When Winter Takes Over

So I'm utterly exhausted at 1:53 in the AM as I start writing this brief entry. In an amazing move to show their retail supremacy, Sears decided it was most prudent to keep us there til 11 pm during one of the worst blizzards I've ever witnessed. The entire mall was closed. In fact, I'm pretty sure Sears was the only store open for a 40 mile radius.

Congratulations, Sears. You paid me to play Rockband in the electronics section because no one came into the store. And congratulations again for making me leave late enough that no gas stations were open and therefor I ran out of gas on the way home IN said blizzard.

So, that's what I spent an hour doing...pushing my car, along with the aid of a policeman and two utility workers, to the house. Then shoveling out the driveway and pushing the car in. All still during this blizzard. I think we're around 13-15 inches thus far with more on the way.

It's all motivation to get back to writing and get myself published.

Keep your eyes on the horizon, kid.

Too Much Time Away

Just a quick note. Didn't want people thinking that I had completely forsaken this blog.

But now I need a shower.

More to come.

A New Concept

Mom bought me a subscription to Writer's Digest as well as a book about writing and getting published. I flipped through a few of the chapters of the book, looking for help on disciplining myself to write. The advice, in a nutshell, was that writing was much like any sort of exercise: You just have to do it. A half hour, an hour, a page, five pages...it doesn't matter, as long as you sit down with a goal and meet it. It's not so much important WHAT you write, as long as you're writing. I realized part of my problem was that I would try to dedicate all time to a single concept of writing. As such, if I felt writer's block I would simply not write. This of course leads to a decline in writing ability because your writing muscle isn't being used at all!

So I've got another short that I'm working on. Truth be told, I haven't finished the previous piece. I'm still trying to figure out a way to close it. So until then, you guys can be entertained with the new project. Sci-Fi/Horror, kids.

New Untitled

The ship sat lifeless in it's orbit around the equally lifeless planet, a pair of corpses drifting in space. The ship was the Helle Licht, a preliminary research vessel sent to determine if the otherwise barren world could offer any form of salvage; resources that mining teams should be dispatched to recover. Four hundred and eighty-five meters in length, the Helle Licht looked like a massive beetle in suspended animation. The bulbous body had a forward pod that resembled a head, a pin cushion of antennae and sensors. No lights could be seen and were it not for the backdrop of the pale gray planet, the ship would have been difficult to see, for it would have blended in with the inky darkness that surrounded it.

Primo Serjiak looked out the forward view of the Reanimator, his eyes criss-crossing the hull of the Helle Licht in search of some indication of internal activity. There was none to be found. Nothing so much as a desk lamp seemed to show up.

" What've you got, Serjiak?" came a voice from behind him.
Primo shook his head slightly, then glanced down to the four monitors laid out before him. His fingers traced the screens as he poured over the data, readouts from the half dozen sensors pointed at the derelict vessel. He sighed and shook his head again, looking back out through the forward viewport at the silent giant they were approaching.

" She is dead in the water, Captain," he replied in an accent that could have been found in Old Eastern Europe, " I do not need the readouts to tell me that. The way it has drifted in it's orbit, the lack of light...but, from a technical standpoint, it seems the life support systems are functioning, though running at minimum. The engines are completely inactive, which accounts for the drifting; not even the stabilizers are firing."

He turned to face the bridge of the Reanimator, his eyes settling upon an older man sitting atop the command dais, his own gray eyes peering out at the ship that drew ever closer. Serjiak shrugged a bit, " there is little more I can tell from here, Captain Holland."

Captain Ambrose Holland stroked his gray beard thoughtfully, then spoke, his eyes not leaving the view ahead, " contact?"

The man who responded was barely that, a recruit fresh from the academy, " no response to our hail, sir."

Holland's eyes lowered to Primo who shrugged and glanced down at his monitors once more,
" there is no evidence of damage to their communication arrays, subspace or local, sir. However, without a direct connection to their network, I cannot be sure. "

" Alright, then let's get a hardlink established. Vodden, take us in to a docking module, nice and easy. Serjiak, prep the hardlink lines for attachment. We're not stepping foot in that ship until I get some readings on it," Holland said, sitting back in his chair.

The Reanimator slowly approached the Helle Licht and in space, there was no sound as the maneuvering jets ignited in small bursts of pale light. The Reanimator, at only seventy meters long, was dwarfed by the far larger research vessel. The smaller craft maneuvered about to the underbelly of the derelict vessel. Several spurts from the maneuvering jets slowed it's approach to a crawl as the smaller of the two lined up the docking tube.

