The End

What a disappointing end to a disappointing blog.

Let's try this again sometime.

The King of Sand and Surf

Below the boardwalks stained with salt,

Below the windswept pier,

You'll find the King of Sand and Surf

A-grinning ear to ear.

There sits he in his arcade box,

The painted planks worn thin,

And with his crystal ball directs

The salt and spray and wind.

He smiles on the teeming shoals,

The King of Sand and Surf.

He smiles on the tide pool stones

And on the turtle's birth.

And how they celebrate their king,

And how they come to see,

How the crabs come shake his rusty locks,

How the heron bends on knee.

How sea stars pucker to his glass,

How sounds the otter's roar,

How fish gleam underneath his gaze

How gulls parade the shore!

And when one day his power fails,

The waves will sweep their king

Into the blue heart of his realm

To sleep where humpbacks sing.

There will he lie with seaweed vines

Where time won't dare to reach

Until once more his name is called

To reign over the beach.

Below the boardwalks stained with salt,

Below the windswept pier

Will rise the King of Sand and Surf

A-grinning ear to ear.

Secret Handshake

secret handshake

coming back from junkman's past a string of bars,

each wreathed in smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.

a wry refrain goes buzzing through my brain,

a trip of the tongue, the line is given,

"Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!"

and yeah, big smiles, guys, i'm king

for all of nine seconds, till the next thing

hits and we go scrambling over cinder blocks.

i cock it up, go sailing to the stars.

sure, i'm okay, can't stop this thing of ours.

we bang on trash cans, own this mad mad world,

we'll tweak the ladies' ribbons from their curls,

and greater still, steal some secluded space

to string out lines, till sleep our fears displace.

how far a night of droning could we take

without the wink and secret handshake?

now watch that jigsaw falling into place

Off for a Week

I will be joining my family on a cruise next week, so I'll have to miss an update. I will try to return with something worth the break. See you on the 23rd.

Laugh Track

Laugh Track

A few months back, the local television station held an open call to all comedians to come perform at the station. They were having a special “Laugh Hour” every day that week in order to showcase the best culture in the county, and they asked people to bring in a good five minute act for the show. I must admit, I’m not much of a comedian, but sometimes I can make up really weird stories on the spot or land a good pun when I’m with the right group of friends. So I figured why the hell not and spent the next few days writing down all the funny things I could think of and putting them in an order that made sense. Then I practiced in front of a mirror until I could remember all the beats, and Michael came by and we had a few beers and joked about how I was going to be “famous” all over Akron. I laughed and asked if he’d burn a copy of the show for me.

I swung by the station on Saturday morning. It was pretty easy to find parking, which is always a good way to start the morning. We all stood in line outside the station for about twenty minutes before a woman in a bright orange sweater, face drawn back in that fakey smile people use when they’re talking to children, told us she was so glad that so many funny people turned out for the show and asked if we would please wait with the audience until our turn was called. The nine of us all took our seats and signed waivers in the too-dim light and sat through commercials for toothpaste and a small real estate firm.

Well, the first guy got up, and he does this story about how he and his buddies accidentally sunk their trailer into the lake. And it’s great. He’s screaming when his wife comes in about her brand new bed sheets and going all deadpan when he talks about the tow truck rolling backwards into the lake, too. People in this town got some crazy shit going on. The next guy took a cigar up with him on stage, and every time someone in his story said something stupid, he’d take this long drag and then drop his head to his hand. By the third time he did it, I looked over at the guy next to me, and we’ve both got tears in our eyes from laughing so much.

So there’s one more guy before I’m up, and that’s when it hit me that I’d forgotten half my act. And it’s really stupid because no one here could tell the difference between the jokes I practiced and the jokes I make up on the spot, and besides that, no one gives a flying fuck anyways, but I decided then I’m just gonna sit back here for the rest of the show. The audience is roaring, and fake smile lady calls me up, and I pretend not to hear. She doesn’t call me again but moves on to the next guy. Which is fine by me, because I’m having a ball out here on the laugh track.

