Story Fragment: *chitter*

All I remember is the cold.

The terrible biting, rending cold. One well beyond a normal winter’s day.

Actually, I can remember one more thing. The empty hollow feeling, entirely numb from head to foot. And this, I think, I grasped tightly for as long as humanly possible. Mainly because it was still Human. It was the only thing left of my life. The only thing that hadn’t yet been taken from me. And I wrapped it about me, like a blanket, but it did nothing for the cold.

It was all I had left of hope. That there was someone who would know me. Who could stand over me and say “I know him.” For certainly, I couldn’t do that myself.

And besides me were the most likely candidates for having known. Faces twisted and frozen, skin as blue as a clear sky. Taken surprisingly gracefully for their expressions. I no longer know who these men were, just that they had died, and had thankfully stayed still.

I could feel absences. A sense of nothing so pronounced that it, itself was an object. But other than that I knew nothing more that I was a man, or had been.

As I thought on this with the remainder of my sanity, I failed to notice the final stiffening of my body, into what would be it's last slumber.

When I awoke, all I knew was the hunger.

Poems written on the subway

1:

Time flows on without me
Around, uncontrolled
And I am lost
Directions unmetered
Knowing around my hands
Drives life and love
With the briefest of touches
Whispers on strings
The tiniest of shivers
Leaving me, adrift
Breathless and cold

2:

The sound of drums
They're not the beat
The pace of heart
For in the line
Unbroken flow
More is held
Than in puffs of air

3:

When the music falls
And I can't find the beat
the air around me stills
Reflected in a frozen pool
suspended far above
and all else flies
unknowing of immotion

4:

water is the staff of life
but yet it does deny me
escaping daily, leaving
and, all else fails
mocks as rain
poison'd unreachable sweetness

5:

a thousand mirrors hold it all
reflecting uncounted time
a shattering doesn't break it
in and out dances the walls
and spinning it looks to stop
one vision shown in a glance
moving forward in a line
creating fragmented unity

Brother's wedding

Two hearts together
they are enjoined
Entreated to continue
Beat for beat
Meter for life
With the pause
And silence between
Moments of eternity
Like perfect dew
Gathering crystal
Tears of joy
That collect to fall
And ripple time

self pity

Yay for breaking all the rules of good poetry... Or rather the good rules for non-lazy poetry. Ok well... it doesn't have the word soul in it at least.

Dancing in the moonlight
I want to not be mad
Dancing in the starlight
I want to not be sad
For in the twilight darkness
The two are much the same
But with sun, walls fall down
To stand apart again

Another piece of over-wraught writing

And here, I do lay
Upon this soil, unworthy of its hallowed nature.
Painfully turning, to look above, straining to see.
This, our purpose.
For, unto the dark we cast doubt, and deflect the light
With this thought we rise.
No more broken or shattered.
These plains, scarred by flame, served as our rally.
No more subject to fear or the curses flung from the lips of our enemy
Today we live, and fight upon the field.
Perseverance and faith shielding all from that which would lay us bare.

Fragment story 2: Victorian SF

I'm still not sure what this was turning out to be. Though I still like a lot of the language in it. And I keep coming back to it as something I want to expand. It dates from July 2003 when I was in the Merrill Library in Toronto.


It's always impossible to know how and where to begin with such things. While the outcome of my adventures, if they may be called such, are almost certainly well known, but I am at a loss to best describe when it was they began. Some could say that it was when I ventured forth from university whilst others might suggest a correlation with meeting Mr. Pensnave.

But personally I associate them with one of the most mundane of activiteis, the washing of one's hands. In fact, I specifically remember on that second of June, which was my birthday, I was forced to the washroom after spilling the ink for my new pen.

As I ran cool water over my soiled hand, I watched the ink blend into and colour the water a greyish tinge. With some bemuesement I noted that the dye did not quickly dissipate in the liquid, but rather maintained a mass and then spread through, like a multitude of tendrils. Absolutely reminding me of the fearsome octopus and the way it envelopes its prey into its net.

It was then that I heard my friends calling for me from the garden. I emptied the basin, dried my hands, nad ventured out to accompany them. They were still quite merry from earlier on in the party, but clearly things were becoming more sedate with the approaching evening.

And while some may label me sexist for this opinion, I may say my male friends were putting on a wonderful appearance that night. They had made the most delightful food for us, including a cream cake that I know Harold brought since he knew it to be my favorite. In addition to tis they were dressed in their best suits. Honestly, had we not been such good friends there were one or two there which I had considered potentially worth pursuing. However now, I am glad that I did not, seeing as such a pairing would have almost certainly kept me safely at home.

After I had wished my friends off to a good evening, I decided that I would retire rather than engage in a thorough cleaning. It was my birthday after all! So I quickly moved the mess into the kitchen and went up to my room and prepared to sleep. That night, as I slept, a strange vision came to me. I saw the cloud of ink from when I had washed my hands earlier.

Again, it billowed and curled before my eyes. But instead of seeming as it had, it began to turn over in my mind's eye. Thus appearing as a large ball suspended on strings. It floated and fell through my dreams in a sort of almost mystical fashion. Something about this seemed enchanting on its own, and it caused me to wonder whether such a device were possible. At least for decorative purposes.

The next morning I awoke invigorated, and yet over-excited. My dream vision had left me curious and eager to experiment with my own method of achieving the same effect. So first, I went back to the ink and the water. With dropping careful dots of ink I watched it spread and fall in almost a cascade fashion. So clearly, with what I remembered from university, the ink was, while heavier than the water, light enough to be suspended for a short while. I assumed that this was because the ink was hotter than the water. It had been left in the warm conservatory nearly all day, and the water was still relatively cool.

...

And that's all I got through at this point. I know I had a full story together, and it too had come to me in a dream. I just need to work through the rest, though I sometimes wonder if it would be as good if I had written it in one go.

Poem 4: The wake

How do you feel
When you know you're at end
That no time more will pass?
To take that bow
That dip into the sea
Settling to stop, and rest
The world washing over and around
But leaving, no more wake
Into unknown solitude