Primo made his way to the upper level of the ship, passing through a set of bulk heads and coming into a large circular room, some fifty feet in diameter and a ten foot ceiling. In the center was a clear, plexi-glass cylinder with a pair of sliding doors on one side. An array of consoles, monitors and large bed scanners lined the walls. As Primo walked to one of the consoles, he could hear a knocking sound coming from above.

" Serjiak?" came the Captain's voice over the intercom.

Primo hit the switch on right side of the console and said, " I'm here, Captain."

" Vodden has docked us with the Helle Licht. Commence sensor hardlinking when ready."

" Yes, sir."

On the monitor above the console came a blueprint showing the docking tube that extended from the Reanimator to the Helle Licht. Between the outer shell of the tube and it's interior there was a space. His hands went to the controls on the console and the translucent images of two rod-like appendages began climbing up space towards the research vessel.

" We'll have sensor hardlink in ten seconds, Captain," Primo said into the intercom.

The arms reached two small circles on the blueprint-

-and stopped.

Primo frowned a bit, easing them back, then turning a dial to magnify the area near the ends of the arms. He guided them forward once again, only to have them stop and a small error flash in the bottom left corner of the screen.

Error. Unable to secure. Hardlink not established.

" Do we have a connection, Serjiak?" came the Captain's voice.

" Not yet, sir," Primo said, the confusion of the scenario in his voice, " there seems to be an issue with the terminals on the Helle Licht. The hardlink cables aren't interfacing with them."

On the bridge, Ambrose sighed and leaned to his left, resting his chin on his fist. The half dozen crew members on the bridge waited a moment, then began glancing about, waiting for their captain's response to the situation.

I'm Looking for a Way to Leave the World Today

Sooo, it's been a while. I'm just writing this to make sure I don't fall too far out of the habit. There won't be anymore installments of my untitled piece, as I will be finishing it up over the next week then preparing it for editing. Once the whole kitten kabootal is completed, I'll send out a copy to whomever wishes to partake. I'm feeling pretty excited to finish it, as I have a solid concept for where the story is going and this will be my first real project that I've finished with writing, other than works for school. This will also be the first one that, once completed, I'll be submitting to publishers. Go me.

Things are slowly moving in a positive direction for me. Though I'm frustrated about the lack of finding another job, I'm becoming much better with my finances and restraining myself from spending my money on things I don't need. It's amazing how far you can stretch a dollar.

This is all the more exciting as winter time is generally a difficult time for me. The short days play murder on my psychological stability, and I usually find myself frustrated, uninspired and angry a lot. Today marked a great day for me though. This stemmed from a dream I had last night in which I was dating Shakira. (For those of you not familiar with her, shame on you. For those of you who are unfamiliar with my desire to put a ring on her finger and call her wife...well, now you know.) It wasn't a dirty dream. We were just dating. I actually don't recall much of the dream except for saying to her , 'You know, if someone had told me a month ago that I would be dating you...I would have called them mad.' She then coyly smiled and giggled at me.

So I woke up feeling pretty good, despite the realization that I was not, in fact, dating Shakira. Work wen't well, profit was made. I also have been able to see my family a bit more than in the past which has been very theraputic. I'm working with Da' on a surveying project and I always enjoy when he asks my thoughts on the value of upcoming land projects he is formulating.

SO! All in all, things are going well. I'll leave you all with a little snip from a transaction between my nephew, LMX, and I.

(We had just run out into one of the back fields, run through the woods, rolled down a hill and were now en route back to the house.)

LMX: (breathing a bit heavy and sounding tired) Why's my voice getting deepuh?
Me: Well, you're tired from all the exercise. Your body is worn out, using more oxygen and this makes your voice more unstable.
LMX: It's tired?
Me: Yep. Your voice is tired.
LMX: Well then I'm not gonna tawk anymowah.
Me: You're not gonna talk anymore?
LMX: *humming*

An Untold Text (cont.)

Otherworldly creatures born of unholy practices. Slumbering children snatched away from unsuspecting parents, only to be murdered in a most vicious manner bordering cannibalism. My stomach turned at the very thought and I dashed to the window, flinging it open before retching down to the street below. How fortunate I was that no one had been walking beneath, and even more fortunate that none saw my vulgar display.

Behind me, Madeline stirred in my bed, a sleepy voice drifting to me, " Are you alright?"

" Yes," I said, crossing the room to grab a handkerchief from my desk. I dabbed my lips and poured myself some tepid water from a pitcher I kept next to my desk, " I'm fine, my dear. A bit of an upset stomach, that is all."

" You're working yourself ill, darling. Come to bed," she said, her eyes still closed and her voice rapidly losing the battle with sleep.

" Momentarily, my dear," I said. I waited until her breathing became deep once more, then sat to continue my work. I took deep breath to steel my nerves and looked at the next line.

