request in return for all that he could possibly give, was small and of little consequence. What he asked was so small intact, that he found it absolutely astounding the amount of times his request was refused. All his guests had to do to fully benefit from all he had to offer, was to sit quietly for a time and listen to his stories. He did admit that some of his stories could be considered boring and sad, as some were tales of miseries and sadness long passed.

But those stories were just the beginning. Everything had changed for him, and for his stories, when she had started to speak to him. She was his fire, his muse, his very reason to continue living, and if only they would listen to his stories of her, they would see how inspiring and awe-inspiring she truly was. He just needed his guests to under what she meant to him.

All of his guests so far seemed to get excited, elated, and hopeful when he told them about how sh had some to save him. For a brief, shining moment, they would forget about themselves, empathize with him, and he was certain that there was nothing better in the whole world than seeing how she inspired that wide-eyed glee in others, just as she had in him.

He loved to watch those eyes light up, and fill with tears of pure joy when he told them, no, when he asked them to help him understand what it was she whispered into his ear now, in the dark of night when no one else was around. Her voice had long begun to fade beyond his hearing. whether this was due to age, or some other ailment, he did not know, but it burned at his very soul, and sent waves of sadness over him when he thought that one day soon, he would no longer even be able to hear her whispers.

He rejoiced, danced as much as his cold bones would allow him, when his guests, like him, cried out for her to come and save them, just as she had saved him. They begged her to save them from their own suffering. It was a new miracle, each and every time, and he felt as if hope returned to him when they agreed to help him, when they dropped to their knees and begged for him to let them help.

But, as with so many times in his life, hope and joy were short-lived. without fail, it seemed, each of his guests would prove to be incapable of keeping their word. Liars and thieves were prolific, and they sought to take even what little he had left in the world. So far, every one of his guests had proven incapable, unable to hear the full glory of her voice, unable to hear what she was saying with any clarity, some even proving more hard of hearing than him was. Some guests had even thrown his hospitality in his face, trying their backs on their promises and their pleas. They would lie to him about her words; he was never certain why. Some, he thought, simply were going deaf, while others like hard her voice and wanted to keep the joy and comfort all to themselves.

It was always the liars, he had come to discover, that could hearth voice of his saviour clearly. Liars were never to be tolerated, they spat in both his face and her face, trying to take everything the were offered without fulfilling their promises and his request in any meaningful way. She knew who the liars were as well, and it was when they were present that he voice surged most clearly to him these days, like a bell in the fog off the sea. She advised him not to trust the liars, they were going to destroy him and steal all that he had fought so long and so hard for. They would steal her away as well, if he gave them the chance.

Eventually, when the lairs and the deaf knew that he could tell they were not being truthful, they would turn violently against him, breaking hospitality. They would try to weasel out of their agreements, out of their promises. They would try to sway him with offerings, bribing him with things that he did not want, that he had no need of. Those guests always left before the sun rose the morning after they came to visit. They would go, and leave him with their mess.

The screams that evening were almost completely silenced when he finally felt her presence, her voice at his ear as her words ghosted past his conscious mind. It was elusive and ephemeral, and her touch as she spoke in his ear was quickly fading, words cutting in and out, half -formed. They told him that he had been right, these guests had been unable to hear her as well, unable to take her words and bring them to the light where he wold be able to fully understand them once again. They had left a speculator mess behind as well, strewn and splashed across the floor with no regard for that fact that it would take him hours to clean.

Picking up the broken ladle he had used to serve that nights fare, he returned to his task, guided ever neared to the realization that her voice might now be forever beyond his grasp. Perhaps, once he had really tidied up, tomorrow’s guest would be different, would prove to finally be able to help him discover her words, to find out what it was she was asking off him now. How best to serve his lady. Perhaps, they would finally be able to hear her as well, if he opened their ears a little further.  As he began the task piling the broken bits of meat together, he ran his hand over his face, trying to clear some of the thick blood from his whiskers. The liars were always the ones who left him with the biggest mess, and even less of his hard-won sanity.

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Poetry Tuesday: Day Dreary

DAY DREARY

Watching the sun rise over the tired city trees.

Hot steam bringing life to walking dead dreams,

used to follow the current, subdued.

Left to rot.

Arrive on time,

Day.

Turn and press the button,

Month.

The same bleeds out the difference,

Quells the imaginary possibility.

