Something New And Exciting

If you live in the Niagara region, you may have heard of the band Howler. They're pretty new, having formed last summer, and they've been gaining popularity ever since. They will be recording an album this spring. If you're interested in hearing the songs from their E.P, check out their myspace.

Brittany (Check out her art blog), half of the duo that is Howler, is one of my best friends. The other day, she was sick, and hiding in the green room, so I brought her tea and hung out with her all day. We started talking about a book project that we will be doing at some point (Tentatively titled The Fox and The Crow). This conversation turned to talking about her new album, and then to a possible Songbook thing.

Basically the Songbook would be a shortish story or group of short stories that relate to her songs. They would be sold alongside her albums. I'm pretty stoked about this project, so I hope it actually happens, ahaha. It would be such a cool project. Apparently she talked to her label manager, Timmur, and he thought it was a cool idea too. So we'll see!

I'm so glad the weekend is here. I need to do some serious catch up on homework, and get as much writing in as I can.

Love you. Seriously. : )

Slapshots

Alright. I don`t know a lot about Hockey, father/son relationships, figure skating or divorce. However, I do know a little about Gabe and the violent shadow people living in his head, and if you missed out on that, please direct your attention to Sabotage. I've rewritten it since, but whatever.

Slapshots

Gabe skated over the ice, the cool air whipping over his face and arms.  He went fast, covering the distance from one end of the rink to the other with a few strides, then swooping around the ends. He could hear his heart drumming, the only sound besides his breath and the metallic sound of his skates on the rinks surface.

He stopped, sending a spray of ice up onto the boards.  He glided over to the bench and grabbed his water bottle. He drank, and then paused, surveying the dimly lit rink. There was one net, floating alone at the far end of the ice. He picked up his stick and a bucket full of pucks, and made his way to the center of the rink.

He fired the pucks at the net, the crack of impact echoing loudly.  When the bucket was empty, he collected them and began firing them off again, this time from the blue line. A good half of his shots ended up outside the net now, but he continued until the bucket was empty once more. He paused a moment, before skating down the rink to collect the pucks once more.

“What team do you play for?” A voice asked from the stands.

Gabe looked up, startled. “What?”

There was a man, sitting in the third row, watching him. “What team do you play for? Downsview Flyers? Mulgrove Lions? You’re not university, I’d recognize you.”

“Neither.” Gabe replied.

“You play for one of the big cities?”

Gabe shook his head. “I don’t play.”

“Come on, kid, with a slap shot like that, teams would be fighting for you.” The man looked flabbergasted, unable to understand.

“I don’t play.” Gabe repeated.

“So you mean to tell me you’re here, in the middle of the night, practicing a god know how many miles an hour slap shot, for fun?”

“Yeah.” Gabe shrugged.

“How’d you get in here anyway? Do you go to this school?”

“My Dad’s the coach.”

“Really?” The man leaned back, scrutinizing Gabe. “You’re Levi’s boy, and you’ve got a slap shot like that, and you don’t play? Pull the other one, kid, it’s got bells on it.” He laughed harshly, the sound echoing. “There’s no way Levi would let you not play.”

“He can’t exactly force me.”  Gabe said bitterly. “And he’s not thrilled that he can’t let me tell you.”

“Ah.”

Gabe looked at him and waited, but the man didn’t say anything more.  “When I asked him if I could get rink time here was probably the best conversation we had.” He said. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The man’s expression changed from incredulity to sympathy in a matter of seconds.

“Your Dad is one of my best friends.” The man said. “He never talks about you, not really. Just in passing. I remember a few months ago, he was pissed because you were in a figure skating competition.” He paused. “I figured that you were a nancy boy, not a six foot tall kid with one of the best slap shots I’ve ever seen.”

“I just sort of got roped into the figure skating thing.” Gabe shrugged. “I was helping Luce with her routine, and her instructor asked me to do some work with the advanced class, doing lifts and stuff. I wouldn’t have done it, but Luce convinced me.”

The man laughed. “Your little sister always seems to get her way. I’ve only met her a few times, but you can tell she’s stubborn.”

Gabe smiled. “Yeah. I don’t get to see her that often, because she lives with Dad, so I agreed. Dad came to the show thing they put on at the end of the year, and I did a routine with the top student. He couldn’t even look at me afterwards.  Just asked if he should have brought another thing of flowers for his ‘other daughter’. I just about punched him. I would have, but it was Lucy’s night, not mine. I wasn’t going to ruin it for her.”

The man was silent for a few minutes. “You don’t talk a lot, do you?” He asked. When Gabe looked at him questioningly, he continued. “If I asked you the right questions, you’d probably tell me your life story right now.”

“No, I-“

The man held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not judging. I can tell you’re one of those kids who doesn’t have a lot of friends, and you’ve got a lot of anger built up, and nowhere to vent it. So you come out here to deal with everything when it gets too much. You run over everything in your mind, imagine that those pucks have your fathers face on them. That’s how you deal with it all, ain’t it?”

“I guess so.” Gabe admitted.

“Hockey is where I went too. I played on a team, mind.” He paused. “Why don’t you?”