I had made it nearly halfway through the book by the time I looked up and saw the silver lining of dawn beginning to creep across the eastern sky and sillouette the rooftops of the city. My eyes were dry and my vision had begun to blur. I sat back, groaning softly as I tried to stretch the muscles of my neck and back which had been held in a hunched poise for so long. I felt terrible, my mind full of the horrid descriptions the author had delved in to. I was still at a loss as to the nature of this text. Surely it could not be truth, but the facts I had drawn from it pointed to little else. The thought send a shiver through me and I felt my stomach turn once more, though I managed to pacify the nauseating feeling.

As I undressed and climbed into bed with Madeline, I realized I would need to speak with Mister Irewood directly and discover how it was he had come into possession of the book.

* * * *

Lennox Central Station was a bustling hub at six o' clock in the evening as my train came to a halt and I descended onto the platform. Wives welcomed home husbands; parents greeted their children who were returning from holiday at the homes of their countryside relatives; businessmen were coming and going, some returning from their jobs in other cities, some leaving for important business trips; a cluster of soldiers even stood together, transferring to whatever post their orders dictated.

I had done my best to clean up and look suitable to meet Mister Irewood, having shaven that morning and donned a clean pair of dark gray trousers, a white, collarless shirt and had Madeline brush up my bowler. My coat was draped over one arm, the other hanging by my side and holding my attache case in which the book sat safely. I also had packed the manuscripts I had used for translating the text. I had completed it on my train ride and felt a shudder run up my spine as I stood on the platform, remembering the final half of the book.

I drew from my pocket a small scrap of paper which I had torn from the wrapping the book had come to me in. On it was the return address. I had not sent a telegram to Mister Irewood, as the urgency to speak with him seemed to drive at me more and more the longer I remained in possession of his book. Such a fantastic story, true or not, was hard to push from your mind when you had been exposed to so few examples. Certainly, I had never read one of such macabre nature and dark detail. Any civilized folk would have turned away from it as soon as they had come upon the first example of a child being murdered, especially in such brutal and evil ways. The hundred notes that had been sent to me did not give me that option, however. I was paid to translate a text and translate it I did.

Or was there another reason? As I crossed the platform towards the stairs to take me down to the street, I suddenly was hit with a thought that nearly took the air from my lungs. I must have had a queer expression painted on my face, for I noticed several people turn to stare at me. I forced myself to keep walking, despite the dark cloud I felt looming over me. I could have simply returned the book and the money, apologizing for my inability to stomach the context, but the thought of such had not even crossed my mind. A morbid fascination had driven me to continue, to learn the fate of the author and this Lamia he wrote of. I had read over the scenes of gore with a growing ease, my sensibilities becoming desensitized to their horrific nature.

A carriage outside of the station took me along Bellingham Avenue until turning right onto Collings Lane. Ten minutes later we turned onto Carde Lane and from there it was a five minute ride until we came to a halt outside of a rather luxurious building. I climbed out of the carriage, paid the driver, then found myself standing at a waist-high iron gate. It was opened, revealing a stone walkway with rose bushes running along either side. Brick steps climbed up to a large pair of dark red doors with stained glass windows. Such estates were not found around Bentley Square, which in contrast was a hodgepodge of lower and lower-middle class apartments. These were more like the cushioned suites and homes of Galleyville and Vendenshire. I momentarily thought how sorely out of place one dressed such as I must have looked, but the thought was fleeting as I remembered why I had come here. I walked between the roses and climbed the steps. I grasped the large brass knocker and struck it several times on the plate it rested against. Several moments passed before I saw the distorted shape of a maid through the stained glass window. As the door creaked open, I was greeted by a slender woman, with strands of dirty blonde hair hanging down from her maids cap. She only opened the door enough to allow her head to poke out and addressed me in an almost snappish fashion, no doubt due to my appearance.

" May I help you?"

I touched the brim of my hat in a slight display of courtesy and replied, " yes, ma'am, I was hoping Mister Jonathan Irewood would be available."

Her face hardened ever so slightly as she looked me over, " and who are you?"

" Pardon my poor manners, miss, my name is -"

" It's alright, Miss Pinkerton," came a man's voice from somewhere beyond her, " let him in. He's an associate of mine."

She glanced back then stepped back, swinging the door inward and politely bowing her head. I touched my brim again before taking my hat off and stepping inside. The foyer had hardwood floors with a beautiful dark blue carpet running the length and ending at the doorway to the next room. The walls were white and free of any soil, homage to the strict attention of the staff charged with the estates cleanliness. Paintings and portraits adorned the walls, no doubt the latter being members of Mr. Irewood's ancestry. I realized, as I looked about, that there was not a hint of dust or dirt to be seen, a striking difference to the shanty-like building I lived in.
To my left a set of stairs ascended to the next floor with cut outs in the wall displaying a rich collection of vases and as I moved closer to inspect them, I saw the owner of the voice descending the steps.

