a respite from the actual stories that matter

I try not to write about my own life on this but nevermind that. Its winter break for about another two weeks until school starts so hopefully i'll actually have something written to show for it. Seems like its just been limited to the writing i can get done either in my car before i start work in the morning or sitting in a single lamp-lit room with a glass of johnnie walker around midnight.

if anyone actually enjoys reading this, I can guarantee I'll have something next semester since I'll be taking two fiction writing classes

in the meantime ponder this "I'm trying to beat life, cause I can't cheat death." found it scribbled in a bathroom stall

Tales from Blood Talon Cove

Are these gods or mortals that I perceive?

Or do my eyes exist only to deceive?

A glowing aura round their presence

Calms my soul of any malevolence

Light from the sun, beaming down

Falls upon their heads like a heavenly crown

A picture preserved by one named Alan

Of two demigods at the cove of Blood Talon

The Newly-Weds

A perfect day. A perfect sky. Two young lovers upon the beach. In the sand, in the sea. They splashed and danced upon the shore. Listened to the sounds carried on by the wind.
And now they rest from a weary day of play, soaking in the sunshine and toying with the sand at their feet. Two lovers on their Honeymoon. Blissfully unaware of the Fate before them. A Fate of routine and normalcy.
These are not the Young Lovers who become the Widowed Lovers. No. In fact these Young Lovers will, for purposes unknown, will grow into the Old Lovers - sitting on their porch from noon till six, only to retire inside to eat, sleep, and eventually pass on to their next lives.
Nor are these the Young Lovers who transform to the Angry Lovers, separated by Rage and Violence. No. Their struggles and strafes, though soon-to-be tearing daily at their hearts and throats, will only grow them into the Committed Lovers - the ones that will forever continue to hold onto each other.
Nor are these Young Lovers destined to separate into the Solo Lovers, working their own jobs for their own pay. No. Instead they'll hold onto each other tighter, the Dependent Lovers - wanting and needing each other for their dual survival.
But that's all years, months, weeks away. Much too far to foresee, especially on a perfect day at the beach, a perfect sky overhead. He says to Her. She whispers back to Him. Two young lovers splashing in the waves and building castles in the sand.

