Swaziland

My deep blue secret keeper,

mermaid tear collector,

constellation reflector

and rare red sea glass gifter,

My empty promise holder,

shell breaker,

jewelry guzzler

and sandcastle crusher

My hope riser,

boat bearer,

sunset magnifier

and late night walk backdrop

Roll on,

Roll on,

Roll on.

I see better with my eyes closed, do you?

Close your eyes,
What do you see?

The whispered lies
Of ghost stories
Passed through malicious lips?

The imprint of the sun
Left to linger
Just out of reach?

Do the backs of
Your eyelids act
As gilded frames
For the art of long ago
Or do films play
In your own private cinema?

Darling, do tell me,
What do you see?

Do you see the dreams
Half forgotten
By daylight?

Ideas just born,
Waiting to be
Breathed into life?

Do tell me, love,
What do you see?

Does the dark
Rush to greet you,
Shake you hand,
With a smile
That holds back nothing,
Because it holds nothing

When you close your eyes,
Do you see?

Observatory

Today I went out to dinner with my grandmother. Soon after we sit, a jovial and talkative couple sits at the table next to us. They are very close and so I could hear every word they were saying to one another. About half-way through their conversation, I decided to make a few recorded observations in my cell phone. Based on the way they spoke and subject matter, this is what I concluded:

"The couple sitting next to us is married, with children. Their children are approximately late elementary school age. The man works for a finance company. He is optimistic, morally intelligent, and confident in his decisions. He likes to have plans. The woman is quiet, agreeble, but outgoing. She is more of a socially experienced being; the children, friends, camp and vacations. The couple is obviously middle class, similar dress to the uniform of slightly upper class style. They are both in their late 40s."

After our dinner, I interrupted the couple. I introduced myself; asked them to review my observations and report back on how many I had gotten correct. Their reaction after reading?

"Dead on."

Why? Because as it turns out, I was 95% accurate. My only miss was that the man's job is actually as a CFO for a jewelry company. However, that position does in fact require plenty of financial knowledge. I realize that my story has absolutely nothing to do with writing...

Or does it? I found that through a few sentences, I could accurately portray the characters of two complete strangers. It takes very little to figure exactly what kind of person someone is. I suppose my point is that things like this should be taken into consideration during character and story development. Look at the people walking by you on the street. Who are they? What are their lives like? If you had to write a book about it, could you?

In the creation of your own characters, not much is needed to tell others who they are. The way they speak, body language, and personal looks are all any human needs to judge another. It's also all you need to birth a great character that can clearly be loved or hated by your audience.

Something that is so magnificent, impressive, and marvelous that you will be inspired

I have not written anything this whole entire summer and I thoroughly understand that I am a horrible person and will most likely die, or a more negative consequence, face ignominious defeat in the near future. I also thoroughly understand and accept that the circumstances of either event will most likely have been avoided if I had just exercised my brain at least a small fraction of each day this past month. However, what I have just stumbled upon while navigating the Google will not only make up for this, but will most likely inspire me to do something or write something close to or equally as magnificent, impressive and marvelous as it.

First tidbit of information I found on Wiki: September 2004, French

police discovered an underground movie theater run by La Mexicaine De Perforation. The makeshift theatre contained a movie screen, a well stocked bar, and a kitchen. Telephones and electricity were brought in from an unknown location. Movie titles ranging from 1950s classics to modern thrillers were also discovered. When the police returned for a formal investigation, all the equipment had disappeared—all that was left was a note on the floor reading, "Ne cherchez pas" ("Do not search")

know what you are thinking. Who are this brilliant and awesome people? What other awesome things do they do in their spare time? What are their motives? Here is an article that goes into further detail about the movie theater event: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/08/filmnews.france

Here is another article containing more information on the theater they built as well as explaining their reasoning:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/11/film.france

Another article, in which more motives are explained and another awesome mission described: http://thesecondpass.com/?p=1376

I am intrigued and impressed by and obsessed with La Mexicaine de la Preforation. There are so many adjectives, descriptions, and ninja and star wars analogies that are running around my brain right now that I can't concentrate. Such awesome tasks taking place current day in our world probably as you read this needed to be known. I needed to share this with people. I needed to blog something this summer. It all works out.