And it goes on, guy after guy just killing it. One guy did this bit about “café people” and their “moleskins” that brings down the house. I squirmed in my chair a bit, but I tried not to bother the guys in front of me.

We closed out the show with another couple of commercials, and the lady thanks us all for coming and thanks us for making Summit County great, and all the comedians started hi-fiving and poking fun at each other and shouting congrats and stuff. So I got to pull out of the lot before everyone else, and I stopped by Baker’s for a chicken dinner and called it a night.

The next day I asked Michael if he still made the copy, and he said yeah, I still got it if you want it, but you’re not on it. I said I wanted to watch some of those comedians again sometime, they were pretty funny. And that was mostly true. So I got the disc, and right now, it’s sitting in my CD collection somewhere between Sugar Ray and Pearl Jam.

The Squire

The Squire

I need a light. This heat has stirred my brain

And breeds from tangled silks unquiet dreams.

The wind’s in the weeds. What fool would brave this night

Where stars in fistfuls cross a beaten sky?

What fools, it gives me jitters now to think,

Would wrap themselves in cloak-and-dagger winds

And, lamp a-flicker, stab through darkness’ realm

To carve a little sovereign for their light?

And would you join me on this balcony,

Perched low, no doubt, beneath your father’s gaze,

And send up smoke to peck his royal cheeks,

Or stay behind your curtains, soft and safe?

Your loss. This leaf is rich and sweet as sin,

A cutting from my master’s private patch,

And if the dullard’s worth a goddamn thing,

At least he showed me how to stuff a pipe.

What did your father teach you, love: your wiles?

To charm a man or girl with treacle words

And velvets, till your last decree be done,

And send the sulking suitors to the streets?

Oh hush now, princess, I’m just making light.

It’s not as if you hold much love for him,

And even less the bloody man’s campaigns,

Else why invite my armor by your bed?

Though why invite my arms, I couldn't say,

A scrappy girl indentured to a knight

Who welcomed me with rough and wandering hands

And sent me dummy spars to keep me dumb.

I’ve had to start a fight with younger boys,

Blue-blooded brats, so I could raise a sword.

Those thicks, of course, were picked to fumble flags

When King and Company went off to war.

I really can’t complain, though, can I, dear,

For all your loveliness I’ve overseen,

And all in all, it seems a marvelous trade:

That while they fumble cloths, I fumble lace.

No, not that way. It’ll pinch if it’s clamped wrong.

I swear, with all the stitched contraptions here,

The lily lacings, corsets, and brassieres,

You’d know by now how goes a simple clasp.

Now there, respectable Angel of Death you are,

Done up in frayed kerchiefs and dented plates,

A huddled mess of vengeance on the way

To regal reckoning—or to the stocks.

Shall, riding on the howls of half-starved fiefs,

You hack apart an ailing dynasty

And, as a whirlwind overtakes a field,

Allow the jubilant mob to claim the throne?

Or shall among the bulging stares they find

Two girls, one’s posture perfect (save her neck),

The other stopped stock stiff, fists drooped and twined.

How full of scorpions, darling, is my mind…

Hmm, yes? Of course. My cigarette is out.

Well, come on, now, help me into this dress.

And it will be worth more than just your kiss

If no one sees me through this paper veil.

Now, like we practiced, raise the blade and—snap!

And it goes rolling, mad-eyed, down the plate,

A feast befitting butchers, then you break

The smokescreen ball before you leave the show.

No, you’ll not swing. You’re just some scrappy girl.

I’ve paid that lecher off to speak for you.

And once you’re back to take your "rightful throne,"

My bones will grin ‘neath grit to see you come.

Laces so tight? You are a naughty girl.

But they’re expecting us, so that must wait

Until we fools have braved this battered night.

Put out the light. Farewell, love, and we go.

For Kate, with warm regards, admiration, and as much shamefacedness as I can muster

Work in Progress: The Squire

At first, I was going to try to cobble together another brief dribbling of words for this week because, again, I have not finished my entry for this week. Then a few more sensible friends suggested I post what I have written, as is, as a work-in-progress. And so, this post. I will likely finish the work for next week, so those who wish not to be spoiled or have their impressions colored by an early draft may wish to skip this week's post.

