The cutting floor...

 I entered a writing contest...well, more of a battle.

The rules were we had three days to write a 500 word story, using prompts drawn from a digital deck. I was intrigued by the concept, so decided to enter. My thought was I would churn out three stories, sit with them for a moment, then pick one to edit and submit. After the moment passed I couldn't pick one, so I gave all three a little bit of the editing love, and... I still couldn't pick. So I let the dice decide.

Here is one of the stories that didn't make the cut:

7 days after leaving, we found the mine. The soot-streaked walls, overturned carts spilling black lumps over the rough ground like so many marbles suggesting a coal mine. It seemed like a good place to stay, to hole up, literally, as we waited out the end of the world.

What were we waiting for? I don’t rightly know, but when the sky went red, and the clouds rolled in, everyone panicked, everything changed. We had originally thought we could stay home, lock the doors, watch the crazies roaming the streets. At first it was entertaining, if creepy. Wild eyed they roamed, placid, almost serene. Then as the crowds grew, the wailing started. More and more took to the streets, old women, boys barely old enough to have hair on their chests. Some formed loose packs, and the Disaster didn’t discriminate, people of all races and creeds joined in, took the to streets, and wailed.

We got used to it after a few days, the low keening from outside, haunting, and, when you could convince yourself for a moment that this wasn’t the end of the world, almost beautiful. As the crowds grew, the wailing, discordant as it was, took on a choir-like tone. Comforting, in a way, since we knew if it was out there, it wasn’t in here. Then the wailing stopped. It was the middle of the night, and it was the silence that woke me. Suddenly alert, I slid out of bed, my wife whispering fiercely at me to stay, but I had to see what was going on. I crept slowly to the window and drew back the curtain, looking out and down onto the street, and what I saw made my blood run cold. They were all still there, and they were all staring at the bedroom window, at me. Before I could even open my mouth, the crowd outside shifted, never taking their eyes off me, and started walking their calm, serene walk towards the house.

I told my wife we had to go, she didn’t hesitate, didn’t argue, I don’t know if it was the fear in her veins or the tone of my voice. I didn’t know where we were going to go, but something had changed. We couldn’t stay here. We gathered as much as we could, as fast as we could, and took off from the back door, into the woods that backed onto our house.

That was then, and this is now. We’re running low on food. My family is asleep further in, huddled around the embers of a dying fire. Here I sit at the mouth of this cave, while they sleep. The only defender my family has against...  Movement in my peripheral vision startles me from my reverie. As I peer around the beams that mark the entrance, a little girl steps into view, her pace calm, steady, serene. Her eyes are glassy and staring directly into mine. Oh no, it’s too late. I’m sorry.

 

 

 

My Final Failure

All day I am filled with ideas. All day I rail against the prison of my occupied time. All day I despair over the lack of time to complete my dreams. When the day is done, when the bell tolls and I am free once more, I wallow. I drown in nothing and I ignore my previous complaints. I allow my own dreams to suffer. I am the cause of my own despair. From time to time I piece one or two words together, and I call it art. It satisfies my selfish soul for a time. I relish in it, and then I forget it.

Am I worthy of my dream? I fill my idle prison with tapestries of what could be, if only I had the time. I fill my head with the ideals of a possible future, but I do nothing to reach it. I sit in the driver’s seat. I mash the gas pedal and I listen to the engine scream and chirp as the needle bounces off the red line. I never put the transmission into gear. I listen to the sound of what could be speed, but I never take off.

The question that fills your head, undoubtedly, is why. I know because it fills my head, too. Why thrash against a cage and then, when the door is unlocked, sit in the grass outside the cage and twiddle your thumbs, staring up at the black sky, biding your time until you wander back into the cage. Why? Fear? An easy answer, to be sure. Of what? Failure? We can’t say failure because every minute, every hour I waste makes me the failure that I have become. To avoid the fear of failure would be to try. So what am I avoiding? Trying? Effort? Disappointment? All these and more, to be sure. All these and more.

I can’t tell anyone, I can’t talk to anyone, because I am sick of hearing their infernal solutions. I am sick of hearing the answers I already know. I have not heard useful information in so long that I cannot even stand the thought of hearing it again. But I cannot stand the thought of feeling this weight for the rest of my life.

So what do I do?