A New England Haunting

I can not more fully appreciate why Stephen King uses rural Maine as the basis for so much of his horror. New England is, potentially, the most terrifying place ever. The imagery of darkness slowly climbing up from the east as the sun disappears into the west, with the steeple of a church silhouetted against the fading light, surrounded by pines that stand in grim silence, untouched by the rapid approach of fall and winter...

I just woke up from a nap where this very scenario was playing out. I had traveled to a small town to get something, I cannot remember what. What I do remember is meeting terrifying people and nearly being driven off the road by some demented individual and being hounded down the streets by cult-like psychopaths.

All in all it was the sort of nightmare that leaves you feeling pretty horrible upon waking up. I looked out my window with sleep still fresh in my eyes and saw the fading light, a scene very close to the one I had just left.

I still feel uncomfortable. I need a hot cinnamon bun, a blanket, and a good movie to wipe this feeling away.

Of Doctor Wats

Another quick hat tip to one of the greatest men in history, Dr. Richard Hill Varnum Wats.

I used to think my dad had little patience for people and I suppose, like anyone, he DOES have little patience for people who fritter away his time or their own. Nevertheless, it seems every time I see dad, he's eager to help someone out. The list for the favors he's done me alone is practically endless and no doubt he could have taken a cruise or two with the time and money (For time = money) he's spent trying to help me find my way in life. Through every blunder and failed attempt, dad has been there to help me climb back onto my horse and look for a new endeavor. Without spoiling me - at least, not TOO much - he's managed to make sure that I never go without the necessities of life while making sure that I understand that anything else must be worked for.

Side note: Mom has been by his side through these sorts of lessons. They both have always offered a means by which to get the things I want. I've come to truly respect this method. I had friends who were paid to do simple house chores and while it frustrated me initially that my parents wouldn't offer me the same treatment, I'm now glad that they didn't. Paying your child to clean his room seems a bit odd to me, now.

As I've grown older, I find it more and more fun to sit and talk to dad about things. We share many of the same interests, from music to boxing to business. One of my favorite past times has become sitting with dad late at night, watching CSPAN or CNN and discussing whatever topics they happen to throw at us.

I think Anderson Cooper has actually brought my father and I closer together.

What it Means to be Manly.

Sunny day spent in the shop
Remapping DNA of a car's chassis
Tiger Hair applied, " it's time to stop"

Declare war on a hornet's nest
Clad in anti-sting gear and armed
Soon hoist high, the Varnum Crest

Linger in abode of my rearing
Read the Wall Street Journal and watch TV
A trip to chop wood rapidly nearing



Working with Pops is always a good time. Sometimes I'm lazy getting around to it, but I really enjoy everything I learn from working with him. It's a lot easier to do now, too, since we can sorta mosey at our own pace and don't have to set too many time tables. I remember being frustrated as a child when I worked with him, because he was always trying to get a lot of work done and I was usually inexperienced in the tasks he had me set up for. This resulted in him having a shortened temper. I don't fault him for it, though. Managing a large dairy operation with some less than competent help is enough to put anyone on edge.

We have great times, now, and he's always happy to have the help. I'm hoping to make my way out to New Mexico again this winter. Though generally I prefer to laze about and just enjoy being away from Maine for a bit, I do enjoy putting in a day here or there of fixing up around the apartment or working in the wood shop with him.

Here's to Paps being cool.

" Ah, Venice."

I feel like saying that as I see the fading light of the sun coming through the leaves of the trees, gold through a colander. I'm home alone right now, which is nice to have once in a while. I very much enjoy the company of my roomate and friends, but I definitely need 'my time' which I really feel I can only get when I'm in a house alone.

It's chilly tonight, a bit more so than last night. Nonetheless, I am enjoying it and though I left work feeling like a three course meal of haggard, plentifully garnished with grumpy, that has all melted away. I am becoming pleased with the progression of 'Untold Text', to the point that I even feel giddy while writing it, despite it's dark contents.

I've been pouring over the works of Edward Gorey for the past few days, using his dark imagery as inspiration and mood-maker while i write. I remember watching Mystery with mom and I always LOVED the opening. It was practically the best part, (unless of course Jeremy Brett was playing Sherlock Holmes. I'm convinced there is no a single soul on this planet who could ever portray dear Sherlock in such brilliance.) Coupling Gorey's work with some classical pieces I downloaded, I have little lack of inspiration while I write. Hopefully, my discipline will share this degree of presence.

