Posts tagged "Writing"
  1. Notes: 1 / 4 months ago 

    What they discovered, and what they lost

    Those disused sewer tunnels which ringed the city outskirts round,
    were billed by schoolyard miscreants as a worthy stomping ground
    Long empty and neglected, they concealed a myriad of juvenile misdeeds
    which these reprobates gleefully employed to satisfy acutely crude needs
    This faction was well heeded when this asylum’s virtues they’d expound
    for their counsel on creative delinquency had been precedently sound

    Yet the three boys now assembled at the barred aperture’s rusting gate
    were not likewise ruffians, and had only overheard those that were state
    that this underground labyrinth, which promised the freedom of seclusion,
    could be accessed if one only had the guts to proceed with the intrusion
    For it was said that the puny padlocks which fastened close the gateway,
    habitually replaced by some uncaring custodian thinking only of a payday,
    could easily be smashed and bludgeoned off using a nearby heavy rock
    ‘Key’ was tauntingly graffitied on it for the pretense of security it did mock

    The city’s administration knew these old sewers were a troublemakers’ den
    but, with such nuisances off the street, would overlook this fact now and then
    to buy a respite from their misbehavior and the complaints of their neighbours,
    Plus, with them displaced, their wrongdoing escaped the notice of the papers

    That evidently no one cared who ventured into this abandoned maze
    had emboldened the teenaged trio caught in that adventurous phase   
    which arises when suddenly summer vacation’s long and lazy days,
    at first such rare and liberating prizes, find their novelty soon fades
    Still they felt a scrupulous hesitance when standing at this entrance,
    as many prohibitions against trespassing arose in their remembrance,
    So, though ignored and plainly unenforced, the breaking of these laws
    was a prospect which still inspired trepidation and gave them pause

    As they stood in the weedy patch situated in front of the sewer’s entry
    they fought their conscience’s dictates until feeling all the more intently
    that urge towards rebellious independence which boys can feel so strongly
    when thinking they’re denied some harmless entertainment rather wrongly
    This sentiment swelled within their chests, overcoming lingering objections
    and, newly resolute, they destroyed the gate’s clearly nominal protections

    Cautiously venturing one by one into the tunnel’s menacingly gaping opening,
    darkness swallowed them and they struck matches to aid their eyes in focusing
    Their vision adapted and they forged ahead, soon compelled towards noticing
    that the ground was, at this early point, densely carpeted by assorted garbage:
    mostly bottles, wrappers and cigarette butts but as a very special garnish,
    torn pages from glossy smutty magazines were here and there discarded
    Kicking through this rubbish, they peered downwards and covertly regarded
    these images of the female form which was so mysterious and uncharted
    Once these treasures ceased, they rambled on, far from where they’d started
    and upon seeing how far inward they had gone, they then grew faint-hearted

    Striding on in silence and peering nervously beyond their flames’ paltry reach,
    no one attempted conversation, afraid of any trembling present in their speech
    Sheer bravado was all that pushed them forward, each unwilling to turn back
    lest they betray a disgraceful yellow belly and with jibes be ruthlessly attacked

    A full hour of wandering through this convoluted tunnel system now passed
    as they traversed a web of snaking passageways that was bewilderingly vast
    Knowing that finding their way out may eventually prove somewhat complicated
    the boys were uneasy but, by the spooky location, also immensely fascinated
    and wanted to sustain the gratifying thrill provided by their daring exploration
    and, confident they each felt this way, basked in solidarity’s bolstering elation
    There was little to engage their imagination though, for as they strode ever onward
    they saw only grimy walls and rodent carcasses starvation had once conquered

    At this point, boredom was rapidly setting in as ever aimlessly they still paced
    The excitement of braving the sewers dwindled and each boy’s mind now raced,
    thinking how to suggest that they ought to now quit their scouting and turn around
    for they had roamed so far and what more could conceivably be gained or found?
    As fate so enjoys preempting choice, it picked this moment for an awful revelation
    One boy retrieved the last big box of matches, finding it empty to his consternation
    Sharing his discovery with the other two, an aghast panic gripped them all very tight
    Counting those they still had, they saw they had only enough for fifteen minutes’ light
    Realizing the trouble they were now in, each keenly felt that paralyzing suffocation
    which their claustrophobic frenzy caused, killing any impetus with exasperation
    How damnably foolish they had been, out loud they all angrily collectively reflected
    No one knew where they were adventuring; from all society they were disconnected
    They faced this dire situation alone and, even worse, as fully isolated as is often deadly
    Getting trapped down here like entombed rats was an outcome none of them did envy

