Shakespeare

Since the dawn of time, many great leaders have stood out among billions of other faceless people. In the world of literature, none have stood out quite as prominently as His Majesty, William Shakespeare. Over the course of his reign as the King of Fictitious True Stories, Princess William Smith wrote over 9912 plays, all of which were autobiographical. His works were more influential than influenza, and more contagious than a house on fire.  Aside from his many life achievements, which ranged from declawing a litter of 12 cats in 11 seconds to having the most publicized bromance in all history, he also found time to be immortal. However, with all of his best years gone, he now resides in the basement of the Stratford theatre.

                One of the many reasons why Shakespeare was such a brilliant pole dancer, was because of his fantastic to crawl under the skirts of the queen. I mean really, what did you think was going on down there? He also managed to have a hand in parliamentary matters, quite literally. They fashioned a small opening in the wall through which Shakespeare stuck his hand through to pen the rebuttals. His witty comebacks were the root cause of countless wars, and the main reason the Queen thought necessary to implement a law stating that all parrots must be treated as Gods.

                After writing such classics as Legally Blonde and Bambi, Shakespeare moved on to more serious matters, such as building the first bridge to the moon, constructed entirely of toothpicks and the tears of orphaned children. Unfortunately, due to poor budgeting and lack of planning the bridge ended up spanning the distance between Earth’s moon and Mars. Due to this, it has not seen much use and those who wish to use Shakespeare’s Moon Bridge are daunted by Space Trolls and surly toll booth men, who have wives who refuse to bring them sandwiches.

                However, Shakespeare was not always such a grand contributor to society. Over the course of his never-ending life, he has committed numerous felonies, including breaking into the white house and mooning JFK. Shortly after, JFK organized his own assassination. Shakespeare became a renowned plastic surgeon, working on such celebrities as Sylvester Stallone and Prince Charles’s ears. His practice closed quite recently, when police found remnants of old Chinese takeout containers that he was allegedly using as the reconstructive filler for his patients. As of this date, Shakespeare has joined the ranks of many before him, milking his fame for all it’s worth.

                If one does not agree with the undeniable evidence that proves Shakespeare was an unidentified Russian Spy, then they must at least agree he was as influential as it gets when it comes to literature and the gastronomic delights of fine home cooked road kill. It is important for generations to experience his work, but they need not hurry, because the life and times of this King have only just begun. With eternity ahead of him, he can take all the time he needs to perfect whatever whim is foolish enough to cross his path, and we can only hope we’ll still be around to gasp in awe at the glory that is Alec Baldwin.

Written by Matthew Broderick and myself (Though mostly him). We had some fun.

The Rain

It rained last night.

I’d almost forgotten the sound that raindrops make when they hit my window. That quiet, irregular patter that slows and speeds up with the changes in the wind. I couldn’t sleep because of the sound. I didn’t want to sleep. The rain was welcome after the muffled cold of winter. 

            I wanted to go outside, to dance, to feel the pinpricks of water hitting my skin, to wake up after this hibernation. The rain would have washed away my sadness and my fears. The rain would bring spring to my mind, even if the ground outside remains frozen for another few months. 

            I stayed inside though. I remembered another rainstorm, where the lightning flashed over and over again, almost keeping the sky continuously bright, and the rain fell from the sky in a continuous sheet, pounding against the ground. I didn’t go outside then, either. I wish I had. 

There’s something so perfect about rainfall at night. Almost magical, but not smoke and mirrors magic. Rain wakes up the earth. It brings change. It melts the snow and turns the hard earth into rich, dark mud. The orange light of street lamps reflects off of the wet ground, shining and clean. 

I fell asleep to the sounds of change. I dreamed along to the pitter-patter of falling water. 

I woke with a smile on my face.

Self Portraiture

This is what I would look like if I was wearing a creepy carnival bird mask. In case you don't already know what that looks like.

Angel Curls and Other Fun Stuff

So, clearly you've all been waiting with bated breath for my next piece of actual writing. Well, take a breath, ladies and gentlemen, because here it is! This was one of the pieces I wrote for my Writers Craft exam. I still don't have the dialogue one yet (well, I have about half of it), so that won't be posted for a while.

Also, one of the novel ideas that has fastened to me so strongly is one including the characters from the Promises To Keep collection. The plot is surfacing slowly, but I have a good idea that it includes the shadow people that live in Gabe's head. I will likely post an excerpt before too long, because I'm really happy with it.

