Friday, 24 February 2017

De la Vie, Parlant, et de Plus Choses

De la vie, vous savez, j’ai vu
Que sans prévu, et ne plus élu;
De parler, est être vrai.
Même mensonges, je suis désolé,
Mais peut-être heureux, avec le dit.
C’est certainement interdit,
Mais les vrai ou faux
Parler, pour vie, est très beaux.

Thursday, 23 February 2017

A baby bird, a neon sign, a dark alley, and the creak of an old hinge.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I found this old and silly story from back when I began seriously writing, in the early stages of high school. The title refers to part of four things I was told to incorporate into the story (it was a prompt). So, thoughts on my literary progression? (I died laughing as I read it.)

It was midnight, on a Friday the 13th, and raining. The man was trudging home, his mind on his bed and a warm meal, when he heard cheeping. He turned. There, not two yards away, a baby bird sat on the ground. Its wing was broken. Sighing, the man picked up the bird. If only there was someplace he could...
There! In a dark alley between 14th Avenue and Broad Street sat a store entitled "Bob's Animal Rescue Center." The neon sign flashed open. The man walked gratefully towards the door, but before he could open it the creak of an old hinge sounded and the door opened, revealing a man covered in a black cloak, his face obscured.
"Is Bob in?" The man asked. The cloaked man nodded, then pointed inwards. The man breathed a sigh of relief. The door slammed shut behind him. There were two chairs and a desk in the room. In the corner a woman in her twenties regarded him curiously, but didn't speak.
Continuing, the man walked up to the desk. The other chair was facing away from him, but a sign on teh desk read "Bob" so the man turned the chair towards him. He took one look at the mutilated corpse, screamed, then ran towards the door. He only moved three steps before the cloaked man hit him with a bolt of lightning. As he faded away, he thought he heard the woman laughing.

Concerning Gaunt Happenings

'Twas the shadowed vales of winter when I wandered deep at night,
and my arms I did find shivering in an unexplained fright:
or, perchance, an insidious delight.

I found remembrance, then in the frost's colds arms.
And I thought of those tried to do me harm,
wintry tendrils ringing the same bells of alarm.

This is to say, I thought of you.

I was brought to recollect that eve of savage rife,
when frozen gales and hot blood duly bite
yey, the night you tried to take my life.

The stake you tried to shove into my heart
was not half so bitter as your betrayal's start,
love's sweet lust lost to hatred's part.

The fault must be mine, dear, fie on fie,
for I should've seen pointed barbs behind doe eyes.
Alack, now all is gone to rust and lies.

I cannot tell these, nor cans't I hold a grudge,
not even now, with my body turned to sludge.
And even now 'mongst frost-blackened clouds,
                my spirit would sooner love than judge.

Thursday, 16 February 2017

A short creative piece on sculpting...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So I applied to a specific campus some time ago, and one of the supplementary application questions was a photo with the command to write an essay or creative piece as a reaction. If you've ever read this blog before, you'll know what I answered with. Now, ordinarily I would hold this in confidence on their behalf but since I didn't make it in to the university I feel very little guilt with releasing the story for your viewing pleasure, avec photo. Enjoy!

The sculptor stepped back, and surveyed his work with no small amount of pride. His work, five gorgeous sculptures buried at varying heights in the grassy fields, stared back at him. He thought they looked dour, but perhaps it was a tinge baleful. He’d oriented them so they were descending from a rocky outcropping, just like…
Well. Never mind that.
He heard footsteps, then, and turned to see one of his colleagues from the art museum approaching. He tipped his head, tried a melancholic smile. His colleague offered one back, then tipped her head towards the newly completed artwork. “That’s quite nice, you know. It captures their likeness perfectly.”
He wavered, for a moment. “Thank you: I tried.”
If she noted his laboured breathing just then, she made no comment on it. “The expressions are rather grim, but I suppose I can’t fault you that.”
She waited, and finding no response forthcoming, continued. “Tragedy, that. It was such a small mountain, too, but I suppose it was a small plane. And you, the only survivor.”
She noted his agonized expression, stopped. “I’m sorry, I overstepped my bounds.”
He shook his head to the contrary. “No, no, it’s alright… I’m just upset about the state of my relationship with these gentlemen colleagues of mine before our… mishap.”
She nodded, in what she hoped to be a sagely manner. “Yes… It always haunts us when an argument is our last memory of someone… Especially one on the quality of our work, should we be an artist. But you got past it: it truly is a lovely monument to them, perfectly depicting the descent of the airplane as you must have seen it.”
She stopped, looked to see if he was upset, saw that he appeared to be in a more placid and tranquil state, as if accepting something, continued. “And to think, I never knew you were a sculptor… I never thought you anything more than a painting artist, one who incorporated a significant amount of metalwork into his masterpieces.”
Something seemed to occur to her, then, and she look at him unhappily. “But I can see I’m causing you great distress; I should go.”
And she left. There was a small smile, a sad smile, playing about his lips at her departure, though whether this was a result of guilt or joy he did not know. Certainly, she was right about one thing: he was no sculptor, but was merely exceptionally skilled at bronzing…

Monday, 13 February 2017

A Pomegrating Valentines

My love for you is like a yellow pomegranate,
Out of place amidst the gardens of my desire.
And yet it persists, endlessly so.
For we two met on a fair spring day,
When the call of the lark sung faintly through the sky
A cloud of shining stars.
And like the pomegranate it is many-layered,
Facets spring forth like seeds
And from those seeds spring love anew.
All one requires is a little water, a little faith,
And it is refreshed to shoot forth once more.

Thursday, 9 February 2017

A Duck's Dream: The Tragedy of Melodia (or, my attempt at Shakespeare)

But see, the bloody sloth doth lie amidst the twisting circle,
It’s ouroborosian majesty howling about it in
The dark depths of depravity.
And lo, the rustled thicket swingeth in the thunderous circuit.
Its brobdingnagian tides soaking me and mine
In oneiromantic epiphanies, a crazed ecstasy.
For tis done, tis done, and all are slain!
By rotten claw, and mouldy root,
by the hallowed scion of the cuckold’s wing and the bubbled toad,
All, all are slain, and I am slain with them!
Oh woe is me, that I should die here.
And yet, tis oddly fitting, for twas here I first saw myself.
But no more; I ascend now, my transcendence forced upon me.

Sunday, 5 February 2017

The Mystery of the Shroomish Tree

I was walking in the woods one day when
Oh, what should I find?
But something that started in the glen
And into the sky climbed.

A mushroom! A grand stalk, and tree,
Fungal tendrils and vines galore
Wrapped, warped, made clear what they’d be
A beautiful botanical phantasmagore.

I tugged and twisted my way up
Clawed and writhed through leaves;
Milky waters in their pitcher cup
Had no effect on me.

And the veggies, so delicious
They tasted grand and sublime.
An omen most auspicious
Of the beauty I’d know in time.

But at last I reached the top
And oh, what should I see?
But a sullen pallid mop
Far as far could be.