Post Blog- if you find anythingelse awesome that has to do with La Mexicaine de la Preforation,

let me know. Por favor.

Flame (Part 1)

Tied up to the over-used charred post, flames impatiently licking a my feet, I looked amongst the spectators.

The flames grabbed my ankles. I decided I would not scream- they were not going to get the satisfaction. They crawled up my body, no longer able to resist their hunger. The spectators all stood watching, same grins and laughter, relishing every second of show.

A week ago, I stood with crowd, one of my own hanging from the very same post. As the flames slowly crawled up her body, I turned my head. I could still hear the ear-splitting screams, smell the horrid scent of burning. The others were all laughing, smiling, enjoying the gruesome show.

A girl swallowed in the crowd met my eyes. I silently willed her not to show any emotion, show no weakness.

A single tear escaped tear streaked her face, marking her. A matching one of knowing she was next ran down my face, only to be swallowed by the flames.

A Short Comic About The Alien Who Lives In My Electrical Box

Part One:

How I Met Phil

For those of you reading this and wondering what the hell is wrong with me you should know that I came up with this because my sister and I were looking at the green light coming out of the electrical box one day and I said it was an alien, I am now convinced that there is an alien outside my window.

I tried something new this time. I think in the future I might turn this into the preface of a short story, but for now it is just a poem I guess..




“Oh wow, look at you! You’ve gotten so big!”
“All grown up, you aren’t a little girl anymore!”
“My, you’ve grown so much! I barely recognize you!”
The words waft from crooked-tooth smiles, along with the stench of over fried eggs and chocolate cake.

I used to be the little girl they talk about. That would sit on daddy’s lap, and would fit in mommy’s embrace.

But I’m no longer the gawky girl of skin and bones. The years have fattened me up, the sneaked cookies have stopped their journey right at my thighs. And I carry a heavy heart.

I carry the weight of school, love, ad the drama of the teenage years, along with every single calorie to enter my mouth.

No more pirouetting down the halls on matchstick limbs, log-like legs cannot lift me. No more counting ribs, now just skin and layers of yellow, slimy, ugly, fat.

Because that’s all I am. The little girl who has grown, and gotten so terribly big, she is beyond recognition.

Little drops of spit launch from his putrid mouth
That nears the tired girl’s face
To him she is no one
A reject, an outcast, a mistake
His eyes are raging red and bulging
A fuming bull ready to charge
And puncture his prey with his horns
Straight through her bony chest
Her eyes search his face
Looking for a trace of the man she once knew
And the all too familiar face of the Devil himself
Takes shape
Although her arms wrap around her body,
The only embrace she has felt in years,
Her soul is left unprotected
It is marred with crisscross battlescars
That match the ones on her sickly wrists
And her fragile ears are intruded by harsh words
Arrows dunked in poison and aimed with perfect precision
He knows exactly what to say
The demon turns and stalks out of the room
But she is left, still burning in Hell

The World A Canvas

I walk gracefully
Along the smooth sand,
Bare feet on lifeless specks,
Each grain overlooked
Until they all blend together.
My light footprints
Stretch behind me.
Awave breaks,
Spraying spite into my eyes
As it thunders to shore.
White foam gently glides
Across the canvas.
After its achingly slow retreat,
My footprints are gone.

I've kinda been in the mood for the beach, since it's summer and all. And I really really really miss the beach.

A One Way Street

I am the tree that bears the fruit.

I am the strings that suspend the clouds.

I am the light that resurrects dirt.

I am the twinkle that speckles night sky.

I am the beauty,

I am the song,

still you refuse

to sing along.

I am the bolt that strikes the dark.

I am the strength that shakes the earth.

I am the chill that steals your shiver.

I am the drought that awakens your thirst.

I am the horror,

I am the tear,

still you refuse

to shutter in fear.

I am the wind that sweeps Falls leafs.

I am the bird that leaves for winter.

I am the force that turns the tides.

I am the warmth that welcomes you home.

I am the father,

the stitcher of souls,

still I will lose you

when it's your time to go.