Lilypads

Of all the greatness writ by men,
And of the way and sway of pen.
Of all the parchment left to dust,
And of all the musty left to must,
A tale was wrought by one so bold
To speak of one forever old.

By firelight in homely hearth,
Wrapped in a shawl was aged Garth.
A sailor who fell in love with land,
When the mighty ocean claimed his hand.

He stared into the dancing flame
And recalled with ever gripping shame,
How as a captain he was bent,
And for it to an island sent.

As he watched his ship set stern and sail
Through curses thrown like bitter hail,
Marooned Garth laid his soul to bare,
And vowed to die with one last prayer.

“I give my land and all my gold,
Give all my heart and wealth untold,
To him that ever is so bold,
To deliver me from lonesome cold.

“And to those that came and took my best,
With unclean hearts locked in their chest,
May something rise in the horrid deep,
To claim your children and your sleep.”

No sooner had the words been spoke,
When the calmly rolling ocean broke.
A beast almost twelve galleons high,
With mug in hand reached to the sky.

From the sun flowed forth a jet of gold,
To fill his glass with spirits bold.
With a hundred-hundred mouths he drank,
And tossed the stein ‘pon distant bank.

Its saucer eyes were polished night,
And to every man who saw his sight,
Let loose their bowels in epic shite.
And pleaded for their gruesome plight.

As waves lashed high against the shore,
Garth stood alone and begged for more.
“Let loose it all, I’ve prayed thee well,
They wanted Heaven, give them Hell!”

Bartime Blues

"I’ve never been much of a social person," I told the bartender and his greasy brown hair fell from behind his ear as he nodded his false understanding. We’d been talking for twenty minutes, just long enough for me to feel like I’d spilled my most intimate secrets to a total stranger and for Cherry Pie to play three times on the juke box. I groaned at the infant brained women with too many quarters in their pockets as they stuffed more silver circles into the metal slot and squealed with delight as Warrant had another go.

“You’d know a lot about circles and slots, eh ladies?” I said, more loudly than I probably should have but only the aged man next to me caught the joke.

He looked like the rest of the men and women at the bar: used up. The regulars of Donny’s always had the same lines drawn on their faces, the same shadow that clung to their brow from a lifetime of grimacing at thier wives or just the world in general. The man who laughed looked like he had fallen ass first into a bottle of gin and smelled as though he drank it to the dregs. He jauntily clasped me on the shoulder, ruffling the suit he no doubt wore to work that day and said something to the effect of “awful cunts”, grinning at me with too white teeth. I didn't catch it all and didn't care to ask for a repeat, I just laughed because he laughed and turned back to the bar where two dollars in quarters were waiting for me.

There was a college boy ordering a pitcher for his friends at the booth in the corner and I tapped him on the shoulder. I leaned in close to try and be heard over the music and tried to seem as platonic as possible. The last thing I wanted was another conversation with a stranger.

"Do you mind putting something else on the juke?" I asked him and he said he'd do it gladly. I don't remember being that nice at his age.

At Donny's the juke box was also a game of sorts. If you paid a quarter you got to choose two songs to play from their considerable list, but if you paid a dollar you had the chance to override the song that was currently playing and supplement your own. I left it to the kid's discretion for what he played so long as it came from the last five years and had nothing to do with pie. He said he'd try and took my money to the box.

What ensued, I promise you, was not what I had envisioned.

Guess Which Line I'm Most Ashamed Of

I think we need to have another meeting of writers. Not really to discuss anything that we are working on together but to share the stories we are writing on our own. Sort of a reading session where we can talk about our own work and eachother's at the same time. It could be a weekly sort of thing to help improve everyone's writing habits and skills. No better thing to motivate someone than to make them accountable for their shit eh? Let me know what you guys think.

As for why the title is such I suppose it is because I started writing this flash fiction post like an hour ago without titling it first as I usually do. After reading the thing over I realized that not only is it a romance story, it is also borderline pornographic in some of its descriptions. I felt like apologizing to Jesus after I wrote it so I just saved it to a word doc and saved it for a rainy day. Maybe I can tone down some things and play up others enough to turn it from romance into interesting. We'll see.

I'll have a story posted tomorrow for you guys to read. I might even post it tonight when I get off of work. Things have been so slow at the track that I end up writing there as well which is nice to some degree and the suck in others.

Also, as a P.P.S I will be at Cthulu Cthursday but I won't be able to partake in any of the usual festivities. I've got to drive to NC the day after and I'm usually a wreck on Fridays.

Lines Are Down

No word about Ben, we assume the best.


I've picked up playing wow again just because Season 4 of the arena is dropping. This doesn't mean I've stopped playing EVE, but it does mean that I'm retarded.

I'm actually going to reserve teh rest of this space until later tonight when I've had about 9 gin and tonics in me. Until then.

Lucky Charms And Such

I woke this morning to two hours of sleep and a strong desire for water. Aside from that, Cthulu was well honored and another solid week comes to a close.

I apologize for not writing a poem to commemorate the occasion of "Thursday" but I have to admit that I just wasn't feeling up to it. It may have been the gin or, more likely, the general malaise that has been slowly gripping me recently. I've been writing outlines of shit instead of writing it, and that may become a problem.

As it is the end of the week I suppose I should tie up some loose ends. Instead I sit amongst the strings and wonder just one thing: What the fuck happened to Ben last night?

The Parlance Of Our Times

I finally made it back to Fort Wayne for an extended period of time, and just at the ready for another Thursday to be upon us. How lucky.

I've been doing a lot of writing recently in the hopes of improving enough to make a living off of this shit. I'm more than fairly confident in my ability to suck at this sport, but I practice anyway. Not to mention that the Ball State career center had some interesting books on careers that involve a creative writing major. I will give you a taste of what it said when I looked at novelist.