The Squire

I need a light. This heat has stirred my brain

And breeds from tangled silks unquiet dreams.

The wind's in the weeds. What fool would brave this night

Where stars in fistful cross a beaten sky?

What fools, it gives me jitters now to think,

Would wrap themselves in cloak-and-dagger winds

And, lamps a-flicker, stab through darkness' realm

To carve a little sovereign for their light?

And would you join me on the balcony,

Perched low, no doubt, beneath your father's gaze,

And send up smoke to kiss his royal schnoz,

Or stay behind your curtains, soft and safe?

Your loss. This leaf is rich and sweet as sin,

A cutting from Sir Eldon's private patch.

And if my master's worth a goddamn thing,

At least he showed me how to stuff a pipe.

What did your father teach you, love: your wiles?

To charm a man or girl with treacly words

And velvets, till your last decree be done,

And send the sulking suitors to the street?

Oh, hush now, princess, I'm just making light.

It's not as if you hold much love for him,

And even less the bloody man's campaigns,

Else why invite my armor by your bed?

Besides, how little help that I can give,

A pissant girl indentured to a knight

Who welcomed me with rough, inviting arms

And sent me dummy spars to keep me dumb.

I had to pick my fights with younger boys,

All blue-blood brats, so I could raise a sword.

Those thicks, of course, were picked to fumble flags

When King and Company went off to war.

I really can't complain, though, can I, dear,

For loveliness that I should oversee.

And all in all, it seems a marvelous trade:

That while they fumble cloths, I fumble lace...

When It's Late, I'm Rather Mopey and Altogether Unpleasant to Be Around

The Serpent of Deluna Bay

'Twas Jessie Jones, our Iron Lass,

Who spied it in her looking glass,

And cried for all the deck to hear,

"The monster, men, it's here, it's here!"

And lo! betwixt the yawning wakes

Arose a creature that would shake

The hardest crew to ocean spray:

The Serpent of Deluna Bay.

Its eyes are slits the size of masts,

Its scales as if of iron cast,

Its fangs the end of every boat

That slides into its acid throat.

"Don't let it fly," our captain barked,

"And we shall have its hide by dark.

We'll cut its scales for evening dress,

And from its flesh, we'll lamp oil press."

The first mate

"Quick, boys, the sails,"

***

And here the story would go on

Into a fascinating yarn

About how our fine crew would slay

The Serpent of Deluna Bay,

How on the fearless captain drives

His ship and risks his sailors' lives

For some quite dearly treasured snake

That slumbered in these turgid wakes,

How in the final battle scene,

The ship caught beast and storm between,

Young Iron Jess would make the blow

That'd bring this wondrous creature low,

How on and on the crew would cheer,

Except for Jess, who'd shed a tear

For monsters grand felled by her hand,

How our dear cap'n would understand,

How on the solemn journey back,

He'd tell her of the moistened smacks

Of bodies that once lay on deck,

And so, drop into angsty dreck,

And how a moment they would share,

A strong, but wounded, seaward pair,

A lovely image you can bet

Would drift into a warm sunset.

But other things I'd rather do,

And I am obligated to

Make good upon a promise made,

A year before, that cannot fade.

There was quite a bit of whiny verse after this, but I decided it would be better to edit it all out. See you Friday.

The Epic Saga of Haekreaild

This Friday's entry is a stop-gap of sorts, something sort and simple and light-hearted, inspired by the Lytton-Bulwer Fiction Contest, but given an ending. The stop-gap part? Well...expect some "supplemental material" to appear on the blog within the next day or two.