    In voices laced with dread they debated, resolving to retrace their footprint’s trail
    fast enough to outrun their matches’ depletion and the onset of lightlessness’ veil  
    So off they ran, stooping low to study exactly what the ground told of where they’d been
    Though they’d sometimes tread lightly, meaning their boots’ imprints could not be seen
    and frequently walked in circles which made their backtracking effort even more trying
    They also had to protect their matchheads’ flames, which seemed quite intent on dying

    As they hurried at a speed befitting their hysteria, each boy battled with mounting terror
    To perish in this ghastly catacomb, blind and sick with hunger and interred here in error;
    it would be enough to make any hardened evildoer shudder for it is a truly horrible demise
    and, when any man encounters it, can decisively sever the most treasured of worldly ties

    One boys’ father was stationed on the dark continent during the second great war,
    and, long since returned, had related to his son a ditty verse from his troop’s lore:
    When once we were charged by a savage hippopotamus,
    well we sure turned tail quickly, kicking up a lot of dust
    As we fled towards the camp we hollered and we cussed,
    praying that it’d only eat the poor fellow running next to us!
    These lines currently occupied his mind, and summarized what they all now thought
    Swept up in fright and desperation, they saw their deaths and their families distraught
    They wished dearly to elude this eventuality, even if here their companions must remain
    It was a wretched impulse born of simple cowardice and their characters it did stain,
    but knowing this, they felt it nonetheless, for even guiltiness couldn’t reverse this stance
    as they would certainly abandon their friends if their chance to survive it might enhance

    They had but a few matches left now, and were running at full pelt, delirious with fear
    It was so hard to know whether the opening to the outside world was far or very near
    They could do nothing but dart along with their eyes downcast, tracking their way out,
    and pray to soon reacquire their lost freedom whose true value they had learned about

    It was the beginning of the end when the lead boy let out a shout of overjoyed relief
    as he scanned the ground underfoot and glimpsed that which earned his disbelief:
    bare breasts on a crumpled magazine page, which he seized to show the other two
    They shared in his infinite delight; that the home stretch approached they now knew
    Setting the sheet alight to act as a makeshift torch, the trio used the litter as a guide
    and shortly afterwards came across the looming opening which let them back outside

    Bursting out of the gate, they bent over and panted from the exhaustion they’d incurred
    They didn’t hug or cheer, too soberly ashamed to embrace or even speak a solitary word
    For they realized that everything had changed and couldn’t help but show it on their face
    When gravely endangered, each discovered they would gladly let a buddy take their place
    Knowing this, and sensing the others knew it too, their friendship could never be the same
    Though not to be acknowledged, an unsullied trusting bond they couldn’t possibly reclaim
    Costly as it had been to do, they’d learned that self-preservation is always our first priority
    When confronting the falling scythe, comradeship is an ideal deprived of all moral authority
    All men must face the eternal truth that we all ultimately stand alone when fatefully imperiled
    Being at the very cusp of early manhood, they wondered what this experience might herald
    They would go on with a better understanding of human nature’s key animalistic mimicry:
    with the beast’s endeavor to, at any cost, live another day we’ve such a remarkable affinity!

  2. Notes: 3 / 5 months ago 

    Nomad of the Endtimes

    At long last I slowed and stopped, dropping to my knees,
    aghast to be now divested of all my preceding strength
    I gazed upon a distant mass of swaying cindered trees
    and felt upon my cheek the sweltering dusty ‘breeze’
    which was doggedly pursuing me with its putrid stench
    of incinerated flesh at those dissipated lives’ expense
    Still kneeling, I readied in my mind a myriad of pleas,
    seeking answers for evils as undoubtedly were these,
    with which I may petition the fates evidently displeased

    Soon animated by an anger as irrepressible as it was fierce,
    I peered upwards, into the very heavens my scrutinizing pierced,
    and roared my pleading questions to an empty, heedless sky
    which answered my desperate litany with an ever silent reply

    Delirious as I was, I didn’t expect any retort from providence;
    still I hated its maddening hush, upheld even now, even here,
    when all consciousness dwindles, lent no means to persevere,
    when extinction eyes humanity as final token of its dominance,
    when oblivion inches ever closer, to make our world disappear
    In a hostile, lifeless universe our spawning was so anomalous,
    and yet we earned a foothold, began forging all our monuments,
    but now disaster struck, making mausoleums of each metropolis
    Our end much like our beginning: of no cosmological consequence

