Sunday, January 15, 2017

Rachel's Room: A Scene

Here's Rachel's latest entry. Her turn on some good characterization & dialogue. I asked her what it was from--a short, a school assignment, or what, and she just shrugged. "Something I wrote," she said. She is, after all, a writer....


 Jane couldn't believe what she was hearing. Elias was lecturing her about his disappointment in her, going on about how he couldn't understand why she was still like this, a sly criminal. But for years Elias would say, “ You are a terrible person. What is wrong with you?” Every time Jane attempted to change, the response was always, “ You'll never change. You just can't.” He was partially right about that, however. Jane sighed. How could he complain about how she was when he never helped me? He never suggested that she could be a better person. Only a worse one.
    “Enough!” she screamed. Elias stood there in place, not at all shook by the sudden outbreak and anger.
    “What?” he said calmly. Elias had an expression that showed that he was angry, despite his sweet tone. Jane shook her head at him and took a deep breath.
     “ You're my brother by relation, but you're not my brother by heart. You never were.”
     “Ouch,” Elias joked. Jane flared with madness and pushed him against the bland walls.
     “This is no joke, you may take it like one, but I don't.  I'm willing to do anything, you know. You best watch yourself.” She pushed Elias harder and then let go. He gasped to catch his breath and smiled.
      “If you do anything to me, that'll just prove me right. You're a criminal that doesn't deserve anything you have.”
     “I have nothing to say to you Elias,” she stated. She knew that he was in fact right. If she did do anything to him, that would be giving into what he said about her.  Jane bit her lip.  She looked at her brother and studied him for a second. Elias shared a passing resemblance to her. They both had the same piercing blue eyes, and the same caramel colored hair. It bother Jane that they looked so similar.
     “Then leave, Jane,” he told her. Jane blinked. His three words had actually ended up hurting her. She hadn't expected him to say that. She shrugged it off, knowing that those hurt feelings weren't gone.
     “Ok.” Jane nodded at him as she walked out the door. She turned the corner and headed outside. She kept on walking, she didn’t know where she was going, but it didn't matter. Jane recalled everything they had said today, and let it sink in. As she sat on a dirty bench, she started breaking down. The tears began to flood, but Jane tried with all of her willpower to hold them in.
    “Are you ok?” a woman asked her.
    “No, I'm not,” Jane fiercely answered. “I never will be.”

Monday, December 19, 2016

At the End of the Tunnel, Light: Update on Work in Progress

Pleased to report my literary-suspense manuscript, Cucariva, is nearing the end of first draft. I'm pretty excited about it but like any first draft I know it may be improved: I have a few terrific beta-readers lined up but if you are interested, please let me know. Here's an excerpt:

With dark comes cold and he shivers but does not rouse from his slumber against the stone, grown cold against his back. Rather sees himself from on high, some celestial remove, telescoping eye of a voyeuristic moon. Lunar eyebrow raised at this strange hominid figure drawn up in chilled repose against this marker of the dead. He feels in his sleep for what covering there might be, but his hands find only a ghost-white latticework of cobwebs, garish, of the sort sold to Halloween revelers. He sheaths himself no matter, cocooning for the viscid warmth. Mummified creature, All Hallows Eve has passed, save here, where lives only death and spirits abide no aegis but the explication of their demise.
And now such spirits as here dwell amble forth from out the shadows, coin of the realm for all days to come. Approach this prostrate, swaddled figure, raise him up, these non-corporeals, by force of will reserved for the indignant dead. The earth beneath him tremulous, shifting, falling away, dark waters rising in its wake. He is trussed up in his cobweb suit, Sunday best, and is it Sunday or who rightly knows, in this madness which time forgot? Limbs splayed, flush against this sacred stone, come before this patronage of peers who row into the onyx waters of this world fallen away. Strange and spectral oarsmen sallied forth for this the hour of midnight judgment. Through gauzy lens he watches a giant, moonlit hare lope uncertainly across the firmament. Put down your bow, Orion, I'm only grazing here. 



Friday, December 16, 2016

A Lighthouse Stands

He wasn’t lost, floundering like a ship at sea. If anything, he was a lighthouse, for despite being broken in spots, despite the dying embers of his soul, he stood.

A  lighthouse is often romanticized, but this is misleading, quixotic at best. For of all the shores upon all the seas, what truly are the odds that she he stands for shall sail past?

And even should those embers stir, what chance such fragile light—paling though it would before her own—would even, would ever, catch her eye?

Still,  a lighthouse stands. Inured to odds or the folly of its vigilance. No more able to stand down or deconstruct itself than a man can alter the beating of his own heart. Whether her sanctuary in the storm, or whether she is the storm, it stands. And should the storms and the elements and the ravages of time whither away its integrity until it crumbles to the ground, it will not be lost to the wind but shall in fact remain, no matter how broken. On  that most remote of chances that she will one day happen by, in need of safe harbor. Even then, especially then, it will stand for her, piece by piece if necessary.

A lighthouse stands. 