The adventure is pushed into he broom closet,

Locked tight and covered in cobwebs behind

A disused mop bucket.

Flavourless tuna salad lunch.

Monday  is every day, repeating over.

Friday is just a Monday in sheep’s clothing,

Closing an leaving illusory promises

To re-assessing the dreams of adventure.

But Saturday dawns, yawning with a fake

Beatitude of hardship, a covered reality of a different

Kind of work disguised as breaking.

It too is just as routine,

As the sun rising over still tired trees in a half sleeping city.

Waiting for something to break the cover on the safety

Glass alarm of freedom.

A Dangerous gambit to destroy the safely systematic, routine, boring.

Life.

-Megan

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Protocol

Protocol

Three blinked at the reflection in the mirror, focusing on the grey eyes staring back from the other side. Nothing was different, nothing was out of place. When Three has woken up that morning, to get ready for school as usual, it had been with a strange feeling that something had shifted, but no matter how Three looked at it, everything seemed just the same as it had the day before, the week before, the month before, and the year before. Nothing has changed.

Turning off the light, Three went to the kitchen, once again, the same routine as every other morning. There was a protein shake sitting on the counter, next to a lunch bag and a copy of the daily paper. As always, the front page flashed in warning; bold, red letters warned the readers of the graphic content, alerting them that what lay beyond the front page was not suited for most. The articles would likely offend many, or turn the stomach. Instead, the front page suggested that all the reader really needed to know was that the weather was going to be pleasant, and that the two district teams that had met in their races the previous night had tied, and decided to be friends and compete again the next night. With that, it brought the collective all-time records for both teams to 0 Wins- 0 Losses- 2,950 Ties, a respectable performance history for both teams.

Three disregarded the paper, as always, and made to grab the protein shake. Three’s hand hesitated a moment, and instead of grabbing the drink, took the lunch bag instead. Three was not really feeling exceptionally hungry, so it would not do to waste valuable time on the drink. Ready for the day, Three approached the front door. As the door opened, an option warning popped up: “YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN BREAKFAST. PLEASE RETURN.” The warning, while optical, blocked Three’s entire field of vision, and the entire doorway. Three hit the exit button, but the warning merely re-appeared, effectively keeping Three from leaving the house to begin the journey to school. With a sigh, Three returned to the counter and picked up the shake, and the warning window disappeared. With the way no longer blocked, Three could leave without further issue, though the time for travel had been cut considerable closer than was comfortable.

Leaving the house, Three walked for at least a dozen yards before stopping, setting the still full protein shake down on the barrier that separated the walking routes. These barriers kept students of Three’s age and younger separated from the adults walking to work, the transports carrying goods and supplied, and the older students on their way to the secondary school building.

Other students feel into line on the path to the school. All walking the same way at the same pace. They said good morning, exchanged their happiness over the outcome of the game the night before, and contemplated their lessons and exercises for the day, which would be both pleasant and informative. No one spoke about the news beyond the front page of the paper.

It was the exact same as the day before. The same as always, unchanged in pattern. Still, Three continued to experience that same nagging sense of weight and shift, as if something was fundamentally different from  what it had been before.

Once all the students were inside and seated at their desks, the bell rang. As it happened each morning, their daily exam popped up on their desktops. Each student was faced with a series of four questions. They were the same as always, there was no variation, no change.

  1. How are you feeling? Well (correct)
  2. Who won last night? Both teams (Correct)
  3. Who holds the highest office in the government? The Chancellor Supreme (correct)
  4. Did you eat your breakfast?

At the last question, Three paused. Three had never paused before. Here it was. This was the difference, the shift that had been brushing up against the back on Three’s consciousness since waking. It had been felt before it had even occurred; the effect before the action that would generate it. It was as if Three had made this decision before it had even been a decision to make.

With a quick eye dart, Three glanced around the room at the others; all of their screens flashed a pleasant green, indicated that they had finished their daily exam. Indicating that every answer was uniform, correct. Tentatively, with a fluttering of unknown emotions, Three purposefully wrote his answer.

4.         Did you eat your breakfast? No.

It took a moment, but Three’s screen winked closed, and a new window popped up. First it opened in front of Three, and then in a cascade of pings across the room to the others, all looking straight ahead. The new window advised the students that everything was fine. And additional subset window opened in front of Three’s eyes, containing a set of three very clear instructions: Three was to remain quiet; to remain seated with hands placed flat on the desk; and that Three was to await the arrival of a task force which was being dispatched to remedy the detected compliance violation.