Again, no story clips tonight. I'm too busy walking on beautiful to mar it. It's a beautiful mix, beyond my windows, of a Mediterranean sunset and dusk falling over farmland.

Well played, God.

A Lovely Day

Though I did not accomplish nearly as much as I had intended to today, it was a splendid day off from work. I busied myself with cleaning the kitchen and relaxing, doing a bit of writing here and there. The gray clouds that had started the morning off were soon carried away by a stiff breeze and the sun manifest itself to warm what would have been an otherwise chilly September day.

Though it's cooled off considerably tonight, there is a summer feel to it all. I feel like sitting on the porch, talking with friends and enjoying the sounds of summer. I can hear the serenade of crickets coming through my window, carried on what's left of a cool breeze. It washes over me with a sense of nostalgia as I think back to playing in the backyard, the sun's light waning as he lazily drifts behind the horizon. Children giggling and shouting as their feet become stained green from the freshly mowed grass. We're hoarding the clippings that dad just mowed, as though they're some form of currency. We attempt to steal one another's in a variation of 'capture the flag'.

I'm leaving out a story clip tonight, for I fear the dark nature of it would disrupt the otherwise tranquil sensation these memories conjure.

To my siblings, I hoist my glass and toast to happier times, when the burden's of the world did not touch our shoulders. To my parents, I give thanks for protecting us and raising us as best you could in these latter days.

Inspiration

It's always odd to me when inspiration strikes. It's an interesting sensation when your mind suddenly decides to squeeze the kiss of a muse through the brick wall that has held your imagination captive for so long.

So here's some more writings.


An Untold Text (continued.)

Of Lamia

I furrowed my brow at the title. Was I about to embark on an early version of some sort of fantastic fiction? Perhaps a rewrite on the classical mythos?

I write these words in the hopes that some will come to understand the horrors that have been unleashed upon the world. To understand and, I pray, put an end to them. I tremble even as I write this, for it was my own foolish actions that have given birth to the evils I will speak to you about. Such a wretched being am I. Could I, I would take the full measure of her

wrath upon myself, but alas, all I can do is offer up my mind to those who may stand a greater chance.

I sat back and rubbed my eyes, glancing at the clock on my desk. As the last sentence of the translated text echoed in my mind, I could hear the well-to-do's leaving the theatre, their exclamations for the brilliant masterpiece they had just watched echoing up in the night air. I frowned again, standing walking to the window. What was this that had been sent to me? It made no sense. Such fiction was not written in the time period this book seemed to have come from.

I felt a queerness as I looked at the leather bound book, the light of the candles at my desk putting on a dance of light across the yellowed pages. I wished that Mister Irewood had lived nearby so that I might have inquired as to the origins of the book, or at least how it had found it's way into his possession. Several scenarios played in my mind as I tried to rationalize the existence of the writing. Perhaps this was some touched individual's attempt at macabre humor.

A soft knock at the door stirred me from my thoughts and I quickly moved to my desk, tucking away the translation and the book together. I gritted my teeth, for I always felt brief rush of anger whenever interrupted in my work. I crossed the floor to the door and opened it, trying my best to dawn a sleepy smile for the person I knew to be on the other side.

She smiled sweetly and stepped in, " I hope I'm not interrupting anything, darling."

I closed the door behind her and embraced her, " of course not, Madeline."

She was dressed in her work attire, that of a serving girl. Her corsett was laced low, allowing her cleavage to show, and her dress had the sides cut up to the knee to let any who desired to gaze upon the fishnet stockings that clad her legs. Black curls spilled down around her shoulders and face, framing the blush-painted cheeks and crimson lips.

She kissed me, the kiss of true lovers. There was no falsehood behind her gesture, no implication of charity or masking true feelings. Her lips, painted for the pleasure of others, were for me alone. I had read hundreds of texts over the past ten years, most older than my grandparent's grandparents. Some were composed of madmen, others the learned verse of praised scholars. In all such readings, I had never amassed the knowledge required to tell me why such a precious creature as Madeline could learn to love such a frail husk such as me. Why question the luck I had been blessed with?

As she let the kiss finally break, she glanced to my desk, looking at the paper wrapping and twine crumpled and pushed to the corner. Her eyes then crossed to the stove where my small iron pot still sat with some of the tonic I had brewed for the pages of the book. I cursed myself silently for my sloppy job of cleaning up after myself.

" I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were working tonight," she shifted her weight towards the door.

" Have I ever asked you to pardon yourself for my work?" I said with a forced smile, still slapping myself mentally.

" But you hate to be interrupted..." she began, taking a step this time.

I grabbed her hand, " and too long have I been away from your presence, darling."

Her smile let me know my words had the desired effect. She stepped away from the door and crossed the room to my bed. She sat on it's edge, reaching down to unlace her boots.