NOVELIST: Higher than Author and Freelancer.
Salary: $0 to Millions of Dollars.

TIP FOR BREAKING IN TO THE FIELD: Write a manuscript that everyone raves about and sell it to the publisher.

I don't know why I didn't think about this sort of thing sooner. I mean, most of my business plans for becoming a full time writer looked something like: Write+Edit+Pray+Hope+HOLYFUCKINGSELLTOPUBLISHER+FAIL+FAIL+FAIL+FAIL+FAIL= Profit. Their take on the situation, however, made me feel thousands of times better: Write=Profit. I'm going to have to spend more time their to boost my ego some.

In other news Aaron has once again given glance to his project, something you can find in the links to the right. Leave him a comment or five so that he keeps writing on a regular basis. The new post is a bit on the lengthy side but he has been witholding it for some time so it makes sense.

Keep lively, brothers. Tomorrow approaches and with it, if you are good to your hearts, another shitty poem about a tentacled monster may follow.

Frontiering The Shit Out Of You

So I've picked up a new game recently called EVE Online and while it isn't technically new at three years old, it is new to me. At this juncture I'm finding it to be one of the most satisfying MMO's I've played in a long time because of what it allows me to do, namely piracy. Unlike wow all of your skills are learned in real time which means that before you go to bed or to lunch or to work or to whatever it is you go to you can start training a skill, log out and then come back (depending on the time required to learn the skill) with an upgraded or new ability. So much better than grinding hours and hours on worthless mobs and it allows me to get on, start training something and then log and do something else with my life.

AS far as the piracy thing goes what really sold me was the ability to engage in fleet wars and, the best part, ultimatums. One of the pirate strategies that I found online suggested that I create a long range fighter, use it to attack expensive but weaker vessels until their health is down to 10% and then open a communication channel with that player. So long as they accept I can demand that they pay me 50% of their ship and cargo's value lest I unload my twin missile pods and my twin rail cannons on their crippled vessel. Oh, and I can also board them. Fucking cool.

Aside from these things my other great joy is that the game is centered around money instead of experience. If you have the money to buy an "end game" vessel then you can do so regardless of experience points. You only need a few required skills that take a couple days to learn in order to secure one of the big rigs and (I'm almost 100% on this) you could have a ship completely trained in a month or two. Much shorter grind I think.

I'll leave this here then. I've got to get back to preping my Merlin class frigate for bounty hunting.

Cthulu Comes

Each week it comes to good boys and girls,
who are locked away safe in their bedclothes and curls.

From the deepest of parts of the blackened abyss
To fill cups full of beer and pots full of piss.

With one sallow eye it peeks from the murk, and
harkens to all with its heartrending smirk.

"Come to the dance," it says, "And pray tell what I say,
Today is the day where I have my way.
Let the beer flow like wine and the liquor stay sweet,
let the women dance and the men find their seat,
and to all let them come and witness my feat,
For Cthulu Cthursday, My Thursday!, we meet.

Coffee Is The Price Of Greatness

Steven idly licked the tip of his pen and set it on the page. Although he wasn't necessarily certain why he'd licked it, the oily metal taste that lingered on his tongue invigorated him to begin his life's work. The door to his room was closed, the window open and his music was on playing an old Sinatra number that he couldn't remember the name of. A warm spring breeze brought in the morning moisture to settle on his curtains and comforter. He wrote:

Lighthouse
Chapter One:

Merciless

Jenny is an ungrateful slut who enjoys the pleasures of other men. I abhor the fact that she exists, and I will see to it that she no longer ever does.

Steven sipped from a black coffee mug with

World Writers Association

stamped in gold letters on the rim and gave a satisfied sigh.

"I think that is enough for today," He said, dropping his pen onto the notepad with a plop, "greatness cannot be forced."

Rantings

James tucked the revolver back into his pocket and smiled, "You're more lucky than you think, Vince. Luckier than your brother was anyway."

"You were always a cunt James, I just never had the chance to tell you properly," Vincent said and leaned against the brick pharmacy wall.

"Maybe you should have used more bullets to articulate your point," He replied, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

James looked up the street at the pouring rain and listened to it hiss as it hit the hot street lamp glass. The night was always a fascination for him, especially when the sky was trying to drown the ground below. No matter where he was in Sanatine he could always smell the ocean on the breeze.

"You always take so much for granted," He said and tossed Vincent a little package of dirty cloth wrapped in a bright blue ribbon. Vincent made no move to catch it, merely watching the circular object hit the wall next to his head and then roll around on the concrete at his feet. James laughed.

"Open that at your leisure, brother, and don't forget to call our father next week. It's his birthday," He said and made his way back up the street to disappear into the rain.
Vincent watched him the whole way before stooping to pick up the dirty gift wrapped item.
"I'll use the whole clip next time, brother," Vincent said and left in the opposite direction.

Get It On

I have been having a terrible time trying to stay focused on any one thing in particular. It seems like every time I start to write I'm either interrupted and have to try again later or just cannot find the words. I think I've started four projects and some two or three over again. I'm not happy about that and I'm starting to see a trend. You cannot sell what you did not write, mates, and I need to have something to sell.

I am not sure why I'm so sold on trying to publish as soon as possible. I suppose it is because I feel it might legitimize my abilities in a familial atmosphere that believes if the degree doesn't get you a nine to five you are doing it wrong. I get embarrassed every time there is some sort of holiday get together and I have to sit with my engineer or teacher or business owning cousins who all work for steady pay and are showing some sort of promising future. The conversation always seems to turn to me and why I probably am wasting my life with words. I think that is enough of the cock loving emo bullshit for one day.