It became obvious that Three was the only one to receive these instruction, as the rest of the students remained calmly seated, looking straight ahead as if nothing as out of the ordinary. Three drew a deep breath, as for the second time that day, a wave of emotions that had never previously been felt took hold. Three had somehow knows, right from waking, that the world was shifting. As it turned out, it was only Three’s world that was shifting, and Three had been the one to set into free fall. Looking from the other students to the window, Three’s feet shifted a fraction of an inch. It only took a breath for Three to make another decision that had never been made before, another change to the sameness and repetition of the routine. With a quick breath, Three made a break for the open door.

Change was within Three’s reach, the door felt as if it were just there, waiting. Suddenly, Three was sprawling forward, reached by sensations that had previously been unknown, to which Three could ascribe no known words or past experience. The sensations forced legs  and arms to contract and lock awkwardly, no longer responding to the brains impulses to move. They sensations caused Three’s teeth to clamps down hard, pinching cheek tightly between strong molars. A second later, and that uncomfortable sensation was paired with the explosion of stars, as Three’s head met the ground with a thud, ears ringing. With vision swimming in and out of focus, Three felt hands grab that collar of their shirt, hefting them up from the ground, holding them suspended.

As three’s hearing returned, head pounding, there was the sound of a voice, speaking in controlled, clipped tones. As the voice spoke, they began to move, Three in tow above the ground. “Unit Three is contained. We will bring them in for evaluation. All other units in this zone appear to be functioning as normal, all coding pinging green. We believe this is an isolated incident. Please be advised to re-initialize protocol in 90 seconds. Extraction complete. Alpha Team signing off.”

Not a single student in the classroom seemed to notice what was going o, focused on the screens in front of their eyes, as if the words “All is well” were enough to keep them from curiously investigating the ruckus taking place behind them.

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Forming the Formless: A reflection on my difficulties and experiences in writing.

Like the gait of a newborn foal,

my rhymes roll out at an awkward pace.

Trapped somewhere between my mind and my lips,

they are lost in the cracks between spaces.

I lose time thinking about thinking,

Wondering if there is even an inkling of success in my endeavours.

Late nights spent forgetting the words to my own visions,

Tripping over the rhythm of the endless flow of thought,

Ultimately left fighting against the tide of my own doubt,

with words spilling out without form.

One idea becomes the next, becomes the next,

and continues to topple away from the beginning,

Until all that is left is the vexation of wondering where everything will end,

And in ending, if it will make sense or defy the trend of going nowhere.

I have always had a problem with endings; I don’t like them. They are too final, too anti-climatic, and too pessimistic in my view. Nothing is ever really finished, especially when it comes to writing or learning. You may have reached a conclusion in the plot line structure, but it does not mean that what you have is written in stone. Sometimes endings are too difficult to face, especially when you have invested yourself into a project. Yes, endings can be rewarding, but sometimes we just are not quite ready for them, and it leads us to tear everything back down, and to start again, until we become so caught up in the tearing down and the rebuilding that we forget what it was we set out to do in the beginning. Does this piece work here, or should I move it to another section? Is this really what I want to happen in this situation, or do I want to see how it would work out if I changed that part way back in the middle? Do these bits come together properly, or are they just mashed together for the sake of having them be like that? Where is the flow, and how do I keep it from hitting a wall? Does any of this make sense to anyone else? Inevitable, these are ideas and problems that writers, students, and academics face in everything they do. Fiction and non-fiction require the same attention to detail, require the same creative and personal investment of time, effort, and emotion, or they inevitable fail to satisfy.

Writing is something that I have been doing for a very long time, in a variety of ways; when I was 13 and in 8th grade I started writing what I called ‘a novel’. It was a lofty goal, even for a 13-year-old or, within reason, especially for a 13-year-old. The plot was contrived, the characters 2-dimensional, the names of characters and places cringe-worthy and inducing. Nevertheless, I ‘finished’ that great work, and set it aside, where I left it for years, for the most part. The closest that work ever got to ‘public viewing’ was when I shared it with a very close group of friends. Affectionately it came to be known as “Prologue”, and said friends may or may not still have their copies just waiting to be giggled over. From my own ‘novel’, I did what many young girls do and branches off into both poetry and fan-fiction (something that will be mentioned, but left alone; we’ve all dabbled, even if it was only in our heads to pass the time). I stuck with the poetry, and have amassed quite a collection, ranging from the naive and typical first attempts to some much more developed pieces, experimenting with style, scheme, and format. Poetry is still something that I return to when the inspiration strikes me, something that I once thought of pursuing professionally, but instead decided to keep as a hobby.

