Everytime I get myself all OMGUSUK about my "writing", I wind up realizing that I am only 1/3 as bad as I thought I was.

With revision and work, it might not even be that bad. It isn't like art. I can't just look at it and know whan it is done or that it was good or that I am satisifed.

I can't even tell if other people really like it or not, mainly because I can't see thier faces when they read it-unlike when they look at a painting.

Admission-

Allright. I admi it.

I took a week of from writing. It has been wierd, you know. Since I blog or write something every day, this weeklong lack of verbosity is starting to clog up my inner circuitry.

Starting next week, I will be returning to my usual monkey-shines. Not that anyone will be reading those particular things, but heh? Whatever, right?

The Third Option

A woman, strange in her bones

Dirty knees, clean dishes

Broken Amarillo snow globe in rum

Snow, snow, snow, whoa, wrist, backwards

Look, I have a red hat!



Three-Five-Seven equals strawed berries

Three, Three, Three, Three, Three, Tree

Tree, Tree, Tree, Tree,

              Fencing on fire

              Pop rocks

              Rock talks, talking heads, headphones,

              Phone home-

The phone rings, but you never call.



Three is prime.

Prime time. Prime time in the sunshine, baby!

BBQ and family makes us happy, but

It also gives me indigestion.



Praise Jesus and pass the ketchup,

Whatever it takes for you to shut up!



Robot garbage, mechanic change, candy canes

Canes are knickers, knickers are optional

Optional is rational but not logical and reasonable

And reasonable is no good.



No good at all.



Two packs, Jack and three of those

Who’s put this picture here?

          Dad, mad, glad, sad, had, BAM!



Glasses in the rosebush,

But there were no fish.



Three, three, tree, tree, five and dime

A dime is also prime. But not ten.



And not one.



                 No. Anything is better than one.

Oddly enough...

I took this class so that I could continue to write more. And then I realized that I don't really *want* to.

Or at least not right now. I mean right now this point in my life.  Why is that? I want to so badly at a time and place where I cannot and then, when I can, I am all... meh?

Foo.

Also, I made a dutch apple-pear pie tonight, so this "Don't wanna write right now" bullshit may just be the pie talking.

/off to sleep off the pie high.

Hope year is better

-last year's big resolution
forgotten too soon

I have been slaving on this poetry
for class
for days and days and days
It causes me pain
without rhyme
I cannot lie-

I hate it.

Secret of Me

The Secret of Me

I am:

A false door,

A bookshelf on a latch,

A hidden stairway to hide secrets and homemade preserves

A tiny little flower thriving

Between the cracks of ill used sidewalks, nowhere to go but up

I realize that I should not feeling so defeated and horrible about my writings, but I am. I can't seem to banish the baddies tonight.

The Penitent's Call (first scene, rough draft)

Coating shadowy bridges and gleaming gates, the absolute darkness that comes just before dawn rolled over the Empire. It brought with it an old wind that whispered lies and called witness to the rise and fall of a hundred nations; flogging the open bridge that connected the gleaming roads to burnished metal gates of the kinamtila, the sacred, and internal world of the Imperial city known as Tur-Anok.  Brutally abandoning frost on the exposed lips of the men slowly climbing the arc of the bridge, the wind chided them forward, screaming through the whistles and bells that hung on the long, thin pole their Speaker carried. 

With anxious and unrelenting fingers, it jerked the unbleached Penitent robes open with a furious roar. Silently as the ghosts of murdered men, the Dead Ones passed the apex and descended into the small protective circle of rock and door.  

A small way-tower leaned against the rock. Inside, half a dozen men sat at a table in front of a roaring fire, dice cups in hand. Their armor, though well tended, was loosely laced and partially discarded. Their shorn heads reflected the fire as quickly and well as their blades.

“Halt!” cried a graveled voice.  At the cry, the sound of raucous laughter stifled. In the silence the sound of the Penitent’s Call, seemed even more unnerving, more demented and terrifying.

A face followed the voice out of the dim light that escaped the doorway.  “All right, then? Let’s see it.” He gestured impatiently with one dirty, ragged nailed hand.

The people staggered to a halt behind their Speaker, weariness and pain evident in every line of their bodies.  The Speaker of the Dead Ones stumbled forward into the light. His wrappings reflected the light around him giving him an unearthly appearance. He shivered violently in the cold.

