tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44553778702570161442024-03-12T18:20:31.612-07:00Bruh StudiosThat's 'Brew' to you.Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-426015482712276282016-02-10T17:57:00.001-08:002016-02-10T17:57:52.944-08:00The BeginningIt's been far too long since I've visited this space. I haven't been doing much (any) writing since my last post, and it took signing back up for another round of creative writing class to get anything going. What follows is a combination of assignment completion/throat clearing (getting stuff out of the way so I can tell the actual story). It was fun to get something down on the 'page' even if it took a struggle to get it there, but enough of that. Here it is, the throat clearing called "The Beginning" (original huh):<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I prayed it would rain.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The sun bearing down on my exposed neck was meager recompense for the hefty burden I was about to deliver. My armor, a showy regalia meant to declare my station, only helped to bake me within its confines, yet its heat paled in comparison to the scorching flames of a father’s glare. Were it not for the decade of life spent staring down hell’s gates on the battlefield I may have withered on the spot, but withering here felt unworthy. Standing before a humble dwelling in a dusty plain with hardly another house in sight, I eyed the man occupying the house’s doorway, “Sir, I ask again, is this the home of Luetin Vaner.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“And I will tell you again, <i>sir</i>, that is none of your concern. I don’t recall asking any soldiers for aid and I won’t be inviting any into my home no matter the rank,” my opposite rejoined, folding his sinewed arms while his eyes swept over our group.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The man, a rugged trunk of a man, planted himself in the doorway of his home as effectively as a palisade. He could have easily been mistaken for the door itself for as unmoving as he remained after our exchange. My men, the few I brought on the journey, shifted uncomfortably nearby, some clearly on edge. They’re fighters after all. Diplomacy was for those who sat for their pay, yet I was not eager to escalate to violence against a single, undeserving man.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">A man of the cloth had been among those to travel with us and this moment seemed more suited to a man of words over action. “Priest,” I barked, more gruffly than intended, watching the doughy man flinch as I turned in his direction, “it would seem your honeyed tongue is required to ease the situation.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“There is nothing to ease other than your way on back to where you came from,” the man in the door spat, “we have no need of a priest unless he’s here for your last rites.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Honed metal rang out as a few of the soldiers responded to the threat with drawn blades. “Stand down men,” I tried to assuage my men but saw their eyes bearing down on their insulter, “the first man to draw needless blood will find himself scourged within an inch of his life.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">My threat carried the weight required and the men returned their swords to their scabbards. “I don’t know why you seek to provoke us-”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“I am not the one bearing arms at a man’s door.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“To which you are correct, but we would not make this journey unarmed. These weapons are not bore against your house. We wish only for a word.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“The church and the state standing at my door as one seeking only words? You’ll have to forgive my unbelief,” the man scoffed, throwing his arms wide, “there is nothing here for you.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“B-but,” the priest finally stammered, fingers rolling the hem of his sleeves on his flowing robe as his mouth gasped like a dying fish.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">An exasperated snort leapt from my throat, <i>the cloth is useless!</i> The absurdity of it all was wearing down the last of my patience, and I set my attention squarely on the man blocking our progress. He, along with his taunting smirk, hadn’t moved from the doorway, arms still spread as if appealing to a higher power. Resigned to my duty, I drew in a steeling breath, it had come time for action. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Murmurs swept through our traveling group as I began my march toward the house, dust trailing in my wake. A sense of apprehension overtook the man’s haughty air, his eyes darting between my face and sword, his arms retreating in defense. The separation between narrowed to within an arm’s reach and the man burst into action, a muscled arm lunging for my head. It only took a backhand tap to deflect the errant blow, my feet moving without thought to prepare for the follow-up strike. Another lunging blow with the opposite arm came flailing soon after which I caught at the man’s wrist and twisted. The simple move threw the man forward to protect his joints and a kick to the back of his leg sent him to a knee. Standing behind my subdued opponent, I leaned down to speak, “I’m not going to bother asking for your name,” then to my men, “someone come and restrain this man, but make sure no harm comes to him.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">I relinquished my grip on the man to a pair of brave men and turned for the door, the man’s voice roaring out as I stepped inside, “Gracia! Run!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The lack of bustle once I closed the door to the man’s incessant yelling was unnerving; a quaint kitchen greeted me with ample sunlight, the scents of worn woods and pungent spices, and a growing weight on my shoulders. My gloved hand brushed over the tabletop as I strode past, it’s imperfections noticeable through leather. A door had let me into the house but now I faced a space divided by hanging curtains of various colors from a faded meadow. Brushing aside a fabric wall, I laid eyes upon a young woman, Gracia I assumed, and a babe suckling at her breast. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Her hickory eyes, wide with fright, were a piercing reminder of my own wife’s, my head turning away out of reflex. “I did not mean to catch you unaware in such a state,” I offered with an edge of nervousness in my voice that caught me by surprise, “but I need to have a word with you.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The rustling of fabric drew my attention back to the woman, a small blanket now draped over her shoulder, concealing her child. “Why are you here?” she ventured, her body slowly contorting to shield the child from view, “What do you want with me?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“Gracia,” i began, settling onto a stool while trying to gauge her reaction to the name, “the news I bring concerns your entire household, and it centers around your young one there.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“What?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The question hung in the air like smoke, and the more I took the sight of her in the more it stung my eyes. All I began to see was my wife with our firstborn, an image etched in my memory playing out before me anew. It would have been easier to march back outside and deliver the news to the screaming man than to his wife, her expectant gaze melting my voice into the pit of my stomach. “What does this have to do with my son?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">It took several deep breaths before I could meet her gaze fully, and, as I opened my mouth to speak, another voice called out, “He will have a great role to fulfill someday.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“Great role?” Gracia pondered aloud as she stared at the short-winded priest, sweat dripping from his chin.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“Yes,” the priest breathed, laying a hand on my shoulder, “the seers all speak of it.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“What does all this have to do with us now?” she inquired as her brow began to furrow.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“He needs to be prepared for his role,” I finally found my voice, “and that will take time.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“So what are you saying?” her response was more apprehensive and her expression softened.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Stepping forward and dropping to a knee, the priest looked into the fearful eyes of a mother, “Sweet dear, it means that, in time, you will give up your son for the greater good of all.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">The sound of her breath catching in her chest sucked the air from the room so quickly I felt my chest clench. On instinct, I moved to kneel next to the priest, removed a glove, laid a hand on Gracia’s knee, and did my best to sound comforting, “but that time isn’t now. We’ve come to prepare you for the time when we come to prepare him.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Tears streaking down her face were poison to my resolve and it took the priest shaking my shoulder to break me from the dreadful spell of her sorrow. Our trek from the house was swift and just as quickly forgotten, the sound of the restrained man’s shouting an unwelcome but necessary return to the business at hand. “Release him,” was my simple order to the pair holding him before addressing the rest of the traveling party, “we make for the capital as soon as we’re ready.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">My horse awaited, the beast of burden shifting slightly as I clambered into the saddle, grasping hold of the reigns. I raised my head and stared into the endless expanse above. My burden hadn’t been shed, only shared.</span></div>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-55205621198628609392015-05-09T10:22:00.000-07:002015-05-09T10:22:34.088-07:00Something on a Saturday<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Been a little quiet here, but,
honestly, I expected that. To 'remedy' that I offer you a mash-up of
two ideas that came to me this morning that looks and sounds rather
frankensteinian. Written mostly to purge the idea from my head as it
wouldn't leave me alone. Pay little mind to the title, I needed something to be a placeholder and that just spewed out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b>Die-I'll</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Whip and chain,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
my very soul</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
they flay</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Words in refrain,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
my heart of coal</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
they fillet</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Speakers strain,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
my being whole</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
they betray</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Tears like rain</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
down my cheeks roll</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
fall astray</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
This music domain,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
a vicious troll,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
will I remain?</div>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-6978004830316746712015-04-30T16:33:00.001-07:002015-04-30T16:33:42.557-07:00My Hands<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today was the final session of my
creative writing course, and, to cap what was a successful venture
that I'm finding it hard to walk away from, I'd like to post one last
piece I wrote for class. Originally, I was going to post a piece
that I notice I've posted before (not even double digit posts in and
I'm already wanting to repost stuff), but I'm going with my favorite
free write trigger response.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This piece was written as a stream of
consciousness, but I adapted it to a free-verse poem format when I
submitted it for our class anthology. Not sure if I feel it added
anything to piece or if I just wanted it to not look like a chunk of
text on a page. My guess is the latter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b>My Hands</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
My hands are rough,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
unless liberally
moisturized.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
My hands are
strong,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
unless I'm grasping
for my dreams.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
These things are
true,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
but will they
always be true.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Will these hands of
mine,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
which now scribble
on this page,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
always fail me?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
It's not fair to
characterize these hands,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
which build
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
and make
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
and do,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
as the parts of me
that leave me