    I thusly understood the full horror of our species fading away
    Our merciless desolation really permits no one to be blamed
    as destiny made mere puppets of those responsible for this day,
    for the exact moment of our departure was always preordained
    Nature will seize and rot our corpses, a great debt to it we’ll repay,
    and time will crumble all we’ve ever built with patient, slow decay;
    all signs of our presence will be erased, Earth belatedly reclaimed,
    it’ll be as if we never existed, or once been fashioned from its clay

    This epiphany pained me more than all my wounds together
    Not only will we be dead, but omitted from all of history forever
    A drowsiness came over me and I let myself fall onto my back
    Faintly aware of pooling blood, I saw my tourniquet was slack
    I’d traveled far, seen so much and here ended my endeavour

    I lay in a newly mushy film of ashes staring at the stars up high,
    which twinkled as they always have and as they also always will,
    thinking could I be the last of us this airborne filth has yet to kill?
    Unbuckling my filter mask, I flung it away, heaving out a heavy sigh,
    I knew it mattered not, as my end drew near and I had had my fill
    and duly earned the right to the quiet surrender I must now abide
    Breathing deeply of the noxious air, and stifling an unseemly cry,
    I contemplated how nothing truly changes when I have finally died

  3. 8 months ago 

    That Which Persists

    It was an unmistakable forcefulness to the lights blinking out which signified the occurrence of a powerful and violent event. The bulbs didn’t flicker for a time and then fade, or even blink out instantly. They flared harshly brilliant for a fleeting moment, and then they unceremoniously died. With this, the room was yielded to a smothering dimness. Still, alarming as this otherwise might have been, it wasn’t that which frightened the little girl into growing insensible. It was fast approaching dusk but the final deluge of murky daylight streaming through the windows nonetheless lit the room well enough to see.

    No, it was the sharply thunderous boom preceding the lighting’s failure which stunned Beryl into fearful paralysis. For some reason, it instantly flipped a switch inside her. A switch responsible for executing her psyche’s preferred defense mechanism in times of extreme stress: the deactivation of everything inessential and the preemptive withdrawal into the inner sanctum of her mind. The actual strength of the sound had diminished somewhat by the time it reached them, but it was still loud enough to convey an impression of its daunting closeness. Even being near enough to hear the distinctive report of an explosion is a chilling experience though, and rapidly induces the body’s natural responses to peril. There is perhaps nothing that can affect such quivering awe and aversion in a person as the awfully noisy byproduct of otherwise enduring things being forcibly undone. People intrinsically value structure and permanency; explosive force is the adversary of these things. To blow up is to rob something of meaningful form, to inflict nullity, which is an especially abhorrent doom to human beings, the animal kingdom’s preeminent existential narcissists.

    Oddly enough, to Beryl the philosophy behind her horrified reaction was unimportant; all she knew was that she was wracked with visceral, if inarticulable, dread. The detonation’s penetrating rumble had just finished reverberating when a palpable wave of faint vibration rippled across the room, causing her hairs to stand on end even more rigidly. Beryl, still immobilized, experienced this encroaching shock wave as a tingling sensation passing through her; it was like the shuddersome exhalation of an approaching spectre of doom.

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  4. 1 year ago 

    You’ll find Alexandria when the Dawn Commeth (Chapter Three)

    Chapter 3 - Things begin as you’d expect…

    I shall now tell you, as succinctly as is possible, the story of my early life and the events leading up to my current dire predicament in order to effectively preface exactly how I came to be in this miserable and hopeless situation.

    Any historian reading this need not trouble themselves too overly with the archival of its every detail for posterity, as most are without merit in that circumstance, for the only important purpose they have is to aid in the comprehension of the matter at hand, namely my untimely death via divine assassination.


    My birthplace was also where I would spend my formative years: the thoroughly mundane Egyptian port city of Damietta.


    The only family I would ever know was my beloved mother. She was tirelessly compassionate towards me, but also always sternly protective of her only son. Raising me alone, she had to grow tougher, to harden, to be able to properly protect me. There was an astounding duality to her motherly character: she was so gentle and caring when it came to our bond, but she became a ferocious lioness whenever her cub was somehow endangered. I foolishly didn’t realise it as a child, but my mother toiled and sacrificed endlessly to provide a decent life for me. The deep furrows etched into her visage illustrated the struggle she endured daily to ensure our continued livelihood. She would have done anything for me, and she always put me before herself: her maternal protection provides an immeasurable debt of gratitude which I can’t ever hope to repay in full.

