Nebula quickwrite

This is just a few words I wrote from the point of view of a deep-space explorer seeing a star system out the window of his ship. I've been playing around with sections of prose awash in decadent detail. I'm not sure I succeeded, but it's a start.


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Even a dead star can light up your sky. This one did so with vision; little white dwarf. The tendrils of purple gas clouds curled tenderly around their mother. From one angle they wrapped her remains in the folds of a burial shroud, thankful. From another angle, horrid tentacles gripped to drag her to an unmarked grave. And she hummed her nebulous children to sleep. What a song! The low rumble like an earthquake under lilting cries and warbles. It reminded me of whale song. Had I heard whale song? Perhaps in my childhood, but those creatures paled, anemic, in the face of this violet sepulcher in front of me. There were times in my journey when I was faced with such majesty that I thought of finally stopping. My eyes would flick to the airlock. It wouldn’t take much to just open the windows on my little ship. I could float out without regret and make this system my home. Space is funny like that. Nothing ever really dies. This system was both dying and just being born. From different angles, you could say. My own heart is just an engine made from the remnants of a dying star. I’d just be going home. Home...


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There you have it, post number fourteen. (approach with trepidation)

Tenebrous

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Tenebrous


The bloated, dying sun
oozing red rays
through the tenebrous sky
tripping over particulates floating
that lose their way in sick
jaundiced haze
before falling
exhausted and diffuse
on my skin


So, finding no pleasure in the heavens
I turned to the earth
The off-white cobbles 
over which I walked
(and I dare not call them cobblestones
for here and there I swear I spy
an orbit or a clinging tooth)
lead a rambling path through plains
of iron shards
rusted
desiccated
thirsty
in twisted mockery of grass
if you draw your hand down
near their tips
they strain towards you
like magnetism
or hunger


Scattered across those
Tetanus Fields
were old stone tables
like pagan altars of ages gone
adorned with ram-horned women
who strike carnal poses
beckon and thrust and moan
sweating for the taste
and press
of flesh


and far behind me
the air, it shook
with the sound of
creaky-hinged doors
of prisons and dungeons
as the great swinging arms
and razor wire
and wastebins
of the harvester
trailing its ashes behind
searching
always searching
for what, I do not know


so I followed that
yellowing path
to the crumbling city
since the outskirts seemed so...
insidious


There amid the 
crumbling brownstones
and ruddy clay bricks
all smeared with ash and tar
and saints-know-what-else filth
I came upon
a cheery gentleman


He wore a crooked stovepipe hat
and a rakish grin
a longtailed coat with a row
of bright brass buttons
and a familiar wink
a sharp sort of man
to say the least


He tipped his hat and greeted
"Good evening, Madam."
though I am a sir
and as I squinted in questioning
I came to realize my error


I had seen him before
beside my bed
when I woke
had I woke?


Then I could see the truth of him
every tooth pointed
eight fingers on his hands
Brass irises; eyes of the damned
smokey wisps peeking and fleeing
between his hat and raven curls
and his outline like a migraine
the walls are wrong
the walls are wrong


So I shrank, I'm not ashamed
from the devil before me
and turned to make my escape
down a candlelit alleyway


Lying black and savage
in my path
with the size and stature of a stag
a dreadful thing
like what chases wolves in their dreams
and it chews on a cast-iron chain
like a dog on a bone
dripping red-tinged ichor
and wears a stately collar
like a mans, not a dogs


It looked at me
and I knew it knew
everything I'd ever hidden
and though mine did,
its gaze never left me


Its gaze never left me.


and I ran, I'm not ashamed.


In my panicked state
I caught a glimpse and a mouthed word
from a raven-haired girl
with a white bonnet cap
tattooed with birds
flying from her clavicles
demure and pouting
lips not quite hiding little fangs
and those damned brass eyes
sparkling with lively intelligence
looking back over her shoulder 
down the street that I ran:
Delicious


Thus I awoke
in my bed
with no cheery gentleman beside
But I'm afraid I won't be joining you tonight
dear friends
for it seems in my state
I wrote on my walls:


THEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGTHEYARECOMINGT
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There you have it, post number thirteen. (approach with trepidation)

Matador

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Matador


It's a bull
slumbering atop 
blossoms beneath
blue and pink
and green between them
whose nectar I would greedily drink
dribbling down my chin
as such is my weakness


Chestnut and blonde
the taut flanks rise
serenely sleeps the beast
notched and splintered
crimson cloves
the taut flanks fall


Stirring my tongue
to talking
and other things
readying fingers
for action
and other things


I can't be sure
without the truth of the eyes
stripped of protections
just how many bones are buried beneath
the scars are well-hidden too
because the bull will not speak


And yet I have a feeling
if I take up my cape and sabre
I'll end up beneath
left broken and bloody
with those cloven marks
pressed
on my damned matador's heart


because it sleeps
and I do not.
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There you have it, post number twelve. (approach with trepidation)

While the ink is wet

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While the Ink is Wet


pulling back indigo drapes
two moons
full and bright
fight for rulership
of your night
shining such as sun-spared skin
of Oriental women
and these moons heave with breath


keeping them within arm's reach
to catch a glimpse
(just a glimpse)
of those holy tattoos
those winking inks
and the exotic lands they promise
before blindness
off the light reflected
from her belt buckle


It might be a man's world
but we built
it all for
you
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There you have it, post number eleven. (approach with trepidation)

TBP#1: Broadripple is Burning

This first selection from The Basilisk project was composed to the song "Broadripple is Burning" By Margot and the Nuclear So and So's. I encourage you to listen to the song as well as enjoy the story I've written below. There are a few different versions of the song, the one I listened to was from the Daytripper sessions. You can find the song on youtube, and their own website is here.
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When Tyler arrived at the farm house, Markus was occupying a few stairs in the yard. Dust caked his face, save for two symmetrical trails from the corners of his eyes to his chin. He was camouflaged against the dirt-colored, unharvested grain waving in the field behind him. The stairs he occupied had been put up two summers back, and his father had planned a shed to attach to them, but caught a bullet before he could start on it.