" You work, my love. I'm afraid a night in these boots has wearied me plenty. I won't disturb you." she said, smiling as she looked up to see my eyes riveted to the dark line of her cleavage.

I smiled in return. I would have to take her generosity. As deeply as I wanted to hold her in my bed and make love to her, I had to devote my attention to the work ahead. There was a nagging, as well, as I tossed over in my mind the words that I had translated.

She finished undressing under my gaze, then climbed into my bed and within moments was asleep. I turned back to my desk, drawing out the book and the paper that held my translation and continued my work.

The hours burned away and I felt feverish. The words I read struck immense disharmony within myself as, in my mind's eye, I painted pictures of dark rituals, satanic dealings and the torment of the writer. More than once I would sit back and rub my eyes, to feel the perspiration on my brow. I had never encountered such writings. Legends had been a longstanding part of human history, but the legends written, even those by the ancient Greeks, were never so personal. The authors depictions of the scenes were of such dark detail that I felt my stomach churn at parts.

I watched in horror, though such a word does little justice to the
horrid feelings that coursed through me, as Lamia kissed the child upon
the neck. His innocence drained away with his life and I could only
imagine the agony the boy's parent's would endure upon learning of his
demise. What twisted my entrails all the more was the unforsakable
knowledge that I had brought about this perversion.

Otherworldly creatures born of unholy practices. Children stolen from their parents as they slumbered to be murdered.

On Winter's Coming Touch and Unwritten Futures

I can feel Winter coming. I suppose I should say I can feel Autumn coming and that knowledge means Winter isn't far off. Autumn seems almost as short as our Summers. The dark of night creeps in earlier and earlier each day and my sleep has become increasingly restless to the point that I seem to wake up four or five times a night now. This is an ongoing cycle and generally happens this time of year. The other day I was complaining to a friend of mine about not being able to sleep much and she said, ' Hmm, this is about the same time last year that you said the same exact thing.'

I remember enjoying Winter as a child. To some degree I can still see the beauty of it when the trees are dressed in their white gowns and I look out over Dad's fields of ice like some albino ocean. The short days eat away at me, though. The cold. The ever-hanging blanket of gray in the sky. I remember last spring actually cheering when I realized it was six o' clock and sunlight could still be seen.

I try to stay living in the now and enjoy what is left of a rapidly declining summer. Perhaps I should try and make one final trip to the coast and breath in some salty air before the shops all close up and begin their hibernation.

Nevertheless, here is a brief continuation of my last excerpt. The conclusion is unwritten in my mind, a future I'm still trying to ascertain. I'm sure an epiphany will strike at some point. Until then....

A Text Untold (continued. The first paragraph is a re-write of the last paragraph in the previous entry.)

Not tonight, however. Despite the little voice in the back of my mind telling me I could use a puff, tonight there was far too much work to be done. Atop my desk was a small package, bound with brown paper and tied with twine. It was addressed to me with a return address to a Mister Jonathan R. Irewood of Lennox, some five hundred miles away. I pulled the twine off gently then unwrapped the article within. It was a leather bound book and by the incredibly dry feeling of the cover, I knew it must have been old. Old and not overly well preserved, unfortunately. Mister Irewood had sent me the text- along with a hundred royal notes- to translate. I knew that if I tried to use the book in it's current state, the leather would crack and break. The pages inside were most likely dry and brittle, meaning they would crumble in my hands if I wasn't careful. Before I could proceed, I'd need to do some simple repair work.

I put a few pieces of wood in the fire and poked at the remaining embers until the flames began to creep up and darken the wood. While my recipe for paper hydration slowly cooked on the stove, I pulled a small bottle of oil from my desk as well as another glass container which held a lump of beeswax in it. I put a few drops of the oil on the lump of wax and began to slowly and gently massage the oil into the leather. The oil would revitalize while the wax created a seal to keep the moisture in. I would have to remember to send back with the translation strict instructions on the care of such books, as this process would not always work. Once leather and paper degraded, there was a great deal of integrity that could not be restored. This process would allow me to use the book for translation, but I would have to encourage Mister Irewood not to use the book for anything other than display.

I allowed the oil to set while I tended to the tonic on the stove. The next few hours were spent agonizingly pouring over each page and, using the quill of a feather, applying the tonic around the text. As I did so, I glanced at some of the writing and determined it was a form of Latin, though not the classical style so many scholars were used to. This was a more vulgar form, which would date the text to sometime before the 9th century, though most likely closer to the 4th or 5th at the fall of Rome. It must have been a copy of sorts, as there were very few actual books written in that time period. However, if it had indeed been copied, it was done so by hand. I could see the slight variances between letters. No type setter had done this.

