It All Begins Tomorrow

…ominous titles aside, I’m starting something tomorrow, so that will be fun. Working on it will be a good way to end what has been a nastily rough week.

I’ve got way too much to do. I have a buttload of internship applications, catchup homework and this new project. I could cry. 

All-in-all, it’s been a very rough week. Coming out of it, though, at least I have something to look forward to. Creative world-wise, it gets me away from the one project that has been trapped in editing hell for three-going-on-four weeks. And it gives me what will either be a motivator to catch up and finish my work or what will be a whole other distraction.

Hopefully, we’ll be able to say it’s the former and not the latter.

Other things that I’m working on- two other writing projects both have first drafts that have been sitting for a short while that are ready to be revised. I’ve been told that the professor wants “bold” revisions on them, whether or not they go right or wrong. So that’ll be fun to work with. I like almost all the characters I’ve created so far, between Oliver Watterson, Arthur Cohn, Sarah Metis, Charlotte Haas, Johnny Stevenson and Emmy Gomez. I feel like Charlotte could definitely stand to be better developed, but for a first try, I’m actually rather happy with them.

The two stories, interestingly enough, are complete opposites to one another, and I think that one is weaker than the other as a result, but that’s alright.

At any rate, I’ve got some work to do, and I’ve got a post talking about these more in detail. So I’ll leave it here for now. See you all tomorrow!

Honest Poem – Retrospect

You remember a time
when the second hands moved too slowly
There was a time
when the bell could not have rung any later
And you loved the time
where you could run in the green grass
with a smile in your wind-tossed hair
and a song stuck on repeat.

She remembers a time
when she saw the most beautiful births
There was a time
when she saw your face dawn as the circuit clicked
And she loved the time
with the boat surfing the waves of your imagination
on the open sea, entirely free.

I remember the time
when this was all still real.
There was a time
when there were twenty different open doors
And I long for the time
when we could all choose one to walk through
Together.

Outlining vs. Going Unplanned (A Superhero Story)

The deadline for my second story is coming up and I haven’t written a lick of it yet. I’ve written plenty of ideas and basic premises and even character plans and world building….

And yet, I don’t know if I’m going to stick to any of it. I might just grab a vague notion of a protagonist and dive wildly off script.

It’s entirely unprecedented, as all of the fiction I’ve written since I restarted trying to master this genre has all been carefully planned out and everything has taken shape in my head. But not this time- this time I’ll be making it up as I go, jiving to the character’s beat, you know?

I know that recent, earlier attempts to write in this way have crashed and burned, but I think I have a voice to channel into a story, so we’ll see how well it goes.

The voice is also telling me something that I’m not sure is such a good idea.

This story? It’s going to be a superhero story.

Oh, joy. Personally, I think the entire genre’s getting a little tired but you know what? I’ll work with it. See if I can’t get anything fresh out of it- although I’m pretty sure the entire animals has been hollowed out and stuffed with a printer that makes money.

There are so many ways this could go wrong as all hell… but eh, what’s a life without a little bit of a risk.

I’m running late on a couple of things, so I’m afraid no flash fiction or honest poetry today unless inspiration strikes. Sorry about that!

(However, you can expect another post later today.)

Until then, folks!

-D

Honest Poem – Sunscreen

It smells like kindergarten.
warmth of a mother,
jubilant laughter as the sun
immerses but never burns.

It feels like melted butter
rubbed onto a frying pan before
hissing batter
snakes its way into a cake.

And you look at the child
reading about gingerbread boys
on that first day
tucked between two parents.

And you wish that they recognized you.

flower in the fountain

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Photo credits to Jewlsies (jewlsies.tumblr.com)

He experienced everything.

His feet felt the cobblestone. It was strict, unforgiving, solid ground marred with straight borders outlining each brick. He stepped gently, as if at any moment, a stone might break through the thin canvas of his shoes and stab his heel.

He knew it wouldn’t though. The passage of time and all those people who had treaded where he now walked had worn the road much smoother than the coarse bricks that made up the houses in the tight alley around him.

He heard the scattered chatter of the people around him. Laughter, arguments, and desperate tourists trying to discern directions permeated him and he understood the arrhythmic taps of every step someone took overlapping with one another.

He breathed in the crisp air, tinged with the smell of cream sauce and the smoke of the grills inviting him to a feast. Oh, he wanted to just sit down so badly, or perhaps even go running in the sunset, away, away from his final destination. But he tiptoed on, wishing that he could still feel the burning tears cool on his cheek as they were buffeted by the air.

But he was at the end. He felt nothing and no tears came.

As he finally arrived at his destination, the maw of the path opened up into a large, rectangular courtyard lined with buildings and benches and geometric, perfectly cut patches of grass. And at one end, opposite a tan bricked building with wall-sized glass windows, was what he was here to see.

He took a seat at the stone basin of the fountain. He didn’t mind the occasional spatter of water as the fountain’s spouts continued to shoot water into the full fountain. Reaching into the pockets of his jet-black coat, he pulled out a single chrysanthemum. He twirled it around his finger tips, admired the many pink petals before leaning down. Leaving one hand on the slightly wet off white concrete of the basin rim, he gently set the flower down in the water with his other.

As it floated away merrily along the ripples of the fountain water, he smiled.

This was goodbye.

And she was finally free.

-a flash fiction to say goodbye