In High School, I branched out yet again, dabbling in short stories, plays, more poetry, historical fiction, fantasy, noir, horror and a variety of other ideas. Some of these pieces are still quite dear to me, and I return to them with new ideas on how to improve them, how to adapt and update them, and how to keep them alive. However, I have always suffered from the inability to finish; I become so attached to something that I am working on, and so invested in its worth, that I am unable to let it go because I still don’t see it as being complete, even if for all intents and purposes it has come to a conclusion. Every essay I submitted as an undergraduate, every project I worked on and showed, every paper I presented in conference, were all works-in-progress. Even now, having completed my first post-graduate degree, I still look back on essays and find ways to improve them, ways to make them flow more fluidly, to present the points more clearly, to bring out the importance of the evidence more succinctly. Likewise, I have started more stories than I can begin to count; I have notebooks filled with ideas, characters, plots, maps, and research, and often keep a fresh one on hand no matter where it is I find myself, because the most obscure or frivolous thing can set off an idea that has the potential to change everything.

This brings me to the meat of my future plans for this blog, now that I have completed another milestone on my life journey. While I am actively applying for PhD programs, determining what it is I will focus on, where it is I will do my work and continue my studies, and who I will look to in an advisory capacity, I hope to re-ignite my creative writing, while honing my academic skills. What this means for this blog is as follows: in the coming months I hope to revise some of my post short stories and creative pieces, and present them to a wider audience (this is where you come in). At the same time, I am going to put forward articles of a more scholarly nature (non-journal worthy due to the fact that they are short pieces rather than longer completed research), begin a series of exploratory research reflections on topics that interest me outside of my major academic focus (which is a rather narrow focus and relatively new when it comes to Western scholarship focus), and of course reviews whenever I feel that something I have read is either worth the attention of others or worthy of being avoided at all costs. I hope that this plan will help to keep this blog alive, to engage with my skills on a personal and professional footing, and to, hopefully, provide you with something insightful, thought-provoking, amusing, enchanting, or entertaining.

To keep with this, I have started working on a revision of a piece I created over 12 years ago. It will be a week or two before it is through a satisfactory revision, and at that time I will provide both the latest version, and the very first iteration of the piece. It is a bit of an absurdist social/environmental commentary, with what I hope is a darkly humorous twist. So, with that, I ask that you stay tuned for “Fuzzy Pants, Trench Coats, and Other Strange Things” (Title subject to change, though for now I will stick with the original title).

For those of you wondering exactly where I plan to take this all in the near future, here is a list of some ideas that i have been working on, or planning to work on, in the coming months:

  • Scott Pilgrim: A Love Story for our not-so-tragic Canadian Sensibilities.
  • An untitled piece of Silent Hill Revelations
  • A short story from the “Veil of Shadows” world
  • New Television: A reflection on the increasing interest in the macabre as prime-time entertainment instead of niche counter-culture movement.
  • Untitled improv creative writing session set to a random playlist.
  • Locke and Key: Imagination and the Other World of childhood.
  • A short story from the Trish universe, or a chapter from a larger work within that world.
  • Percy Jackson and Xena: re-inventing Greek Myth for new generations.
  • More poetry (both old and new)
  • Some lore pieces behind some of my larger story and world ideas.
  • Untitled piece on Miyazaki’s films (Spirited Away)
  • A short piece on classic Japanese films.
  • Serial Killers and their victims (there are a few that merit a bit more historical attention, without the spin of Hollywood attached), with shows like Criminal minds around we need to remember that these individuals are products of human existence and our ability to commit evil, not just of the society or culture they belong to.
  • Why Cordelia Chase is that mean high school girl we all secretly love.
  • The Undergraduate Essay: Tips and Tricks to avoid the pitfalls of a poor essay.

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Unbound by Direction

Good morning! As far as Monday’s go, I’ve never been one to heap my hate of a particular day of the week. I will admit to grumbling about it, but it is not an exclusive hate directed at the day simply because it happens to fall at a certain point in the work/rest cycle. Instead, I am willing to hate all days of the week equally. If there is a trend for Tuesdays to be particularly irksome, or suddenly I find my Friday’s to be overly complicated, I will fluidly shift my Garfield emotions.