    When I was very young she was employed as a seamstress performing trivially menial and uninspired work for little pay. Eventually though, she utilised what little money she had managed to accrue as savings and went about embracing larger ambitions in the hopes of benefiting us both. She opened her own small stall at the local market and began selling rather avant-garde clothing of her own fabrication. Initially this tailor-cum-merchant venture met with little success - her creations initially being simply too unconventional for the small-minded folk of the area - but she kept at it, spreading the word however possible that her creations were radically different from the plain, derivative and homogenous offerings which abounded the competing outlets. Soon enough, her efforts paid off and she managed to ignite a new fashion and to establish a largely uncontested niche by meticulously ensuring that her products were consistently either attractively vogue or so ahead of the trend as to have a wildly pioneering appeal. The quality of her work far exceeded comparative pieces from the market’s merchantry, and this earned their vocal ire and disdain.

    For a short while, she even attained some measure of local prestige for the unrivaled selection of textiles she had secured via exclusive import contracts with some of the trade ships which frequently docked at the city’s port, and for her truly remarkable talent at the tailor’s craft. Her name was first at hand whenever visiting seamen sought such services and so a fresh stream of customers were regularly directed her way. Over the years many wives were overjoyed at being gifted clothing of her making from their returning husbands, and thus her name spread beyond our city’s dreadfully insular gossip. At the zenith of her popularity and acclaim, various influential socialites throughout the region were well known to wear her attire, honouring my mother’s craftsmanship in a way that I know brought her a great deal of joyful pride. She had began simply humbly seeking some sort of recognition for her talent, and having achieved that so thoroughly, it was obvious that she was immensely proud of her accomplishment, and I was certainly proud that my mother could be counted amongst the few successful female entrepreneurs that our city had fostered. Though it must be said that this distinction earned her equal parts begrudging admiration and venomous envy.

    I learned a great deal from my mother. I learned how to stubbornly pursue an ambition, no matter how formidable the opposition you face is. I learned that one person could defeat even massive odds stacked against them with enough planning, determination and fortitude. The most important thing I learned from her though, was that if you want something, you have to seize any and all opportunities to make it your own. Something she told me once that stuck with me was that anyone can have anything they want in this world, they just have to be willing to sacrifice everything else in order to do so.

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  5. Notes: 1 / 1 year ago 

    You’ll find Alexandria when the Dawn Commeth (Chapter Two)

    Chapter Two - An apologia. The reasons are totally irrelevant; let me tell you the reasons.

    Having quelled the enormous tide of sorrow building in his chest, and empathetically dabbing at the wet splotches on the parchment with a rag torn from his shirt, hoping to erase the evidence of his momentary weakness from this last record, he sat up straighter, and clenched his teeth in grim determination. Thoughts of the boat being upturned in the next moment and this last ditch attempt at committing his life to paper being made moot caused a fiery, defiant anger to spread throughout his mind. He realised, to his vigorous revivification, that he had to increase his pace, lest all this be for naught; his words would be dissolved and expunged, and their noble purpose be annulled, by the great obliterating force that is the engulfing sea.

    The very first thing you must understand is that the woman I appear to glorify in the puerile fashion of an adolescent doting on a classroom crush is entirely worthy of every manner of idolisation I can muster, and more. I have never encountered anyone even remotely like her before. She is spectacularly extraordinary in every sense of the word.

    The very instance she entered my life, I experienced something truly wonderful. As if my mind had been clouded with a thick swirling mist of obfuscation and at first sight of her, her image blew through this wretched fog like a powerful gust and displaced it in its entirety. To relate this life-changing phenomenon to someone who has never been in love is practically impossible I’m afraid, but if you’ve felt what I felt, you will know precisely what I refer to.


    She was a beacon of blindingly brilliant light. In her awesome glow, I saw clearly for the first time. I saw my life with eyes anew, and I now had my first truly honourable ambition in trying to make her mine forever more. Juxtaposed with this upright gallantry, I realised just how meaninglessly frivolous my life had been before. The brief meeting with her imbued me with such startling clarity, I almost didn’t know what to do with myself; I was paralysed by the salient transparency everything had now adopted. I saw the truth of the matter with unignorable acuity: mine was previously a severely depressing way of life indeed. In fact, I realised, to my aghast horror, that my life was really only rendered as a continuous stream by nature of its successional chain of interconnected disappointments and failures. In hindsight, the many missed opportunities which can be attributed to its short span weren’t so much missed as they were evaded or rejected. This epiphany gave me another gift too: I knew, with ashamed conviction, that my shortcomings were so often of my own manufacture, and to artificially limit oneself like this, for the purpose of a more comfortable existence, is a reprehensible deed to behold.