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
dangling.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
If my hands could
have their say,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
they might grab my
heart with vice-like intensity.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
They would shake
and shake
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
my bewildered heart
until it beat,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
truly beat,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
with a desire, a
yearning.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
They would drop
that beating, passionate heart and march onward.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Onward and upward,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
until they laid
sight upon a motionless gray mass.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
There, they would
beat upon that gray matter like a war drum,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
announcing to the
brain and all its minions and lackeys that it is time to do.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Do the passions of
the heart
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
with a sharpness
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
and clarity
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
and focus
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
that hasn't yet
been achieved.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
These hands of mine
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
would like to move
mountains.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: auto;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm going to miss that class. </div>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-54574914191273896712015-04-26T15:40:00.000-07:002015-04-26T15:40:26.547-07:00Classwork: Tumult<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I feel like sharing, so here's a piece I did for the "Show, Don't Tell" portion of my creative writing class (which, sadly, wraps up this week). It's based on a prompt that I'll reveal at the end. No point ruining the surprise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Tumult </span></b><div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /> The dying light of the setting sun cast a familiar shade of crimson on the placid surface of a secluded lake. I crouch down to dip my hands into the cool water, releasing the weight I held in my hand in hopes it would sink to the bottom, forgotten. My eyes watch while colors swirl and dance as ripples radiate in all directions, distorting the lake's surface irrevocably. Cold seeps into my skin, like lead leeching through my pores, and I can feel the life draining from my hands. The encroaching numbness is pleasant, almost as cleansing as the source of the sensation. But the pleasure is short-lived as a needling irritation creeps over me, a frustrated sigh flaring my nostrils as I withdraw my hands from the lake. A quick flick of the wrist scatters droplets of water, the feeling slowly returning to my hands as I return my gaze to the world at large. </span><div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /> Trees border the lake on all sides, some blotched with the colors of the season, others sending out their lifeless limbs in random contortions. The colors seem unnatural in the moment, like someone had hurriedly slashed open a vein against several of the trees on one side, only to send splatters against the opposite canopy. Hidden between the wide swaths of scarlet foliage, leaves hued like flaxen hair quiver on a rising breeze. That zephyr, an unexpected intruder, stole into the space between the trees, ruffling the leaves and the surface of the lake alike. My fading reflection dances on the ripples, twisting and bending into the facade of some inhuman creature.<br /><br /> Done with the warped visage glaring accusations up at me from the water's edge, I rise to drink in a space growing more tumultuous. Wind, swelling in force, slashes through the trees; leaves quake as they vainly attempt to flee the assault. Waves begin to roll across the lake, churning up colors of an abyss void of the light of the sun. Spray from the lake whips about me on the wind, speckling my clothing with dots of moisture. I want to strip off my dirtied coverings and toss myself, once again, into the din. To drench myself in the colors not my own, to feel the world itself rage against my body. I refrain, willing to take in the tumult from afar this time as a grin turns my lips. In the sound of the gale I hear a voice rising up in me, my lips parting to loose words spoke in another time, at another place: “You have nowhere to run.”</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The prompt from this exercise was: Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just committed murder. Do no mention the murder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How'd I do?</span><br />
</div>
</div>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-60003590307243361942015-04-23T19:33:00.000-07:002015-04-23T19:33:18.875-07:00Surriddle Me ThisThought I'd drop my latest creative writing assignment, albeit nearly a week after I wrote it. The theme for this particular assignment was surrealism and I drew my inspiration from a combination of digging in the dirt and a painting entitled "Jet Stream" the teacher used as a free write prompt. Without further ado, I give you:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Chop and Caw</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Chop at the roots
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
watch the birds scatter</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
chop at the roots</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
feel blood splatter</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
say goodbye to those</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you hardly know</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
make them sorry</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to see you go</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
uproot the tree</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to set yourself free</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
rushing waters</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
swirling winds</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
shake leaves</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like a gentle breeze</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
sturdy limbs sinewed fiber</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
swats the cawing crow</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
seeking refuge within</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the tree's ear</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Be gone