Anyway, without further nonsense, here's the story. Please keep in mind that this is a character speaking. Not me. Also, the story is a bit disturbing. A bit of language and possibly morally offensive subject matter.

Angel Curls

I can’t believe what I’m considering. What sort of monster am I? She’s my little sister, for fuck’s sake. She deserves better than being sacrificed for my own gain. God. I want that power. I want to be better, stronger, more interesting than everyone else. Is it worth it?

She looks like a goddamn angel. All those perfect, white blonde curls. That perfect, beautiful face. She’s even smiling. Why can’t she look like a brat when she’s sleeping. I want to do it. I want to take my knife to her throat and watch crimson splash across the pale marble of her skin, stain her hands and her hair and her blue eyes to become cold and distant. I really do want to.

I’m sick. She’s a little girl! How can I even think that?

And yet, the idea fascinates me.

I watch the way the orangey light from the street-lamp outside plays across my hands. Unremarkable hands. Too short to properly play the piano. Too clumsy to catch a ball, or to throw one properly. The nails are all bitten down, the skin red and raw.

Are these the hands of a murderer?

I look at her hands, curled around a fold in her blanket. Her fingers are as long as mine already, and she’s only seven. She’ll never have any trouble spanning an octave. She plays catch with dad on the weekends, and she rarely drops the ball, rarely throws it short. How is it that she’s less than half my age, and she’s already more talented than I am? The only similarity between my hands and hers are the chewed nails. She picked up that habit from me.

If I killed her- No, sacrificed her, I could be more talented. I could be beautiful and powerful. I could have golden curls and an angelic face. I could have blue eyes.

But I couldn’t ever have my little sister back.

Nick says it’ll be worth it. He gets this gleam in his eye when he says it, this hungry look. I know he wants the power as badly as I do. Maybe even moreso. But it’s not his little sister we’d be killing. I wonder if he’d have as hard a time as I’m having, making this decision.

I shouldn’t have this problem! I should be evil enough to want the power no matter the cost, or I should be good enough that I would never even consider it. I don’t need to waste my time feeling so fucking conflicted.               

I’ll do it. It’s worth it. She’s already lived more fully than I have.

Who’s fault is that?

I only have myself to blame. I still have time, though. I can work harder at school, make more friends, and break up with Nick. I can. I don’t have to have that power to feel whole, and happy and good about myself.  I can make an effort to be better.

But I’m still going to want it.

Forever.          

Slowly, I reach over and brush my hand across the silky smooth curls that have fallen over her forehead. She doesn’t wake up, and that’s well enough, because I’m not sure what I would do if she did. Because I’m willing to be a bad person. Not tonight, maybe, but soon.

Comments and feedback always appreciated! Thanks for reading!

Kelley Armstrong

Today I was given the opportunity to introduce Kelley Armstrong at my town library. For those of you who don't know who she is, go here for more information. She is a fantastic writer, and I personally look forward to reading more of her books. If you're into paranormal dark fantasy stuff, check her out! She has novels for both adults and teens, so chances are she'll have something you like.


So basically, I've been psyching myself out about this night for about a week. I only had about that much notice. If I'd been given more notice, I would have been panicking more earlier, and maybe not freaked out so much tonight. I made a few jokes about how my friend Spencer could get hired at the library after my intro was done, because they'd need someone to scrape bits of me off the ceiling. Luckily, it turned out to be a false promise, as I didn't explode. Which is good for me. Not so good for Spencer's job prospects.

Before the evening officially started, I got introduced to a bunch of people. Two librarians, the man who organized the Grimsby Author series, and Kelley Armstrong herself. I'm ashamed to admit that I geeked out a little (a lot), but she was really nice. I think she was nervous about speaking too. She even said, "When my publishers told me that I was touring, I was like 'what?' I'm a writer because I communicate best through writing."(A little paraphrased, obviously. I don't exactly have a perfect memory)

She did a great job of speaking though. She laughed and joked with us, gave out little prizes (Spencer got a bag, the lucky bastard), and read excerpts from The Summoning and The Gathering, the first books from her YA series. The Gathering is the first book of the second trilogy of the Darkest Powers Series.