    I assure you that I myself find excessive self-pity repugnantly undignified, though I regularly made its fetid bog my wallowing grounds once upon a time, and so you need not fear its embarrassing occurrence in this chronicle. You also need not worry that I might exaggerate or conceal what really happened. Let me tell you, when your fledgling grasp on mortal existence becomes so apparent that you can practically see the sands of times whiling away before your terrified gaze, the impression you present of yourself is no longer of any especial importance to you, only that you accurately portray your life and times, in vivid moral ugliness and all. What good is an epitaphic testimony composed of lies? No, if it deems me at all noteworthy and thus opts to gift me the honour of its remembrance, I would have history’s immortal record depict me as the man I genuinely was. I was flawed. I was foolish. I was brashly flesh and blood. So often, I was intent on living hedonistically, surviving at any cost, and accruing scars and regrets as if commemorations of emboldenment, and wearing cavalier irreverence as if a flagrant emblem signifying my character.

    I owe any forthcoming annals, should I be deemed worthy of entry into them, a brazenly authentic account of my dealings, and though I intend to be as boldly candid as possible I do not relish retelling and detailing the many ugly things I have done. Respectively, in the eyes of the law, in the gaze of the heavens, and the collective opinion of society, I have repeatedly and unapologetically done things that are unlawful, sinful and immoral. Some of these misdeeds were at the imperative of survivalism, and I generally feel no remorse for those instances; though, in hindsight, and in the interest of full disclosure, many of the dangerous scenarios I found myself needing to escape from were, for all intents and purposes, voluntarily entered into, because the miscreancy and wrongdoing involved in such choices were performed of my own volition.

    Although, and perhaps foolishly, my soul rests somewhat easier on consideration of the fact that I have never actually purposely or directly killed a man in the course of my nefarious affairs. However, I must admit that there were definitely points when I would have done so, had it been a requisite of my continued survival, or, during particularly dark periods in my travels, had great potential profit been even its sole incentive. That being said, I have injured, even maimed, a handful of other men, always in self-defense, though sometimes preemptively so. Yet, once again, the theatrics behind each such episode of necessary violence were generally produced or induced by either my haughtily swashbuckling ways or my arrogant disregard for caution when I found myself in dangerous places among equally dangerous people.

    Also, I have stolen from a truly countless multitude of my fellow countrymen and peers, and practically every single time having done so without reluctance beforehand or guilt afterwards. You might think that this apathy was simply due to me systematically suppressing the inherent feelings of contrition and remorse, but the truth is that there was actually no such emotional response for me to have to do so. I considered such offenses to be trivial infringements upon the liberty of others and so spared the consequences or moral repercussions no thought. This selective sociopathy proved mightily convenient in my criminal endeavours.

    Beyond these transgressions, I have also committed a great many other offenses against my fellow man: I’ve deceived them, cheated them, betrayed them, et cetera. Out of some misplaced sense of honour, where possible, I consciously attempted to limit the targets of my roguery to those engaging in it themselves. Whilst this uniformly elicited a satisfying feeling of twisted righteousness, this unorthodox form of ethical recompense or atonement was a rarely enjoyed gratification as the majority of those I disadvantaged with my misdeeds were common folk. I would add though, maybe due to unwarranted pride, that I have always strived to adhere to an unwritten, indeed nebulously defined, personal code of conduct, the boundaries of which are not so easy to definitively identify but they have at least prevented me from ever inflicting serious misfortune or hardship upon the old, the infirm, and of course, children. Yet, I think that if I am to eventually be judged by a higher power, these weak conscientious scruples shall not be weighed too heavily as a token of redemption.

    Whatever rationalizations I offer will invariably, and probably rightfully, seem as though childish excuses meant to exculpate myself of blame but I assure you that they are nothing of the sort, for they are merely intended as an elucidation of my motivations. Let it be said that I fully embrace my rightful accountability for an immoral existence forged by malevolence and mischief.

    Nevertheless, my justifications and admissions of blameworthiness are largely unimportant to the story itself, and shall be saved, I think, for a far more severe and prejudiced adjudicator than you my friend.

