Beware all ye' who enter here. This is the old stuff. The content is awkward, the style unrefined, and the grammar ceases to exist at times. Here, on this lonely page, lives a few pieces that represent my beginnings. Since these, I have become a much better grammarian and developed my style. In some of them, I see my style beginning to emerge. While in others, I see what I have moved away from.
Some would ask: why do I keep these here and show them to the world? Well, I believe in transparency when it comes to my craft. That means, I show the exemplary, decent, and hideous. These pieces are my history. It allows anyone to experience my frighteningly poor writing. I want everyone to know that I didn't just start writing wonderfully. In fact, I didn't learn proper grammar rules until college. So, never give up... but you need to realize it may take a lot of time to become good at something.
Oh, and remember, I warned ye'!
“I’m next, John!” John had fallen asleep leaning against a golden pole with red velvet ropes. His new found friend grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him awake.
With a startle, John popped to attention, “What? Where, what, are we there, uh—”
The man interrupted John’s disjunctive questioning, “You dozed off again. You know you don’t have to sleep anymore.”
His back was pressed against the cold wood of a door. There was no wind, complete darkness filled his vision, but he spoke, “I know you can’t see me, you can’t touch me, and I bet you can’t forgive me. That’s fair. I tossed you away and didn’t think. You were my light, but, like, I was blind. It only took me losing you to realize. Why am I such an idiot?” His head was shaking, and he turned and placed his forehead on the door, “Say it again! Say, ‘You are my sunshine, you are my everything.’"
Another Day | 5074 | November 23, 2013
“Hey, Morning-Jason. It is Night-Jason. Wake up, it is five forty-five, and I promised Hank that I would go to the gym. Don’t make me a liar.” Jason was covering his head with a pillow as the message ended.
By the third repetition, he had enough. “Why, do I do this every morning?” The message was from a year ago and remained unchanged. “I hate this alarm.” He got out of bed with a groan. A spring snapped as his hand shifted. The noise scared the cat that was lazily sitting by the doorway. “Sorry Boots. Blame mommy and Helen.”
I will never forget the day my son asked for my permission to buy a gun. Henri Bergson’s Time and Freewill was spread across my fingers. My thumb and index finger were holding the page open to my favorite quote. As my eyes darted across the page, an interruption alerted me to his presence. I was reading my favorite quote and seeking answers: “What makes hope such an intense pleasure is the fact that the future, which we dispose of to our liking, appears to us at the same time under a multitude of forms, equally attractive and equally possible. Even if the most coveted of these be-comes realized, it will be necessary to give up the others, and we shall have lost a great deal. The idea of the future, pregnant with an infinity of possibilities is why we find more charm in hope than in possession, in dreams than in reality."
Gopple | 3864 | September 22, 2013
Jim was encased in darkness. Light only protruded from the ember at the end of his cigarette. The orange glow bounced off of the windows, and hissed as it brushed against the condensation on the beer can. He had come home and flipped the light switch. Normally the switch sent twisted electricity to bulbs. There it rubbed against itself and chased the darkness from the room. No controlled lightening flowed through the wires. He found his beer to be growing warm. A swore escaped his lips as he rummaged for a cooler. With the cooler full of slowly melting ice, he retreated from the safety of his normally cool apartment. Then he passed through the threshold into the humid, sticky, and unpleasant patio. He removed his clothes, only leaving his underwear.
The Bohr's Protocol | 8344 | June 3rd, 2013
A yellow blinking light above a glass enclosure turned solid green as the pressurized air was released. It produced a short echo on the bridge of the Bohr transport craft. The chamber opened and revealed a naked man. His eye lids twitched as tiny fibers were wound around his exposed flesh by thousands of nozzles. The metallic spigots hissing as fabric flew out at incredible speeds. He reacted because of his training, and before any thoughts entered his mind, extended his arms. Soon they were covered in a green fabric interwoven with white tubes leading towards his heart. His voice box was rusty and could only release a light groan.
Below is the really really old stuff. Travel at your own risk.
Clouds of Fire | 1128 | Sometime in 2010
Jim was encased in darkness. Light only protruded from the ember at the end of his cigarette. The orange glow bounced off of the windows, and hissed as it brushed against the condensation on the beer can. He had come home and flipped the light switch. Normally the switch sent twisted electricity to bulbs. There it rubbed against itself and chased the darkness from the room. No controlled lightening flowed through the wires. He found his beer to be growing warm. A swore escaped his lips as he rummaged for a cooler. With the cooler full of slowly melting ice, he retreated from the safety of his normally cool apartment. Then he passed through the threshold into the humid, sticky, and unpleasant patio. He removed his clothes, only leaving his underwear.
Tis an Orange | 1874 | March 5, 2013
Morning fog is cut to shambles by the piercing rays of sunshine in Coutter. The temperament of the small town will soon be infused with the hustle and bustle of commerce. The time period does not matter but one must be aware of the surroundings. Coutter is a normal town, set in a normal time, and within a space that anyone can occupy. There are shops and fruit stands that dot the landscape of Main Street. Their wonderful brick work dotted in dew as the fresh heat from morning begins to force condensation. Nonetheless, the morning still sleeps as the shops are closed. Soon, the creek of mechanical entities will transform the area like a pebble’s waves rippling from the epicenter of a pond.
Love's Warrior | 3331 | January 29, 2013
After sometime, Earth degraded into a festering cesspool of pollution and limited resources. For many economists and business majors had been taught a myth and that was the fixed pie analogy. A fixed pie states that there is a basic amount of capital to be gained. For example: if you produce more of a product, like a shoe. Eventually everyone will have shoes and you will be out of a job because no one needs that product anymore. The myth led to the workers despising industrial machinery that could work all day and all night, thus producing more shoes. Normally this is applied to human resources versus industrial resources. The thought was that as industrial resources improved human beings would be expendable. This would mean less people would have jobs. While this was a myth there was a fixed pie that did exist, natural resources.
The Fantastic Mister Mittens | 3706 | March 3, 2013
I hate my job. This is the third high level murder in the last week. I need my damn coffee and an egg sandwich. Why the hell do all these murders have to happen in the middle of the night? This is not some simple murdering scheme. There are always patterns. Why can’t I find the pattern? There are thirty three high level executives dead. They always have to be hit in the middle of the night and it is always the same explosive.
Proverbial White Whale | 3331 | January 16, 2013
Two years... that’s how long I had been stuck in my prison cell. The entire time I was alone, completely alone. But, today is a great day. A man appeared in the cell next to me. I couldn’t believe, maybe he will be my friend!
With high hopes, I tried striking up a conversation, “Hey man"-my voice was choppy-"How ya doing?” He didn’t respond. But, I had found my old skills at communicating so I continued, “Want to hear about my life! I used to own everything anyone could desire!” He looked at me, a disgruntled appearance. Who cared, so I began:
