Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
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The Black Plague

As you gave thanks, did you leave something out?
Clearly, it's worth leaving a footprint on a face.
Does your new debt leave new doubt,
or does it leave you feeling stout?
I doubt it furthers the human race.
Today, you give your life, your time,
putting material in love's place.
Remember, as you stand in line,
the precious few things money can't replace.








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Thursday, November 28, 2013
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The Lumberjack

There's a man who walks with an ax,
though he needs it not for work. 
He knows he'll pass my brambles,
by ivy, by stands of thick birch.
While some require
little more than a climb,
others need for the swift cut,
separating the pieces entwined.
He hopes that his blade
will remain stayed by his side,
but he fears not
the cut given in stride.




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Wednesday, November 27, 2013
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Perspective

To the high-schooler who has no idea of what he reaps,
be warned of the damage you do when you betray the secrets you keep.
Time, it may pass, and friends, they may treat you ill,
but you always remember the times when you betrayed of your own free will.




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Tuesday, November 26, 2013
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Floaters

There's a blue light in the sky.
I wonder if you see.
Is it only in my eye,
or do you see what's in the sky?
I hope it's not just me
who sees what's floating here.
For if it's just me,
if my vision's unclear,
then I worry what it might be.






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Writing, like any form of art, takes on different meaning as it's used in different ways. Journalism, marketing, fiction writing; all of these different styles tend to mean something different to those within the community of the written word. Journalism is useful but corruptible. Marketing is a sell-out, a place for people to go when they're getting started or don't know how to move forward. Fiction writing, it seems, is the purest form of the craft for many; I know that's what I used to think.

Writing professionally has changed the way I think about writing, the way I write, and so much more about my life. For all the rest of you who live with the near drug-addiction-like pull of words in your life, here are the five things I've learned about writing since I started doing it professionally.

No Form of Writing is Better Than Another
This is something you learn really quickly when you've got hands in multiple cookie jars. My day job sees me writing a huge volume of marketing material for a wide variety of businesses. My freelance work has me ghost-writing creative pieces and translating work from language A to language B. In this type of setup, you quickly realize that no form of writing is "better", any more noble, than another. In the end, writing well is all that matters.

You Really Do Get Better
When I first started doing this whole thing, I wondered if I'd ever get better. Will I ever understand how to use a semi-colon? Will I become better at tying beginning and end together? The answer, it turns out, was a resounding yes. It might take your editor giving you a little tough love, but in the end, you will be much better than you were. As far as I can tell, this part never ends.

You Can't Trust Writers
Writers of all types make their living off telling a stories, real or constructed. Even non-fictional work is presented in a light that best suits the author's story. When you spend enough time weaving threads together into your own narrative, you quickly find that you can do that just as well on the page as you can off. The more evil writers, the Bill O'Reillys of the world, will take full advantage of this superpower. Though I hate to say it, you can't trust writers.

A Good Writer Can Do Something with Nothing
For a long time, I held the belief that it was the subject that gave a finished piece its pizzazz. In the end, though, it's what's written around the subject. Having written now on everything from ramen to bow-ties are cool (redacted so I don't violate any NDAs), I can say that anything can be made interesting when a good writer takes it on.

Payment Pales in Comparison to the Craft
In the earliest days of getting paid for words, I thought that I should just pump out whatever I could, as fast I could. Eventually, unless it is just a job to you, this sort of mentality fades. Instead of focusing on how much you're getting paid for something, you focus on how well you're doing something. (Note: Translation is an absolute exception to this rule) This mentality might be why so many of us are broke for a while.

What have you learned through your own writing experience?



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Monday, November 25, 2013
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A Sap Covered Invitiation


Though my days are spent writing, a vacation getaway here, a recipe there, every so often I feel the gentle breeze of pine sap brush ever so lightly across the tip of my over-pronounced nose. It's strange, to say the least; after all, I sit in a room lacking windows, and there are no conifers for a few blocks around my office. Perhaps, then, some form of winter magic beckons me to play?

What do you want with me, Lords of Winter? What would you have me do when my livelihood depends on these letters, linked together, as they are, by purpose and meaning? Should I drop everything to frolic in your falling children, unique to the finest detail? 

Well, I'm certainly beginning to think so. At last, your Douglas Fir-infused aura has weakened my resolve. No longer can I distract myself with a mug of black energy. No longer can I ignore your summons in favor of a lightsaber-wielding avatar. 

I'll close the screen now, shut off the phone that is a constant reminder of things I don't truly need to do, and I'll meet you on the hill. Please, however, keep in mind that I've been away for a while. My belly has swollen, and my legs resemble hams, but I'll try my best to keep up with you; your snowfalls, your woodland denizens, and your constant winds of winter's change.



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Sunday, November 24, 2013
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You're Looking the Wrong Way


When we are defeated,
it's often a surprise
to find that the way forward
is simply to raise our eyes. 

It's too easy to look backward,
focusing on everything you regret.
It may be trite, but the best,
well, you haven't experienced it yet.

Looking back on the past can be smart,
but ultimately, it's a rouse.
An excuse to hold yourself back,
instead of a chance at a life you choose.






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Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 20: The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff


The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff

Doctor Who Tardis flying through space
Markwiggy's 'The Flight of the Tardis'
Source:http://www.wallpapergate.com/wallpaper21197.html
Cardiff, Cardiff, you're ever the fool.
I write you by day, by night I dream of you.
Cardiff, Cardiff, at least four hours a day,
I dream of never writing of you,
not for free and not for pay.