Wolf

Wolf strolled through the village like an Angel of Death, striking swift and precise, leaving only those he wanted dead as corpses for the others to find. He even managed to avoid spilling any blood on the raven-black cloak and wide-brimmed kasa he wore on missions like this. With a wide, toothy grin, he made his way to the center of the village where the young woman's scent was strongest. She sat on a bench in front of the stone statue of the village founder. Her long, brown hair fell across one shoulder and down the back of her light-blue dress. Wolf took several seconds to admire the craftsmanship of the statue and decided, if anything, he'd at least leave it intact.
He saw her stand as he stepped out of the shadow of the building and into the torch-lit square. She walked several steps closer to him as she spoke, her movements betraying no sign of fear that she might hold within her, as most young heroes do. "So, what took you so long? You have been wandering around the town for almost half an hour now." She stared at him, eyes unwavering and fearless. Wolf assured himself that would change before he finished here.
Never breaking the wide, tooth-filled smile, he said "I had a hard time tracking down your scent. I needed to eliminate the others who reeked of it until I finally found you." He watched the look of confusion fill her face until she replaced it with one of horror, grief, and ultimately, anger. Who else would have her scent on them besides the people she made contact with. Her family. Her friends.
Wolf shrugged, still smiling. "It needed to be done, after all." With a subtle move, he dropped his black cloak onto the stone-slab ground of the empty town square. Nest came off his kasa, which he dropped onto the cloak, the wide-brimmed straw hat landing perfectly upright. She could see his face clearly now, his facial features still dominated though by his wide, tooth-filled smile. She saw him begin inspecting his gray, long-sleeved tunic, picking off bits of black lint. In the middle of a fight, she thought, the act infuriating her even further toward blind rage. She let her anger consume her, her Resolve determined to punish the intruder. For justice, she thought. And Vengeance, she quickly added.
Placing her two hands over her chest, she concentrated her Resolve and began unsheathing her Blade. The blue light emitted from her chest, dim at first but began glowing brighter. As she reached one hand into the light, Wolf walked forward, closing the distance between the two of them. When she pulled her hand out, clutching the hilt of her Blade, he sprinted forward. Pulling his hands from behind his back, he flung two short, thin-bladed throwing knives. She just placed her second hand on the hilt of her Blade when the two knives made contact with each of them. Startled, she released her grip, letting the Blade fall back into the light. With a swift tug, Wolf yanked the double-edged Blade from her chest just as the gateway faded. With a spin, he flipped her Blade upside-down and jammed the cold steel into the ground. He looked back at her to see she collapsed onto her knees, breathing heavy, and hands feeling her chest.
"Feels like somethings missing doesn't it?" He circled her, like a vulture, stopping where he started, right in front of her. "Like a piece of yourself has just been ripped from you."
She looked up to see only his smile. She tried to say something, to scream, but she couldn't. The pain was too intense and so she could only watch as he raised his head toward the sky and opened his mouth wide. Within seconds, a single light glowing from his mouth bathed the entire square in a crimson light. He reached one hand into the light and extracted a four foot katana. Even when the red light faded, she could see the blade-still glowing red. From its point it even dripped red. Blood.
"A Fang," she gasped. Her voice was strained as she spoke, leaving Wolf with a look of surprise on his face.
"So, you know what this is." He spun the sword several times at his side.
"A Fang," she repeated, "That means you're a, a, a Monster."
"Ahh, yes. A Hero I am no more."
"So, you've Resolved to kill me." She emphasized Resolved hoping he'd get the joke. He did and he laughed.
"No Resolve," he said, raising his Fang, the katana, above his head. "Only Hunger." He brought the sword down, point first, and buried his Fang into her shoulder, letting it taste her blood before he pulled it out. She fell. He turned around to see her Blade still plunged in the ground.
"Now," he said, resting his Fang upon his shoulder, "What to do with you?"


Wolf comes from the story involving Chance. both are tagged under the "Blades and Fangs" story

Stories from Mt. Fuji

She sits upon one of the wooden benches at the top of the mountain, huddled together with the hundred or so other travelers brave, or stupid, enough to make the trek. They say its lonely at the top, but this time they couldn't be further from the truth, though the masses still aren't enough to create the amount of heat needed to warm the frost from her bones, from her soul. Tugging her jacket tighter around her she closes her eyes and moves inches closer to sleep, maybe even inches closer to death as the cold takes away all feeling. A fun outing with friends for a once in a lifetime experience may just turn into the last time she experiences life. People died hiking Mt. Fuji they told her before she boarded the bus. Better dress warm. And warm she dressed, with her long-sleeved shirts and winter coat. And though she made it to the top, her trial of endurance still wasn't over. She survived the climb, where every step closer to the top brought her a step closer to Hell, in the Dante-esque sense of the realm anyways. Why would anyone keeep going when it was so much easier to turn back? But she struggled, endured, and survived - earning a well deserved rest. A nap that tempted her to sleep forever, to sleep because it was the easiest thing to do to escape the final test against the elements - the road down. But Sleep and Death, Hypnos and Thanatos, are twins after all, and so she must struggle against both to complete the final stage of her journey. So sleep weary traveler for soon you must continue on again.

note: sorry Suru for using this picture of you... unfortunately it was the only picture I had that turned out well to use for this piece

Triumph? No. Victory? No. Alive? Hmm, Alive? Yes. Alive would be the best and only way to describe the feeling of the five weary travelers. Huddled together for warmth along with the rising of the sun, they preserve their collective memory of the event, not only with a simple and single photograph, but in the stories they would forever tell anyone who asked. The rising sun. The perfect symbol of a new day, a new beginning, a new person tempered by his or her own struggles in the darkness of night. Now it represented an end: an end to a journey (a quest really) for the sunrise was the goal and now that it was achieved it was time to leave. No, not leave but rather move ahead, this being an event they would take with them after all, not to be discarded along with the candy wrappers and plastic bottles they accumulated throughout the hike. And so, as the photograph captures their physical proof of a goal accomplished, it also takes a piece of their souls to entrap their feelings in it, only to come alive again during viewings such as this, most importantly at times like this, when a weary traveler just needs to see that the hardships of the night will always be followed by the brightness and glory of the day, and that sometimes the best word to describe the situation is just simply as "Alive."