He stood for a moment, quietly blinking in the darkness. Finally he tilted the long, thick staff he carried toward the guard.  It was nearly twice the height of a man and twined heavily with whistles and bells made of bone and ceramic, carved and painted. It jangled and screamed as the wind jerked the bells about, warning all those who came close to them that they bore a curse, a sickness. He thrust it forward, forcing a plaque to fall from the tip. The guard caught it with the tip of his sword.

“Penitents,” he growled, spitting on the ground. “Dead Ones!” he called over his shoulder. As the sounds of revelry returned, he shook his head.  “Become a gate soldier, he says! Stand at the Dog Gate, he says!” He made a whistling noise through his teeth as he began to saw through the thongs that held the plaque to the Call. “Me father, always the wise one.” He chortled. “Told me nothing ever came through these gates. Forgot to tell me about the likes of you, he did.” He pointed the tip of his sword at the Speaker.

“Mother, heal us”, the Speaker moaned. The others behind him raised their rune covered hands and joined in the liturgy.  “Mother, save us,” the moaned as they kissed their fingertips. “Mother, take us”, they sighed, lifting their fingers to the stars. The wind scourged the bare tips, despite being blocked by the slick, black pylons that held the gate to the wall of the Mountain.

“Oh, always the same old thing. Mother, heal us, blah blah.” He pulled the plaque loose. “Don’t any of you ever stop to think that getting in these gates isn’t going to help save your soul? You’re cursed, you are.” He muttered at them as he took the plaque to the doorway to better read the glyphs. The Dead Ones shuffled nervously in the darkness.

“It says here you had thirty-two.” He peered into the darkness.  “I only count twenty eight. Is that right??” He pried at the wax seal at the bottom with the tip of his knife.

“All properly burned.” The Speaker raised a hand, already anticipating the question. “Burned, I said. Properly. According to rights and traditions. We disposed of everything.”

The guard grunted in reply. The wax plug popped off the plaque. He dropped the seal into a small bucket that hung on the wall.

 Then, sticking his tongue out through a gap that missing teeth made, he quickly carved a small glyph in the wood with his belt knife. It was Unsealed, but then, Imperial Imprimaturi rarely spent time questioning those who could not be made to pay taxes.  He tied the plaque back to the staff with an old leather tong.

“Now”, he said, jingling his purse.  “Let’s get down to business. Considering that I am letting you pass, I think I should get a reward on account of me being so charitable with your spiritual needs and all.” He gave a grim chuckle as his fellow guardsmen drew up behind him.  “A ferryman’s fee, if you will.” He and his friends licked their lips.

With a merciless grin, he held out his hand. The Speaker reluctantly dug out two silver crowns and laid them on his hand. He bounced the coins expectantly, making them clink together. Two more crowns blossomed in his palm.  

“Now, then! That’s more like it”, he said. Carefully folding the coins up in a grimy cloth, he tucked them into a pocket. The Speaker moved to stand in front of the gate. His rheumy brown eyes burned with a reverent light.

The guard chuckled at them as he reached into a slit on the wall and a gong pealed. Once. Twice. On the third sound, a tall, thin wooden door, invisible in the gloom, creaked open. They turned at the sound of the noise.

 “You didn’t think I was going to open them big gates for the like of you, did you?” He chortled. “Now, you’re going to have to take the other way in. You ought to thank me. At least it will be warmer that way.” With that, the guard turned his back, their passage already forgotten.

The sound of dice rattling in cups followed them as they entered the door singly, alone, as every man is in the last hour of his death. One by one, they entered the mouth of the mountain. It swallowed them up until, at last, there was only one left standing in the in the rays of the brightening sun. He gazed westward, as the sun peaked over the horizon, towards home. Determinedly, Anil turned his back on the sun and followed his brothers into the darkness. 

This short story hates me...

I am down to the last five pages of this bastard-you know, where it is all action? Well... I can't make it happen.

Or rather, I am struggling. It HATES me. I can see it in my head but can't seem to make it happen, you know? For the most part, it really isn't bad, but I just can't seem to get the action done without going:

First she____then she______and they______ loudly. She_______ then she_______ and then she did it again.

...

Total, absolute, utter suck.