The pages had regained some of their bend and I found I was less anxious about manipulating the pages. I pulled from my library - a couple of shelves nailed crookedly to one wall - a pair of manuscripts which offered some insight into the translation of Vulgar Latin and set to work.

Late Night Thought and Some Writing

I was having a conversation with my friend Ben the other day regarding writing. I had picked up an issue of Writer's Digest and had been thumbing through the articles when he stopped by the house. He is working on his Master's in English, which involves writing a novel. While we were talking, I happened upon a passage of advice in which the columnist stated that it was more important to write something down than to write something polished.

I realized at that point that I had been focusing too much on writing a polished piece of work rather than simply getting the story down onto paper. As such, I've decided that once in a while I will throw up excerpts from bits I'm writing on here. There is no promise you will be able to read a finished product of the given story...but at least I'm putting some writing up!

A TEXT UNTOLD

Bentley Square was a commotion, primarily due to the Bendenshire Theater's opening of the new Vlamatti play, ' Barathrum'. From my third story apartment I could hear the clopping and rattling of horse drawn carriages as drivers chauffeured the rich and powerful to what would be a critically acclaimed evening. I watched from my window as they maneuvered down the cobblestone street and pulled around to the grand entrance of Bendenshire Theater. The occupants of the carriages, dressed in lavish attire, were there greeted by the head usher, Barth Grove. Barth was an acquaintance of mine, for he lived on the floor below my own and we had shared a drink or two at the Third Tier many a time. Tonight he was dressed in his brilliant blue uniform, complete with the almost military looking cap.

A finer looking gent tonight there is not, Barth, I thought as I allowed a brief smile before turning my back on the events and stepping back to my desk.

I was in my study, a small room which also served as my sleeping quarters. My bed was a thin mattress with a few well aged blankets and a slowly leaking feather pillow. Truth be told, despite it’s ragged appearance, I rarely used it this time of year. Autumn brought with it wretched fits of insomnia, an illness that had plagued me since childhood. Lacking sleep had provided me with a lithe figure and I often found myself wracked with a cough in the winter.

There was a cure of sorts. As I sat down, my eyes drifted to the top right drawer of my desk. Within was a small bag containing a spot of tobacco that I had mixed with opium. Truth be told, it was more like opium flavored with a bit of tobacco. The trance I fell into after subjecting myself to a few puffs on my pipe was surreal, though it was the deep slumber which came afterwards that I sought after. I tried to keep clear of the small bag, however, for Madeline very much hated it when she found me under it’s hypnotic spell.

Not tonight, however. Despite the little voice in the back of my mind telling me I could use a puff, tonight there was far too much work to be done. Atop my desk was a small, leather bound book, resting on the brown paper wrapping it had been mailed to me in. It had only come into my possession that morning, sent by a Mister Jonathan R. Irewood along with twenty imperial notes as payment. The task I was to undertake was a translation of the given text.

Bullets and Blues (a brief excerpt)

The bird from the clock popped out like a jack-in-the-box to let me know six o' clock had finally checked in with Father Time. Millie, my receptionist, had taken off at five, leaving me the office to myself for an hour. I signed off on the last of my reports to be filed then flipped close the folder and slid it off to the side of my desk. As I pulled open the top, right-hand drawer and fetched the familiar bottle of my best friend, I stood and walked over to the globe sitting in the corner by the window. I tilted the top, causing it to separate and reveal several short whiskey glasses within. I took one and closed the globe before pouring myself a helping of the amber liquid from the bottle. I walked to the window behind my chair and glanced down into the rainy streets where I saw people briskly walking to their destinations, most under cover of an umbrella or newspaper.
There was a knock at the front door but I ignored it. Millie would have locked it and set the sign to 'closed'. She knew the last hour here was for myself, not clients. Clearly, someone felt their time was more important than my own.
The knocking persisted and my casual, feigned ignorance turned into a grimace. They weren't planning on leaving anytime soon. I turned and set the bottle and half-finished glass on my desk before crossing the room and stepping out into the reception area. It was slightly smaller than my fifteen by fifteen foot office. Millie's desk was off to the left, immaculate as she always left it. She had even turned off the lights, letting only the faint glow of my desk lamp and the dreary light of the rainy day stretch towards the hallway door, an ambition that fell just short. Someone was expecting me to still be here.

Hamsters

This has nothing to do with hamsters, I simply couldn't think of a title. Odd that my least favorite of the rodent family was the first thing to pop into my head.

Last Saturday was the reception for my cousin's wedding. Her family moved to Saipan several years ago and I really hadn't seen her much, save it be the occasional visit. I don't remember how young she was when her family left, but I know that seeing her sitting at the head table in a wedding dress next to her husband, was about the most surreal experience I can lay claim to in quite some time. Even now as I write '..her husband..' it doesn't seem right. This was the little girl who used to curl up in the recliner and suck on her middle and ring finger like it was some form of life support.