A dozen yards from Markus was an idling armored car. Men with guns and masks marched purposefully from the house to the car and back again. Each man carried an armful of goods to be stowed in the back of the intimidating vehicle. One of them raised a rifle when he noticed Tyler’s approach.

“Don’t fuckin’ move.” He more suggested than ordered in a gravelly, sleep-deprived voice.

Tyler’s hands went up. “No trouble, just talkin’ to my friend here.” He explained, motioning to Markus.

The gunman kept the rifle trained but took a few steps back, leaning back on the grill of the armored car.

“We heard they hit your family, so I came over quick as I could. What happened?” Tyler said, planting himself on the stairs next to Markus.

“Everything I thought I had has gone to shit.” Markus slurred. He reached down next to his leg and grabbed a paper bag wrapped bottle, took a swig without a wince, and continued.

“They’re the gang that shot m’dad, too. They jus’ drove up this mornin’ and told me to give ‘em the keys and stay out of the way, or they’d shoot me down and take everything anyway.”

“What’s that?” Tyler motioned at the bottle.

“It’s not important.” Markus took another swig and passed the bottle over. Judging by his tone, Tyler wasn’t even sure he’d heard the question.

“Where’s your Mom?” Tyler questioned

“Prob’ly sick off huffin’ glue somewhere in town. Since dad died she ain’t been of any use, you know that.”

“Sister?”

“Katie lit outta town last week, hitchhiking. Got picked up by some truck headed north. Might be dead now for all I know. With any luck she’s somewhere better’n here.”

Tyler took a tug on the bottle and choked on the rancid liquor inside. He passed the bottle back and asked:

“So what’re you gonna do?”

Markus stood and smiled.

“Doesn’t matter. Anything I get, they’ll just take from me. Think I’ll just wander a while, see the sights.”

He shuffled unsteadily to the dilapidated fence, swung one leg over and looked back across his shoulder at his friend.

“Hell, I’m a free man now.”

With that he finished crossing into that dirty wheat field and disappeared into their swaying stalks, singing a wandering song.

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There you have it, post number ten. (approach with trepidation)

The Basilisk Project

I had this idea for a writing exercise. 


I take a song, probably one I don't already know very well, so I don't have images or memories attached to it. I listen to the song a few times, figure out what I think it's about and chew on the images it conjures for a bit. Once that's done, I'll put pen to paper and write out a short story based off of what I've imagined.


I call it The Basilisk Project. I'm not really sure why, something about turning to stone, I'm sure. Either way, the name came to me in a dream, and it's not terribly important. I'll try to churn out at least a page's worth of this writing for any given song, and post them here for your enjoyment. 


Songs that work for this are kind of hard to come by. They can't be too oblique with what they're saying, but can't be too vague, or nothing comes to mind. Instrumentals work great, but tend to lead to more fantastic and longer stories with me. If you have suggestions, please let me know.


In the mean time, tune in around noon for the first episode of The Basilisk Project.


There you have it, post number nine. (approach with trepidation)

Godspeed

My mind has been stuck in space. I think I'll be writing about it a lot in the coming weeks. I just finished collaborating (my first time doing so) with a DeviantArt friend of mine on a poem about space. I'm really pleased with how it turned out and I'd like to share it with you.

If you have the time, I encourage you to check out her gallery. Her name is Baylee, but she goes by hhesitate. She's quite the prolific artist/writer. You may find her gallery here: http://hhesitate.deviantart.com/ Please do not stalk her. (seriously)

Poem.

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Godspeed

sometimes i pretend i'm a dragonfly -

skimming across a pond 

at midnight, 

seeing things

all as a reflection,

and i'm not alone between the stars

deluded

prying open my consoles

convinced

if i can eat all the wires

i'll become a machine and not need air

and open all the windows

of my little ship to purge the oxygen

from my skin, a quiet and 

translucent burden

i swear,

if i see one more

violent,

violet,

haunting-my-dreams

nebula

i'll open all the windows

and float on home:

(after all

my heart

is just an engine

made from the remnants

of a dying star)

sometimes

when i know no one

is watching, i'll turn on the speakers

spewing static and subsonic waves,

and interpret solar radiation

as sound, surrounding everything 

with the voices of old gods

the billions and billions

of old gods

which is silly, because i'm the only soul out here, after all

give my apologies to the engineer

who built my little ship;

i'm afraid he won't want it when i return

as i've drawn all over it, you see,

images leaking from my head 

where the cosmos have bent away

refracted dust and starlight

creeping from the windows

like curling frost

or cracks, chasing one another, 

godspeed 

i think the astronauts have

made a mistake: it's more lively up here 

than any average day on the sun-soaked earth,

even if the craters and comets aren't alive, anyway:

if dust fades to dust, and if dust 

is what was and what will be, 

i've fallen further for it than anything else

(even if i am miles and miles and light years high)

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There you have it, post number eight. (approach with trepidation)