note: photograph taken from page 78 of Allison O'Connor's photobook "24:00 Japan in Film Photography." See more pictures on her blog at http://urbanresearch.wordpress.com

Page 108

She stopped before the bridge, knowing that once she crossed she wouldn't, couldn't look back. She promised herself that she wouldn't look back. But promises are meant to be broken after all and she could feel this one crumbling like her own heart. It ached for one last view of her home. Well, home for the past year, but home none the less. After all, home is where your family is and they were all like family by now. All the people she met, liked, loved, and even hated. All of them family. Like Brothers, Sisters, Long-Lost Cousins, Step-Siblings. So she stopped and placed her suitcases on the ground, slowly-as if to stall the inevitable-and reluctantly-giving into the desires she tried to restrain. Taking a deep breath and steeling her nerves, she turned. She could feel the tears starting to form in her eyes but she continued to hold them there as not to allow them to stream down her face. Held them as tight as she would forever hold onto the memories that caused them. She refused to let sadness take her tears. Unlike what happened just outside the dorm. And then again several feet from the entrance. And again just a couple of stops after that. She needed to sprint the last ten meters just to stop herself from turning back between there and here. But stopping here was important. It was, after all, the last place where she would be able to get a glimpse of the place she called home for the last year. She could see the boring brown structure, equally boring as the building next door and probably built by the same unimaginative builder. So she stands, staring and reflectiing and ignoring all the people squeezing passed her and her two jumbo suitcases that currently block the bridge like a traffic accident on a two lane road. A bridge, how appropriate. She was going back to reality, but crossing as a new person. Wiser, experienced, hopeful, and all those other good things a year abroad brings. And a setting sun-for the end of this journey-or should it be the start of a new one? But now we're getting too sentimental so let's leave it at that. But it is a perfect moment. She digs through her backpack and pulls out her treasure. Or is it more appropriate to call it her sword? Like a sword it does take the souls of its victims. Maybe more appropriately, its like a sword because though equally treasured and valuable it cannot, could not ever compare to the riches it has helped her take and capture-memories. So she aims through the lens of her camera and with a click, captures her last memory of Japan and with it seals away all the memories from just one of her many adventures, but one that she will hold onto forever. Again she picks up her suitcases and walks across the bridge, back to the world she knew just a year ago-back home. And again she stops and turns back

*note: picture taken from page 108 from Allison O'Connor's photobook "24:00 Japan in Film Photography". You can also check out more pictures on her blog- 24:00 http://urbanresearch.wordpress.com/

i seem to find pictures more helpful to get over writer's block than just staring at a blank sheet of paper. no idea why

Chance's story

It was heavier than he anticipated, especially since it was only his first week with his own Blade. His arms shook under the sword's weight until finally, unable to keep it raised any longer, he let it fall, burying its edge into the dirt.
"You're Resolve still is not strong enough," his master said as he whacked him in the back of the head yet again. Chance tried again to lift his Blade, raising it out of the dirt before dropping the sword completely this time.
Master _____ (I'll think of a name later) let out a sigh. "Let's go get lunch now and you can tell me all about why you are such a failure afterwards." He turned his back and proceeded to exit the training arena, gesturing for Chance to follow.
Now Chance let out a sigh, watching Master _____ exit the room without so much as a glance backwards. He looked down at his Blade, a simple double-edged longsword measuring four feet from tip of blade to the end of the handle. Master ____ told him that it would change as he got stronger, as his Resolve grew but for now it would remain a simple sword meant purely for hacking, slashing, and piercing. He looked around the room several times before pulling out a small piece of leather fabric from his pocket. Placing the blade of the sword into the middle of the leather, he pulled the material as hard as he could but it still refused the sword's cutting edge. "Guess my Resolve still isn't that strong at all."
Chance stood, alone in the empty training arena, the dirt from the floor blowing around in the wind. After a couple of minutes, he heard the doors open followed by the chatter of the grounds crew in charge of preparing the room for whoever reserved the room next. Guess its time to go. He lifted the sword with relative ease this time. The sword, though normally heavy during his training sessions, became relatively light when it knew Chance wanted to sheathe it. He hefted the sword and pointed tip of the blade toward his chest. He could feel the eyes of the grounds crew on him as he proceeded to move the point closer to his chest. Really hope I don't fuck this up. As far as Chance knew, no one had ever stabbed themselves while sheathing their own Blade. Still, being the first week of his training, Chance felt the tingle of fear until he saw the bluish glow where the point of the sword met with his chest. He could feel the awe of everyone in the arena as they watched him continue to shove the sword further and further into his chest, into the light until there was nothing left except his own hand placed upon his heart, the blue light gone as mysteriously as it came.