The Epic Saga of Haekreaild: Being a Translation of the Great Bardic Cycle Only Recently Recovered From Certain Ruins in Northern Iceland, Itself a Translation from the Elvish: Volume One

After spending many days along the half-forgotten spine of the world completing his final rite-of-passage in order to attain manhood, having been bruised and battered by all manner of crags and thorns and beasts too terrible to name, Haekreaild decided to leave his peasant village and widowed mother and go on a quest to save the world from the iron grip of King Maliorious and the coming blight of a supernatural winter longer and colder than any other since the Winter of a Thousand Nights, for a prophecy foretold that a child would be born on the exact day and in the exact place where Haekreaild was born and that after the child had seen seventeen winters pass, he would be called to unite all the nations, learn the secret arts of the elves from far beyond the reach and ken of man, draw the Sword of Throatenguarde from the old tombs of Bael Kai where it lay hidden for ages beyond ages, break the false idols in the Temple of Solitude and expose the church as nothing but a tissue of lies and corruption, and, at last, die in the final battle for the fate of the earth; and so, Haekreaild left the village carrying nothing but meager morsels of bread, his father's trusted sword, which had been handed down his family line since the Age of Myths and kept hidden by his mother in a secret chink carved into the floor for this very purpose after his father died, and his will to save his home and the family he has loved so dear.

Rocks fall. Everyone dies.

Blog, with Occasional Music

A recording of my song "Fly Until Starlight." Should be considered more a demo than a master track because 1). My voice isn't that great to begin with, and 2). I nearly had to shout because earlier, softer attempts sounded very weak. Regardless, enjoy the song, and thank you Lijik and RoahmMythril for your contributions.

http://www.mediafire.com/?mdj3mitznwn

Fly Until Starlight

The following poem is a set of lyrics concerning skypirates and is based on an original concept by Kyle Backstrom. My apologies for any mishandling of the idea.

Fly Until Starlight.

Come with me and we'll ride to the ends of the Earth,

Where we've gold and a cold swell a-breaking.

Come with me and we'll scour the badlands below,

Where there's wonder that's ours for the taking.

Come with me, leave your troubles behind,

And we'll cut through the storms if our blades are aligned,

So trust to the skies and a grin.

'Cause with wind in our turbines,

We'll fly till the starlight shines in.

Damn the Blues in their silly pontoons. They'll be bound

For the ground if Old Davy'll take 'em.

Damn these liars who think they're hot fliers.

Their livers all quiver--a sparrow would shake 'em.

Damn your pride, damn your fears and your doubts.

It's a big bad damn world, but there's riches about,

So ready your pistols and gin.

'Cause with wind in our turbines,

We'll fly till the starlight shines in.

And we'll glide o'er the dark in our airship,

Chasing after the dawn.

Just a cold kiss of blue and the wasteland.

It's a ride, and we'll ride till it's gone.

Feel the chinking of rivets on rivets

As gears dance with gears by the turn of our measure.

Feel the pull of the rollicking thermals that twine

Down to Earth and a promise of treasure.

Feel the warmth of a soft summer sun

And the fresh, tender sting of a dream just begun,

So trust to your heart and you're in.

'Cause with wind in our turbines

And cheers off the port-side,

We'll fly till the starlight shines in.

Fail

So I failed this week. I failed to finish my writing this week, failed to have the self-control to keep to my deadline, and failed to spend even a quarter of the amount of time I should have this week actually writing. By all accounts, I should be wondering why I'm pursuing creative writing if I'm not actually going to do the work. Failure of judgment, I'd say.

I will not, however, fail to deliver to you something more substantial than a pontification of my utter fail. You deserve better than that, Gentle Reader. And so, I offer both a poem I wrote last year and the unfinished mess that was this week's idea. With any luck I'll at least have something finished next time. See you Friday.

---

Why I Woke Up Sweating and Cold

Walking through the school halls one morning,

Past hungry faces and gaudy clothes,

Dull derisions and panicked whines,

And, over it all, the flash of compact mirrors,

I see you.

You notice me, lift your head and try to smile,

But it’s all theater. I match you thin curl for thin curl.

We exchange formalities,

Ask each other how we’ve been, and the like.

“Failing all my classes,” you tell me. “Even Language Arts.”

My eyes go wide. I wait for you to say something back,

Anything, maybe “I know, it sucks!” or “But I’m catching up!” or even “Oh my god, I can’t believe you fell for that!”