  6. Notes: 1 / 1 year ago 

    You’ll find Alexandria when the Dawn Commeth (Chapter One)

    Chapter One - The clarity and humility of predeath epistolary storytelling.

    The flurry of rapid, staccato movements threw the illuminated dust motes orbiting the candle’s flickering, blinking flame into whirling eddies. So intent was his frenzied concentration however, that this peculiar phenomenon entirely escaped even the most minute diversion of attention. In the softly vivid and fluttering glow, the quill’s ragged feather deftly danced between the light and the shadows at the fevered behest of his mad scribbling. Having endured an unfortunately prolonged period of disuse and storage, its paltry plume had become sullied with soot and it speckled the unravelled scroll of coarse parchment with little dark blemishes when it shook and quivered during its rhythmic swaying.

    A grubby ink bottle sat besides him, its label yellowed and curled, surrounded by a small pool of overflow from where his hurried dipping of the nib had unintentionally decanted some of the viscous liquid. Furthermore, the deck’s constant tilting and shifting every which way had induced the ink to duly flow away from its source in outwardly probing streams, and this produced the impression of a myriad of little miry tendrils venturing towards most every direction. As the bizarre formation slowly coagulated it began to resemble the black silhouette of a star peering past and around the pot with its inky sunbeams - until this composition was violently dissolved by a falling teardrop. Still, though this otherwise bothersome waste of ink initially evoked an instinctual pang of disconcertedness, it thereafter went flagrantly unheeded nonetheless. Usually, he would have expended great care so to preserve this precious amenity as his personal stockpile was painfully meagre and alternatives were particularly difficult to come by at sea. Yet, on this day, in this final desperate hour, his vehement focus was directed solely at what he was writing.

    Still, what he was actually committing to that tautly stretched parchment bore only decidedly scant attempts at the expectantly utilitarian succinctness, for he could not rebuff the intrinsic urge of the dramatist’s embellishment, not even now - especially not now. He was certainly well aware of the overbearing urgency of his task, but also that it would likely be his last living act and his final opportunity to leave some sort of enduring mark on the world. If this writing was to be his concluding contribution to the humanity, he had quite a marked intention to ensure that it was very much deserving of more than mere relegation to the dustily unperturbed footnotes of history’s grand annals.

    And so, what he was animatedly, carelessly scribing, with the intensity of a man knowingly hounded by death’s miserable and relentless trailing, was not simply an explanation or a goodbye, it was a means by which he would transmute his life, which would soon be banished to oblivion in its current form, into something that wouldn’t die: the grandiose immortality of the written word. The profound seriousness of this undertaking was definitely not lost on him, and it weighed very heavily on his already overtaxed mind as he set about attempting to derive his mortal essence into the words he hurriedly and erratically scrawled.

    What he wrote was as follows:

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  7. 1 year ago 

    An Intermission between Rampancies

    There has been steely resolve and herculean exertion, and, despite this, there was subsequently still unmistakable glimmers of grand disappointment. There are deliciously cyberpunk esque experimental adventures. There will be redoubled efforts and an unwaveringly fixed gaze towards the delightfully impossible end goal.

    In the meanwhile though, I’m absorbingly eager to get back to writing. Really get back to it. To be subsumed and consumed by it in equal measure. Fully. Wholly. Insanely. However, there are still some troublesome anchors which weigh on my mind a great deal whenever I try to start something new. Perhaps the most pertinent such burden is the various works I haven’t published anywhere, that have languished unattended and unexhibited. So I have been, and will continue (as best as is possible), to finally post such things - so to free up my increasingly beleaguered mind for future projects. And believe me: I have ideas.

    The piece I intend to post next is my current magnum opus, and it has been gestating for a decidedly long time. Do things like this improve with age? Perhaps. Regardless, this work in progressunfinished’ (surprising nobody) piece of writing has been party to staccato visitations from my concerted attention for quite some time, and so it has, in some ways, captured a snapshot of my creative mind at various times. The ghosts of my past selfs rattle their awful chains as they drift to-and-fro within these words.

    Hounds bay impatiently and ravenously somewhere close, somewhere unseen. A gargantuan leviathan winks awake beneath the waves and indignantly observes that its mighty kingdom is no more. The storied stone colossus senses a great horn bleating its mournful song, calling for his return, and begins treading with grandiose authority towards the horizon.

    Something wicked this way comes…

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This humble writing blog is where I unburden myself of the ideas which occupy my mind from time to time. It is that and nothing more, though also nothing less.

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My name, if you think it important, is Ryan.

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