note: all names are subject to change. "Chance" is just a good standby name though

Jacob

A picture of one taking a picture of him taking a picture of one. This could go on forever, so I guess I'll stop...and yet stopping equates defeat, that writer's block remains victorious in this struggle. So maybe it'll take some dissection to get the story to this picture started.

Maybe he's wishing I captured him doing something more impressive, spectacular even. Right now I'm just wishing I had a better picture to work from than this. But maybe this is the essence of of improv, to work with what you've got. Just as he utilizes a cigarette box to filter the flash of the camera. And so we must use what we've got to do and create to the fullest of our abilities. It really is powerful, isn't it, improv.

Or maybe it just needs another angle (to look at the picture, not how the picture should be taken). A picture after all is not just the way the photographer sees the world, but how the subject wants to be seen by the photographer. Capturing the world for himself, preserving its essence as memories, relived later when they have all but faded, vived as if it happened only yesterday, only several hours ago, only within the last minute. Its what a camera is for after all and the strap around his neck shows his seriousness on the subject, keeping the camera always at hand to capture the images, moments, stories that depict the life he lives at this time in his life. Keeping it always at hand to capture what is essentially a photo timeline of his life. And a filter, a filter, a cigarette box to filter out the artificial light cast on the scene, preserving it as purely as the eyes see it, keeping the memory untarnished and as close to the way the mind will see it (the scene, not the photograph) in the years to come. And so the subject becomes a Keeper of Time, one who preserves it as fully as possible until the time when the memory is no longer needed and can be cast into oblivion along with other moments washed away by a cleansing rainfall.

guess I'll start with an intro...

He sits, staring across the river, seeing so much more. Or does he see nothing at all? Even I don't know where she (his Muse, not her) took him this time, what images and fantasies he finds himself in. He lights up another cigareete, another to add to the collection growing in the weeds behind him. Trading a step closer to death for a couple more pages in the story, maybe even an entire chapter this time. All great artists would trade precious hours, days, even years for a chance at a masterpiece, after all. If only the words came as easily as he hoped. His Muse only guides his thoughts after all, not his actions. Only shows him a piece of the story, but never puts it on the page. And so he inhales again and looks for her to be walking along the bridge above the river (the girl, not the Muse). She's not there, never there. In the dreams she walks across the bridge, but nothing more. Nothing more that he knows of because The Muse will always interfere, taking him away from dreams of hopeless infatuation to hopeless situations. Situations he can always escape from nonetheless. After all, that's a hero's job, to survive The Funhouse. But that's enough about heroes since he's yet to move past envisioning and onto creation. Instead he sits at the river with a slowly vanishing pack of cigarettes, a pen, and a blank notebook marked only with scrawls of unfinished thoughts, half sentences if you will, like an open-ended straight draw. But Poker isn't his game (it's mine) and so he has no place here. What belongs here are Immortality, Fate, Serendipity, Blades and Fangs, Trials and Tribulations, and her (the girl and the Muse). Essentially the tools and materials to build the Funhouse for his (or is it mine? or our?) characters to get lost in, hallways turning into stories as the lovers fade into one another while we, he, I tilt at the windmills that never will be.