Quick Write

Two eyes in a forest, open wide
Look them about a blood drenched sky
Two feet, two hands incarnadine
Two hearts, one dead, one yet alive

'Mimara' she calls
'Mimara' I listen

Who am I, what am I, why do I bleed
where am I, why am I, what do I need
I stand with feet, bare save for the slick
I breathe between lips, dry save for the sick

I follow the voice that roused me from sleep
Each step as silent as the crush of the leaves
This shift, now cold, is still wet; it sticks
These legs, still weak, still move; in shifts

'Mimara' the name holds no meaning for me
'Mimara' what could an echo possibly mean

Two eyes in the forest, open white
Stare them about my blood drenched guise
Faded stone, faded robes, an outstretched hand
An hourglass missing, a trace of red sand

'Mimara' not her, so it must be me
'Mimara' through her eyes, I finally see

Quick Write

O bird
I brought you forth, but can’t find your wings
You speak words or sing songs, I can’t tell which
Can you sing words? Can you speak a song?
Can I break from my bonds and fly?
Not I
Not you
We are creatures resigned to futures we can’t see
We are sculptures, you and I, we can’t breathe
Hearts of stone, or oak, or something hard, dense
From a broken tower I watch the world die
Abandon pretence, swallow flames, become dirt
Weep with abandon and realize that you were part of the world
Part of what I let fall
How could you fly, when I took your wings?
So when the world fell, so did you
So when the world burned, where could you go?
Not up
Not out
What of me now? With nothing left
The loneliest man on the tallest tower
The man of many faults
The man of many hearts
I know I speak words, but they don’t sound like a song
I know I try, but the words seem wrong
The tune seems flat
More chanting, and barely that
To a tower, resigned
O bird
O bird
O bird

Friday 5

Last Song on Earth

1. If the world was ending and you could listen to one song, what would it be?

Each Coming Night, by Iron and Wine

2. How did you first come across that song?

When listening to the Iron and Wine album on which that song resides. I listened to this song over and over the one night, feeling terribly sad and crying the whole time. It was a rough time, I was trying to take myself off anti-depressants that were making me sick, and not having a great time. That night was inexplicably worse, I just listened to that song on repeat laying in my bed in my room at my sister's house, feeling terrible. After several hours I finally managed to sleep, the next morning I found out that that night, my grandfather had died. I wasn't especially close to him, but I have a profound respect for him, and a deep regret that I wasn't closer to him (all my grandparents, really...all my family, really...).

3. If it reminds you of a person, is that person still with you?

See above.

4. Does anyone else know what that song means to you?

I suppose they would now, after reading this post.

5. Where would you listen to it, and with whom?

If I have complete control over the circumstances, It would have to be with my wife and our kitten, in the car, parked on a cliff overlooking the end of the world, be it with a bang, a whimper, or with nothing at all.

Sparkbroker

What spark, in the dark
In disingenuous embers glows the face of a lost lover
Trickle in the feelings, feel the tickle of tears down your cheeks
It reeks of emotion,
And emptiness
Hollow the trunks of dead trees and empty the gust of dead breezes
Make real your imaginary friends
Make an army to fight the real demons
What shark, the dark body of water that last lets loose the dead dream
Eight days underground and the rhythm has you writhing
Light lights, the fire in your eyes
The trumpet tempers the flame in your ears
Too many fears are forgotten
Failed for nothing more than waking up the truth
What dark, if there is a spark?
But what spark?
Who spake?
The voice lost, not found in the failing fire of your final flight
What light?
Whose lantern burns deep in the dungeons and the damp, dying doom?
What room?
No doors to dream the passage breaks conscience, incites passion
Leaks lies
Eats dull razors with crooked teeth
Lights let liars see the lines in your eyes
The darkness harbours friends
The comfort of the unknown
So what light?
Fight!
Bring back the black!
The night will fall
And bring them all
Down
Down
Down
To me.

Armour

Return! Return! The voices chant, and I respond. I have had a rather busy time lately. There's just so much happening, I don't even know where to start! I suppose if I posted more frequently, as things happened, then I wouldn't have this problem. It makes posts more daunting to make, but that much more rewarding.
So we went to Niagara falls, had a good time, came home earlier than expected because my Uncle Dave died, and it was snowing in Niagara Falls, both of which significantly reduce the enjoyment factor. We came home on a Monday to find we'd been locked out of the building! It was such an exciting thing to find out that our landlord is so childish that he has to resort to breaking the law because we won't kowtow to his will. In truth it was not exciting, it was rather infuriating, and made Monday and Tuesday incredibly stressful. I can't wait until we no longer have to rent, and we can own our own house and not have to deal with landlords anymore. For now we have at least another year of renting, though, so we must make the most out of it.
The good that came out of the situation though, was that the stress of this situation finally made Mal realize why we need to move. Because it's not like this is the first thing we've had to deal with, and this place costs too much money to cause this much stress. Also, it made her realize that we don't need a fancy condo to be happy. We applied to lease the house on Carissa, which is nice because it's about 35% cheaper, much bigger, has an attached garage and a yard with a deck, so we can finally use our awesome barbecue. We should hear a yes or no this week from Don, and then we can get in gear and get moved! How truly thrilling!
I feel as though the writing quality of this post is very staggered and unnatural, and I keep getting distracted. I am going to try and get some writing done later today, and I will try and get it posted.

Thanks for listening.