I wouldn’t be mad. I wouldn’t mind a joke right about now.

No answer, though, but the stare of empty eyes.

No jokes, no subject change or reminiscences. You’ve cut the fat from our conversation.

You’ve stopped to catch your breath, and I hear it come sharp and painful.

You ache to sit down, to lie down and rest, I can tell,

But you won’t. You won’t ask. Not in front of me.

We keep walking past the buzz of vending machines and gossip.

You sweater hangs loose over wrists, arms, neck,

And I shiver for you.

Could you stop and look at yourself? Would it even change anything?

The bell tolls: one, two, three, four times,

And we’re herded off to our next lessons.

I want to stop you, show you, just for a moment,

But you’re too far gone in the madness of crowds.

I walk on. I have to keep telling myself, or it’ll hurt too much,

That was not her. That was not my friend.

She’s left somewhere, on holiday,

Somewhere they don’t have scales or fat content labels

Or mirrors.

---

And the unfinished piece:

The Amazing Jonathan Shink

The boy first appears in police records from the outskirts of Chicago, back when every paving stone, every drainage ditch, every plank of wood was paid for with rail car after rail car after rail car of cattle. They found him not far from the northbound rails, clothed in a careworn corduroy jacket, and by all accounts he had neither mother nor father nor anything to claim him within twenty miles of the area but an unyielding stoicism. He was sent to the inner-city orphanage, and there, he spent his evenings enchanting the children with card tricks and sleight-of-hand and all other manners of play. “That boy never wanted for attention from anyone,” said Ms. Margaret Trilby, head of the orphanage, and indeed, three months after his arrival, several prospective parents had taken an interest in the child, who through his own education had learned more Greek, philosophy, and the sciences than boys twice his age were expected to know.

Such prospects, however, were cut short after a series of bizarre events that cost him ten years of his life. He appeared several times deep into the night on the rooftop, quite unwilling, or unable, to explain how he had gotten there. He would dismantle the other children’s toys, assembling the broken bits into chimerical nightmares. And he had returned from his play one evening carrying by their ears the heads of three kittens, each head having been severed cleanly, as if by a heated knife, faces fixed in wide-eyed anticipation. [] Unable to tolerate the boy’s behavior further, Ms. Trilby

[] He began to make significant amounts of money, not enough to afford more comfortable housing or less meager meals, but enough to ingratiate him among the more liberal parties of the wealthy. []

The trick delighted audience and critics alike, until the audience became local bank owners and his critics the Federal Reserve. [] At last he gazed out over the infested streets of Chicago, the great and terrible marvel that had never failed to astound him, and calmly lay down along the railroad tracks.

The 11:15 freighter cleaved him into two neat halves. Not half an hour later, the police arrived to clear away the remains, and not an hour after that, the city resumed its normal scuttle of activity. Already it was starting to forget. []

Cheating

Cheating

When the werewolf in his pizza shop, fatigued,
goes home, and never hears the fairy's call,
when the statue gleams on a frosted new year's eve,
but says nothing to the spurned child who scrubs her
grimy base, never feels the disappointment rise in her,
when a boy wandering the Iowa train yards
vanishes before he can perform his last conjuration,
when the king, considering war in far Sha-La,
and thinking better of it, stays his knights,
and the squire remains a squire, and the princess a princess,
then you will know that I am cheating.

An Experiment: "The Craftsman" Audio

This morning, I made a recording of me reading the first work in this project, "The Craftsman," wrote a little musical interlude for the recording, and saved the whole thing as an mp3. You can download it here.

If you'd like me to continue to make recording of my stories as I write them, please let me know in the comments. See you Friday with the next story.