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
nefarious crow</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Take thy deeds</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and roost elsewhere</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
not here</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
not in my air</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
not that I care</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
who you disturb</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
blue skies swallow
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
you crow in ashen grey</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
rain dead embers upon you</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
leave you to gasp and wheeze</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
trampled under root</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
under boot</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
under tree</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
under me</div>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-27029135081505656122015-04-19T06:21:00.001-07:002015-04-19T06:21:29.005-07:00Traveling<p dir="ltr">Bit of a whirlwind travel day yesterday.  Thought I'd pop in to drop two lines, of... something, that came to mind while in the air.  The first comes from the shapes I see occasionally on sunny days.  I've started calling them my personal Mushi, a name taken from the anime Mushi-shi.  </p>
<p dir="ltr">   Bits of translucent nothingness <br>
   descending like lazy snow</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's an option for an opening if I ever do a piece about those shapes I see in the sunlight.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The second came from staring at and crunching ice in a small plastic cup.  Also, part of me just wanted to their in a rhyme.</p>
<p dir="ltr">   As the gates have frozen shut,<br>
   Arteries rusted from years of being <br>
   unused and abused </p>
<p dir="ltr">Don't know where that will take me, eventually.</p>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-14557029412894302632015-04-14T07:44:00.001-07:002015-04-14T07:44:18.536-07:00A Tuesday Morning<p dir="ltr">Woke up this morning not was wanting to wake up.  Not that I didn't want to face the day, just not an hour and a half before my alarm.  Though that did spur a couple lines I might revisit later:</p>
<p dir="ltr">  My mind is like sleep<br>
  My body is like fire<br>
  Burning up the air around me</p>
<p dir="ltr">Breakfast came with another idea, one I wished I'd taken the time to explore:</p>
<p dir="ltr">   Ham n' eggs on a plate<br>
   Drum n' bass in the air</p>
<p dir="ltr">I had "Give Me More" by Grandtheft playing as I made eggs with ham, and my mind wandered back to a classmate's work on someone dancing for catharsis. Did a little moving with something resembling rhythm and felt a good energy, which birthed those above lines with as much jest as inspiration. </p>
<p dir="ltr">We'll see if anything comes of these, and if they do I'll let you know.</p>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-65613650864325927572015-04-10T12:40:00.001-07:002015-04-10T12:41:38.135-07:00Caffeinated Acronym<p dir="ltr">Not really much of anything other than a random thought that came to mind on the drive home as I sipped on an energy drink.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><b>C</b>ontrolled<br>
<b>A</b>ggression<br>
<b>F</b>reed<br>
<b>F</b>rom<br>
<b>E</b>very<br>
<b>I</b>nterfering<br>
<b>N</b>egative<br>
<b>E</b>ffort</p>
<p dir="ltr">At least, that's how I see it.</p>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-51767239386966764012015-04-09T06:52:00.001-07:002015-04-14T20:05:13.078-07:00Staples and String<p dir="ltr">Didn't want to leave too long a break between my 'hello' and the first 'real' post, but didn't have anything for here until this morning.  And by 'this morning' I mean my frantic attempt to get something written for class today.  </p>
<p dir="ltr">What follows is my haphazard attempt to fulfill the Instruction prompt for the assignment:</p>
<p dir="ltr"><b>Staples</b><b> </b><b>and</b><b> </b><b><u>String</u></b></p>
<p dir="ltr">Do you feel that?<br>
The tearing of your skin<br>
the breaking of your mind<br>
the rending of your heart?<br>
Move quick, we must head off disaster.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Find the staples and plunge them deep<br>
to places unseen,<br>
binding together things once severed,<br>
keeping ugly harmony.<br>
Feel the parts tug and pull against<br>
metal shackles within.<br>
We've now kept the heart together.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A mind broken with thoughts untethered<br>
could surely derail our plan,<br>
so gather up the string in all its lengths<br>
and tie thought end to end.<br>
Feel them flop and flail as you return them to jail <br>
and sew your mind closed.<br>
You've now subdued the mind.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The creep of the skin shall cease at once<br>
with string cinching at seams.<br>
Weave the thread from edge to edge<br>
to stitch a colorful web.<br>
Tie them off with a bow or two to make<br>
them seem brand new.<br>
Our surgery is now complete.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Take in the sight of you now refined<br>
prettied up with string and bow<br>
hiding the writhing deep below<br>
quietly biding its time.</p>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455377870257016144.post-26382629738284879032015-04-07T20:42:00.001-07:002015-04-07T20:42:44.139-07:00A Restart<p dir="ltr">While taking a creative writing course this semester, during my third attempt to become a college graduate, I've developed an itch to resurrect this dead space. My dead space. The reason for it is really threefold:</p>
<p dir="ltr">1. To force myself to write daily, no matter my mood, energy, or inspiration. This space will act as proof of the effort and as a personal 'deadline' to challenge myself.</p>
<p dir="ltr">2. To thicken my skin. I've tended to be too sensitive to critiques of my work, or simply too fearful of people reading it in general to even share. I want to change that, even if I have to fling myself to the wolves in a hidden corner of the Internet.</p>
<p dir="ltr">3. To expose my work to an audience. This sounds like a rephrasing of the last point, but it feels very different in intent to me. I've become so hyper-critical of my own writing that I feel I can no longer properly judge its quality. Fresh eyes, perspectives, and opinions are welcomed to help me shape and refine my writing voice.</p>
<p dir="ltr">This is a journey I hope I can endure, maybe even enjoy, for the long haul, and if you'll join me I'd be grateful. </p>
<p dir="ltr">-<u>Bruh</u></p>
Bruhhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15448970171298269652noreply@blogger.com0