I offer up some very short experiments in creative writing; they have no real plot, and no real direction. They are written simply because I had the urge to write something, and they are what happened to fall. They may have a future, they may not. I have not thought to constrain them to a given set of circumstances, and I have not assigned the narrative voices a goal to fulfill. They just wanted to be heard.

1.

From her first breath she knew that something had changed; the air trickled down the back of her throat, carrying the burning cold that she could only equate with the fact that the sun had yet to rise. Her limbs felt stiff as she arched her back, digging in the soft, yielding ground beneath her. A shuddering tremor ran from her shoulders down the deep road of her spine, tension releasing from all the muscles along the furrowed path. Though the cold had come, the earth beneath had yet to be covered in the thick blanket that signaled the deep sleep, when stirring in the branches was limited to the drab brown sparrows.  It was the snap of twigs that caused her head to turn, her eyes to focus in the pre-dawn light, dim and shadowed. She focused with all she had in the direction of the sound; it grew steadily closer. The air seemed to crackle, to shift and fill with something new. She could not place it in her memory. Low to the ground she inched forward, placing each step  perfectly so as to leave the ground completely undisturbed. Where she passed it looked as if nothing living had walked, the earth did not give below her, the grass did not sway at her passing.

2.

The simplicity of it all was what first caught her attention, what drove her to continue observing, dismantling, and analyzing the whole thing piece by piece. The material felt like water in her hands, and yet the integrity of it was closer to the gossamer of a butterfly’s wing. The gown was something out of fantasy, a thing of beauty that every woman envied when they saw it on the body of another; a thing that drew the eyes of single and married men alike, with hushed whispers of desires and thoughts that had little place in casual conversation. Her hand traced over the barely apparent seams, along the cinched waist and the flowing neckline. What she wouldn’t give to be able to wear the dress for one night, to be the envy of every woman, the focus of every man, and the topic of every sentence. Unfortunately, much as it would have pleased her to do such a thing, there were no gallant soirée’s for her to attend, there were even fewer chances of her acquiring such a marvelous piece of clothing for her very own. Instead of working, as many women her age did, she spent her time training her body and her mind, and truly had little time for idle fantasies of being swept away by some gorgeous creature. The only men she was on speaking terms with were her trainers, her guardians, and her teammates, and she knew that none of them even glimpsed such a facet in her persona that would tempt them to be interested in her in any other way then what they already where as friends and allies. Sighing softly she let the material fall from her hand and left the display, pulling her jackets more closely around her lithe body to guard from the winter wind as she stepped out into the evening lit streets, slipping into the crowds heading home from work to their families.

3.

The scent of sandalwood drifted up to her through the haze of her sleep, pleasantly assaulting her senses and reminded her exactly where she was. With an languished stretch she felt the warm that rested at the middle of her back, reassuring pressure that reminded her she was not alone among the sea of sheets. She feels the warm hand on the small of her back curl around her side, slipping to her hip and gentle pulling her back into the warmth of the sweet-smelling sheets, until she rested firmly against his chest, his skin adding to the already comfortable warmth she was feeling. His other arms pillows her head as she closes her eyes, taking another deep, soothing breath of the smell that is completely him, that reminds her of everything about him. He chuckles softly, his breath ruffling her unbound hair, ghosting across her ear as he squeezes her gentle, assuring her that he does not plan on going anywhere.

She nestles herself back against him, letting her eyes drift closed as she basks in his warmth. It is not often that they can be together like this, alone, quiet, comfortable, and without the intrusion that usually plagued them whenever they attempted to garner a moment alone together. Every single moment they shared was special, a hope held for the future when the world around them, their families and friends, would be able to settle down again and breath, without jumping at shadows and jumping from country to country.

The hand at her hip crept slowly up her taut stomach, brushing over her navel, and coming to rest below the intercostal rib, feeling her lungs expand as she took each breath. His hand could easily span her waist, a mass of tightly knit muscle that so very rarely relaxed. But it was different with him. When they were together she dropped all her guard, all her safeties; she knew that when he was nearby she didn’t have to be afraid of what was coming from behind, because he was watching her back, insuring that nothing happened to his little bird, and she watched his likewise. For now nothing mattered beyond their shared warmth, the soft sheets, and the scent of sandalwood which settled over it all.

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