It got me thinking about my own life a lot, though. I started thinking about where I am, my intentions for the near and far future and what was more likely to happen. I began thinking about how unhappy I am in life with a lot of aspects and my overall disgruntlement in who I am. This all lead me to sit down and ask myself a very important question: what is going to make you happy?

Obviously you can't correct things overnight. There's a lot to do. Fortunately, I'm only 26 and while that's not 18, it still leaves me some time to figure things out. I'd like to be the guy sitting at the head table sometime. I'd like to know that I had an honorable relationship with my girlfriend til she was my fiance and my fiance til she was my wife.

So, self, let's see where this goes. There are some changes to be made and some of them are going to be incredibly difficult. Though, as a great man once said, " I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it.'' I'm banking on that.

One Down...Many to Go

Today was my last day of classes. I had two finals to do for English and Algebra and BAM! I'm done. It's an odd sensation finishing a semester of College after being away from school for eight years. I feel somewhat accomplished. Even though I've only done two classes, I feel I did fairly well in them and look forward to my next semester.

I'm sitting here before work, trying to do some writing and felt I should hop on to leave a quick note, as I am trying to make sure I have a post on here at LEAST every few days. At some point, I will manage to dedicate myself to writing daily. This is good, though, as it's stimulating whatever section of my brain it is that is involved in writing. The blog is helping me to focus a bit, to learn to shut out outside stimuli and dedicate myself to finishing a task.

It's all about baby steps.

Of Idle Hands Ready to Turn Soil....and of Mothers.

Oops.

Looks like I'm not doing a very good job of writing every day! I'll have to try to buckle down with a bit more determination to make this happen.

I'm finishing school up Wednesday. I'm anxious to have this first step in my scholastic career all tied up. I've recently decided on a more fruitful major to pursue, so next semester I'll be changing my major from Liberal Studies to Communications with a focus in English. The goal is to find employment as an editor. Plus, a communications degree is pretty broad, allowing you to get work in almost any business.

In other news, today was Mother's Day. I managed to squeeze in a short call to mom to let her know that I love her. I'm glad her and Papa are home from New Mexico. It makes me really happy that they spend their winters out there together, but it's nice when they come home. I miss them a lot. Coming from such a tightly knit family, especially with parents as supportive as mine, it's tough to have to go six months without them.

So, I would like to spend a moment to celebrate one of the most important women in my life. Mom is one of the most fascinating ladies I know. She's incredibly smart. She's the reason I have the strong artistic streak that I have. I remember her sitting at my bed side and either telling me stories or singing songs to me:

Down in Old Kentucky
Where the Horshoes are lucky
There's a little Smithy standing under the chestnut tree...


I know my siblings will remember that.

She's a brilliant homemaker and now that Papa and her work more closely together on their business endeavors, their home seems somehow much more complete. They're quite a unit.

I love you, Mom.

Purposes.

My mother always told me that if I wanted to be a really great writer, I would need to write everyday. Over the years, I've tried to take her advice, but have often found myself struggling to get words down on paper. I attribute most of this to my current dislike for outlines, something I hope to change in the near future, but also I tend to box myself in on a specific style of writing and when the inspiration isn't there, I simply walk away.

So here is my first attempt at solving this problem. The inspiration for this blog came from my English 101 class in college. As I've always fancied myself a writer of fiction, I never spent much time simply writing about the ins and outs of my everyday, my past, and my future. Of course, English 101 is not a class for writing fiction. It's a technical class based around making sure you understand proper grammar, punctuation and the sort. My professor was clear in stating that our papers were to be written about things we knew a lot about. This wasn't a time to conjure up alternate realities.

Initially this drove me nuts. I struggled with the papers in the beginning, and the professors tough grading discouraged me even more as I saw -- written in that red ink that only teachers use when showing you your short-comings -- grades at the tops of my papers ranging anywhere from 65-73. I wasn't going to be able to pass my glass with these sorts of marks, but more than that, my pride as someone who had written since childhood and had been told on more than one occassion that I could be a great writer, was being crushed.

Steadily, my grades began to climb. I was doing well on my tests and soon the grades on my papers began to reflect my understanding of the things I was doing wrong. Excited as I was at my scholastic achievements, I became even more excited that I was learning new ways to write. My papers often involved childhood stories, which brought tears to my eyes several times while writing them.

So here I am, ready to give a long-standing medium a try. I'm in hopes that this will stimulate my creative mind and open it to a wider range of thoughts for my fictional endeavors.