“I got in a fight with a kid.”

“So? That’s normal. Encouraged, even.”

“I broke his nose, knocked out a few of his teeth, and I think I might have cracked one of his ribs.”

The man let out a low whistle. “That’s some serious damage.”

“Yeah.” Gabe snapped. “I know. I don’t want to do that to someone else.”

“Then don’t.” The man shrugged.” Simple as that.”

Gabe clenched both hands around his hockey stick, his knuckles glaring white from his skin. “It’s never that simple.”

“No? Why not?”

Gabe glared at the man. The man glared back, challenge in his gaze. “I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I would be likely to hurt someone.”

 “You look like you want to hit me right now. Why don’t you?” He laughed. “You seem to have a low opinion of your self-control.”

Gabe snapped the stick in half and tossed the pieces to the ice.  “That was one of those ‘virtually unbreakable’ ones.”

The man gaped at him. “But-How?-Did-“He stopped. “Shoddy workmanship. Probably made in China. The material was compromised because of the stress you put on it from shots.”

“Whatever.” Gabe shrugged, and returned to picking up the pucks. “You’re welcome to try, if you’d like.”

There was silence as Gabe finished gathering the pucks and the pieces of his broken stick. He placed them on the bench, and started laps of the rink again. The arena filled with the silvery sounds of his skates pounding against the ice. The older man didn’t say another word until Gabe had untied his skates and was putting on his shoes.

“How often do you come here?”

“At least once a week,” Gabe answered. “Sometimes three or four times.”

“You want to run through drills with the team, at all?” He asked. “They’ve gotten complacent. A younger kid showing them up might get them to work harder.”

“Sure.” Gabe shrugged. “If I’m not busy, anyway.”

“I’ll talk to your Dad about it, and get him to give you a call.”

“Sounds good.” Gabe paused. “Can you tell him I broke my stick? I’m gonna need a new one.”

“Sure, kid.” The man looked like he wanted to say something else, but Gabe didn’t give him the chance.

He walked out of the arena, into the warm night air. He looked back at the building and shook his head. If his father called, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to answer it. Maybe it would feel good to play hockey properly again. Maybe it would help him to talk to his father. Maybe there was nothing wrong with him, maybe everyone had the same violent impulses as him. Maybe. But Gabe never was one to take a chance on maybes.


PS. Downsview and Mulgrove are both fictional places. They're from My Soul To Keep.

Progess (Or Lack Thereof)

I heard the train go by a few minutes ago. It's funny. I never heard it once throughout the whole winter, but it's suddenly back again, as familiar and regular as ever. I think I'm beginning to pay attention again, which is a good sign. The train makes me think wistfully of the summer, when I'd sit in my window and listen to the frogs singing and the crickets chirping, and the rapid percussion of the trains passing through. The spring is coming. I can smell it in the still cold air, see it in the glass edged puddles, hear it in the tentative chirping of the returning birds. I don't think I've ever been so ready for winter to end. Let the ground thaw! Let the grass grow! Let the rain fall and let the stars touch the earth. Let the warm breeze catch me and take me away.


I've been thinking about writing. Not in the sense of, I should write something down. More in the sense of why I do it and why I don't. I mostly write when I want to create something. But lately, I've been wanting to create music. I'm hopeless when it comes to instruments. I'd like to learn to play the piano, but opportunity offers me no venue to try. All I can do is write the words and make a tune in my head. It inevitably gets kept to myself. Not only that, but the words sound all wrong. I never was much of a poet.

I digress. I've mostly been thinking about reading versus writing. Anyone who knows me is aware that I am an avid reader. I love having a book with me, I love the feel of pages between my fingers, the words that paint pictures behind my eyes. I love getting caught up in a story. So often, however, I will leave my own writing to read someone else's. In my own writing, I have complete control. I can create worlds, change them and destroy them in a heartbeat. The story is mine to craft. I should be more invested in the lives of my characters. If I want a story, wouldn't I be better off to work on my own?

We live in a world where everyone and their mother wants to become a writer. Obviously I am no exception. I think, in general, we undervalue the importance of the reader. When someone says they write, but never read, it makes me want to lock them in a library for a week. How can they take themselves seriously as writers if they don't take other (published and successful) writers seriously? I may be guilty of occaisionally ignoring a tantalizing new read for my own work, but rest assured that I've abandoned my writing for a book much more often.  I'm not sure if this is a good thing. It just is.

I need to make time to fit in all the things I need to do. I should crack down on my wasted hours doing nothing on the computer. Yes, facebook is all lovely and shiny, but it won't do my homework for me, or write my stories for me. It is a yawning canyon into which I am throwing away my free time. Not just facebook, mind, but the entire internet.

I guess this means I need to get organized. I suppose I should begin by doing my homework, no matter how dull and boring it may be. And then, I will write. Then, if time permits, I will read a few chapters of Stolen.

Speaking of reading, do any of you, my readers, faithful and fleeting alike, have blogs (tumblr, independent website, whatever) that you'd like to share with me? I'd love to know what you all do. Drop me a comment with a link, and I'll check it out!

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!