She got a lot of questions about what was next for some of the characters in the Otherworld series, but those questions didn't mean a lot to me, seeing as I haven't yet read any of those books. I will next chance I get. My friend Rebecca (who was there at the event) has a bunch of the books (most of which she got signed tonight. She's a big fan of Kelley), and she says I can borrow them. I'm pumped.

The questions I thought were great were primarily about Kelley's writing process (being a writer myself, I always like to hear how other authors write). She writes most of her books using an outline. She said that she used to be a "pantser" (A writer who writes with no outline or plan, only an idea in their head) but became a "plotter" when she got published and suddenly had deadlines to deal with. Having an outline helped her to avoid going off on a tangent. Which can be detrimental when you have to cut out 75 pages because you've drifted so far from the actual plot line.

Someone also asked her about writers block and how she deals with it. She told us an amusing story about a writer friend of hers that snorkles in her bathtub to get through writers block. She then told us that she didn't do anything quite as exciting as that, but tried to cut writers block off at the source by outlining. She also gives herself permission to suck, because "No one ever has to see the first draft." That is one peice of advice that I totally agree with.

This post keeps getting longer and longer, and, even though no one is likely to read it,  I want to get this all down.

Fun fact: Kelley Armstrong first wrote The Summoning as a NaNoWriMo novel! It was her first attempt at YA fiction, and she didn't want to waste a lot of time on it if it wasn't going to work out. So she wrote it in the month, and, though she decided that it needed a lot of work and ended up rewriting it entirely, actually got it down, which is pretty exciting.

I think that's everything I wanted to get down. I will probably remember more things later on, but I'll write them down somewhere else. Also, if you've been wondering why I haven't been uploading any short stories lately, it's because about 5 novel ideas have attacked me recently, and it's getting difficult to think outside of the lines of those novel parameters. But I should be back with an interior monologue and a dialogue before too long, if my Writers Craft teacher ever photcopies them for me.

There's Not A Lot Going On

Nothing to upload today. Sorry about that. I spent most of today cleaning my room, and I found a lot of my old writing. And it's bad. So, so very bad. Bits and pieces are kind of inspiring though. Especially these two lines from a generally awful poem that i wrote: "Before you can begin again, you must be ground to sand." It sounds a bit like the mantra of a weird, strict religion thing.

I haven't been doing a lot of writing lately. I'm totally uninspired, and I need to get to work on my novel, Ghost. There are a few short stories that I've posted on my Deviant Art account, and i can repost them if anyone wants, but I won't unless someone actually wants them. I understand that I pretty much don't have a following, and that's okay.

Anywho, I'm tired. I need to start writing more and be distracted by the internet less. Fun times.

Martinis, Girls and Guns

 Fast Cars

He kept his well-polished shoe pressed against the gas pedal. The car itself was well accustomed to the speed, but the model had never been designed for it. The needle on the speedometer was  as far right as it could go. The roar of the engine was left far behind him, leaving the interior of the car eerily quiet.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles glaring white from his tanned hands. Those hands were scarred, too, covered in the remnants of fights he shouldn’t have been able to win, hasty escapes and covert entries. Hands, broad and square, that would better suit a criminal than the well-dressed, elegant man that they belonged to.

His lips were pressed together tightly, his eyebrows frowned, and the blue eyes behind the dark glasses glared at the road in front of the car. Empty roads like this left him with no distractions from the heavy press of the past. No beautiful woman sat beside him, no deadly gunman chased him down. He was left alone with his thoughts, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Another day, another dollar. Another clip of bullets unloaded into the chest of some hired lackey. Another brief love affair, ended with a bang. Another few people to add to that growing crowd in the back of his mind.  Another set of accusing eyes.

He took one hand off the wheel and slipped it beneath the edge of his suit jacket. He briefly gripped the smooth handle of his gun. He kept one bullet in his pocket, inscribed with his number. Three digits that he’d become so familiar with. A bullet from an encounter a long time ago. A bullet sent to him because he’s the best.  He didn’t really know why he kept it with him. Maybe because he had a perverse fascination with the idea of loading that one bullet into his gun and pulling the trigger on life.

A bitter smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He’d never really do it of course, but He’d heard that somewhere, everyone had someone who has a bullet with their name on it.  He didn’t have to worry. He already had his own.

Yeah, I'm lame. I've been watching too much James Bond lately.  But that's too bad. It's a sort of interior mind set thing of a hard-bitten spy.  Maybe I'll try an action sequence soon.
Dun nuuun DA NAAA