The Craftsman

The Craftsman

In a French asylum, a young man locks himself in his second bedroom and, stirred by old agitations and the visions of the previous night, begins to paint. He is allowed only short, supervised walks from the monastery, and there, among the low Alpilles, the cypress branches heavy with needles and age, the slanting roofs and towering churches, he finds God. The stars call to him, as they once did above the gas lamps on the banks of the Rhone. With wild swirls and thick, tactile strokes, he teases out the forms until nature, under the strain of his brush, shimmers, halo-like, on the canvas. He paints around everything: the bars on his windows, the lay of the land, even his interminable sorrow. Everything falls away before his labor in gobs of copper and muted blues. He will later look upon this work with dissatisfaction, as a carpenter looks upon an old, warped plank of wood, and continue painting. Within a year, he will die from complications of a gunshot wound, and it will be a great loss to the world.

The acts, artifacts, and work that continue after the end of its creator makes us wonder—and yet, something of the creator lives on in the creation, or everything, as some French film critics say. It is in Milton’s blindness that we find the force of his images, in Dickens’s poverty the richness of his characters, in the toils of countless Chinese the majesty of the Wall. Even now, I wonder what miserable trifles will be my legacy. What toils shall I offer to a discerning world: a Presidential Scholar award; several studiously upkept YouTube subscriptions; a collection of fine notebooks, their pages blemished with a line or two of cheap poetics and sterile of thought?

For Jorge Luis Borges, to whose prose-poetry in The Maker, particularly “The Witness,” I have ripped off paid homage.

Foreword

"No one saw him come in the unanimous night..."

--Jorge Luis Borges, "The Circular Ruins"

I suppose the first thing I was going to write here was about how I'm angry with myself for hardly ever writing anymore, about breaking promises to good friends, about what this writing project Means to Me As A Wannabe Writer, and all that pseudo-philosophical, egotistical bullshit. Then I realized that none of you care (or should care), that none of it matters, and that I would be wasting time both your time and mine writing about it. So instead, let me tell you what you should expect out of the upcoming project on this blog.

The project in question is simple: write a short story or poem every week until my next semester of college starts. Update every Friday. If you're curious about my writing style, here a link to my FictionPress account as well as a poem I wrote for Valentine's Day:

***

To My Tender Sweetheart

By Jonathan Mortis (Recently Dec'd)

I love you, dear. So know the gentle scratch

That rakes across your door and makes you start

Is only me, befuddled by the latch

That keeps me from the safe-house of your heart.

Know, too, that when I shamble down these streets,

Dejected, with my brethren who moan

For flesh, or any half-picked-over meats,

I'd rather dine with you, and you alone.

I love you, though such words begin to rot

From use, and die within my mold'ring throat,

Yet I'll not groan but shout my happy lot:

I've just a tender girl on which to dote.

Such eyes! such lips! such soft and gleaming brow!

Such a voice, such words that sing in anxious phrase

Do only whet my appetite, till now

You'd drive me mad from hunger with that gaze.

I'd hold you fast, if you would let me in,

My fingers brushing whispers on your nape

And lingering long across your perfect skin.

(Excuse the mess--they come back on with tape.)

I'll come again tonight, dear, when it's late,

And hope that in your heart, our love remains,

That on our true devotions we'd be sate,

Not only on the body, but on brains.

***

And of course, none of the above writing counts toward my project. What will count, what will matter, are the stories I mean to spin across these few summer weeks. And even though I want you, Gentle Reader, to enjoy my scribblings, I'm really only working on this project so that I don't have a panic attack every time I meet a blank page. Selfish and stupid, I know. So be it. I'm making this project my last chance to reach the Grey Havens before the ships go bye-bye, and if I have to smack a hobbit into a volcano along the way, I'll do it.

What does all this mean for you, Gentle Reader? Well, as long as I stay true to my words, you'll get a snack-sized bit of reading from me every Friday on the blog. You'll also have that harrowing (for writers) ability to stop reading if you suddenly decide I'm boring or brainless or just plain bad. Good. I encourage you to use it. Nothing worse than letting a talentless hack on the internet steal your time. If I do nothing else for you, I'd at least like to be an interesting diversion between reloading your RSS feeds and hunting for more lolcats. Because, you know, a guy's gotta dream.

And now that I've wasted this much of your time on the foreword to a project with hitherto no words yet written, let's get to the good stuff already. See you Friday.