Sunday, December 11, 2016

Coin of the Realm

Love, in the end, is a one-way fare, no matter whether embarked upon in union, or solitude.

It is perhaps the greatest irony--or perhaps none at all--that love unrequited exacts the greatest recompense, apportioned in the currency of every heartbeat, every breath and every step yet come.




Saturday, November 5, 2016

Sanctuary

My love for you may stand before judgment, but indeed it does stand.

A river through mountains; a course set; a road forged.

My road.

One fallen long since dark, but that I am forsaken entitles me no grievance whatsoever, as from the moment I loved you I understood to my bones what I was chancing—which was, beyond all question, everything. A dark and empty road, twin chasm to that lingering space inside me. Where once resided that heart long given over, now barren save for tides of sorrow which ebb and flow beneath the aegis of each moon, each day, every day, each breath, every breath, for do I not love you as I breathe?

Still, I cannot curse the fates for this affliction. For how could I not give my heart to one who had so rescued and rekindled it, illuminated and awakened it, discovered and touched within it depths I never knew existed. And so you see, this story is not so much mine as yours, for even the darkness engulfing me is conspicuous for that light it is lacking. Your light.

And oh how you shine.

Not just that light in the darkness, but so too imbuing the light and love of the world, emboldening it, that it might proliferate and endure. The world falls in love with you, and I no different, and if I must suffer the slings and arrows of having permitted it then so be it, though I know not how I might have stayed it. I know not how I might stay it now. My love, my light, my heart given over wholly and beyond all reclaiming. My road, for which I’d not even been searching, set out irrevocably before me. That I have lost the love of my life at least bears witness to the salvation of having found her.

For you I have written more words, countless really, each betraying a faltering soul, than you shall ever know. Every. Single. Day. My heart’s articulation, breathed out silent and unrequited into the fathomless void. So easily did our hands used to find the other, when we walked together, and I cared not what road I traveled so long as I did so with you. And now those ropes of steel you once said bound us have been dropped but if I retain one ambition it is to remind you I have not and shall never, stood down from my post, and should you ever pass this way again you need only reach out your hand to find mine outstretched for it, for you, arms open, as ever they have been, as ever shall they be.

My road is my road is my road but for you, should the day ever come, your sanctuary. A light left on. Your safe harbor, where ‘till the end of my days may you find acceptance, support and love unconditional. Where you may find a friend. For as long as you need, or even for a moment, for you must know I reach to you only in love, not requirement. You need only reach back through the darkness to find me, for never, truly, have I left. I pray your days be filled with light but here may you find a light in the darkness, should it ever befall you, and even as mine pales against the radiance of your own.

Until then, and even should the day never come, I’ll be here, thinking of you, missing you, loving you and wishing with everything I have left for your happiness and fulfillment. Smiling even here in the darkness at your light. It burns so brightly within you, lights the way for so many. It is your burden and your gift, the world is brighter for it, and may it serve you well along your way.

Shine on, sweet girl.





               



Tuesday, November 1, 2016

What's in a Word(or 500)?

Honored my microfiction tale got 2nd place for this esteemed site. 500 word limit, post-apocalyptic theme. Also if you click on Featured Authors there's a piece on me. Hope you enjoy, and as always thanks for your support!

PS would love your thoughts on micro/flash fiction. Enjoy writing it? Reading it?

https://amidtheimaginary.wordpress.com/2016/11/01/2016-micro-fiction-contest-2nd-place-winner/

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

A Writer's Soul

Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”
—Virginia Woolf

I tend with each passing day to believe this.

All those facets to storytelling—to writing—plot, characterization, description, theme….all but variations on the explication of one’s heart and soul. No matter the form—novel, short story, poem—even the musings of a blog like this—all at its essence some manner of veracity Even in a work of fiction—maybe especially then.

My words my truth, do you remember the first day I opened these pages of my soul to your searching eyes? Those eyes and this story so brimming with possibility and hope. I want you to know, dear reader, that those words I professed then--those truths--remain  true to this day--like any story even if it be forsaken, its pages unopened and collecting dust, do not its words once written, endure?

One year in high school, submissions were solicited for a time capsule, summative and representative words which would in 50 maybe 'twas 100 years' time be opened to reveal to whosever eyes clues about what things were like at our school all those decades previous. Mine was chosen. Things doubtless changed there in all that time, people I knew doubtless changed but my words so preserved, resolute and fixed. 

So too here my clues to you, dear reader, and yes I do mean you. If you shall read this no matter just when, know I am  speaking unequivocally to you. Those words  set down as a promise those years ago. Once written, inviolate, for the deepest truths adhere no revision but only ingrain more indelibly upon the page. Those words my story, my story my truth, and for you, for those eyes to fall once more upon them, do they await, dear reader, and only for you, no matter the years and occurrences between. Open the pages, love, dust them off, should ever you sojourn this way again. You shall find in them no hint of recrimination for your absence, they shall open willingly and lovingly to your touch. A story resuming, for its words, its truth, its promise, has known no end~