I'm sure you're a lovely city, despite all accounts.
The ninth thought you terrible, but the Doctor lies, I'm forced to recount.
If you would quit haunting me where I work, where I live,
I'd be so much more likely, more ready to forgive.

But Cardiff, Cardiff, cause of my pain,
when Monday comes you'll just wound me again.
I'll write of your charms, though I'm told they're few,
and I'll suffer sickness when you come into view.






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Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
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Vale Amicum

I remember thinking, once, that you were like a father to me. Of course, I had my own, as so many others do. The thing is, well, at the time I knew you, I hardly knew myself. More often than not I wore the mask of the fool; seems I thought stupidity and arrogance were better traits than understanding and knowledge. I know that now, but it didn't seem to matter to you then. 

I remember the days spent slinging winter revelers down a mountain; you got me a job that I hated but that's besides the point. You knew I needed something more than sunless days spent in front of a computer screen, World of Warcraft intravenously pumping into my system in the same amounts it was poisoning your own flesh and blood. I lost touch with him, with you, and I went away to college.

I remember five years or so later, seeing you at a stop sign. Well, truth be told it was a blinking light and you pulled out in front of me. I cursed you with all the expletives I could muster, guilt seeping in as you nodded toward me in apology. I don't think you realized who I was that day, but once I remembered you, a friend, a man who had done so much for me in rougher years, I wished I'd had a second to say hello instead of a fleeting half-reunion filled with sailor spittle.

Here we are; more years have passed. I hadn't seen you until your name flashed across my screen. Gone. After a separation of time amounting to years, we're too often given to think that feelings fade, that memories and gratitude somehow grow stale. Yet, as my arms began to tremor and images of the pain of someone I once called brother erupted effortlessly, I realized that your impression was lasting, though I hadn't given it any real thought. Not until now. Not until the things I say fall on eternally deaf ears.



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Tuesday, November 19, 2013
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Hi readers,

So, almost unexpectedly this blog has turned into a haven for creative content. Arguably, any piece of content that comes completely from within you is creative, that's true, but specifically, this has become a place where I can really get some things I'm thinking about out there quickly. Poetry, short story, prose; whatever it is, it doesn't matter.

It's been really fun for me to see just exactly what I can come up with in the half-hour or so a night I have to write a new piece. Some of it, as you may have seen, is decidedly lackluster. A lot of it needs shining and reworking to even be passable, but as you surely know, that comes with a hefty price-tag in time. On the other hand, I've been really proud of some of the stuff I've drummed up over the last few weeks. The Man Outside My Window and The 47 Year Old Snowman are my favorites.

At any rate, enough about me. I'd like to open GFWP up to some other voices. Whether your thing is limerick, haiku, short story, or prose, I'd like to extend the opportunity for you to feature your voice without having to start your own webpage. The only rules to follow are:

  1. Do Not Write Anything Hateful Towards Any Social Group-Exceptions to this, of course, include hatemongers, warmongers, and the like. Any content that is hateful will be summarily destroyed.
  2. Retain Your Ownership-If you write a piece that is published on this site, your content remains your own. I will retain the right to feature your content on this blog, but that is a non-exclusive deal. You're free to publish your work wherever you want it.
  3. Enjoy yourself.

If that sounds like a good deal to you, then by all means, start sending submissions to me at chashayward@gmail.com. I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with. (Note: You will not be paid for your submissions.)



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The Pitch

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I've got an idea, but
to you it may sound queer.

Here are my qualifications,
though admittedly they're few, but
I've got this really great idea
to share with you.

This man who lives down the way,
he spends his life singing.
He hasn't any money and he lacks smarts,
but he sings true, to that life he's clinging.

No?
Well, that's fine; you see,
I've got one more.
By this point you might be impatient,
but let me try for the score.

There's this woman
she's opened a shop.
It sells soup and sandwiches and...
"stop?"

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I thought these were great ideas,
but they don't belong here.



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Monday, November 18, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 16: The 47 Year Old Snowman


The 47 Year Old Snowman

Source: http://bit.ly/1cEdcix
Every winter, the time-bent man makes his way outside with a bag full of hats, scarves, and buttons. For 20 years, two snow-folk have been built in his front yard. One was tall and especially portly; I say especially portly because no snow-person will ever have the physique of photo-shopped, emaciated Victoria's Secret models. 

Yes, the one was tall and especially portly, he held a pipe in his mouth, and a bushy mustache made of an old comb adorned his top lip. Well, if he had lips, that's where his mustache would be. On his head sat a flat cap of gray wool, around his neck a Gryffindor scarf hung just tightly enough to grant warmth without being uncomfortable. His bottom half, as was so often the case, was bare, except for the handful of buttons that made to form a frosty jacket around his chunky, chilly frame, and the gnarly maple branches he used for arms. 

Next, the man turned to building the companion. She, like him, was curvy as could be, though her diminished height made her easier to build. For the last 20 years, this was the snow-person the man focused on. He knew exactly how the buttons were supposed to sit, exactly how her own Gryffindor scarf was supposed to be tied; delicately but tighter than her friend's. For her eyes, he used mother of pearl buttons that, with the blue-white sheen of the snow, took on a distinctly sapphire sheen. Gingerly, he sat the red beret atop her head, one of those cheap suckers they give at the doctor's in her mouth,  and placed her own slimmer, yet stronger, arms into place. She was perfect. 

He took a step back to look as he had for decades; he did so alone as he had for three years. She looked as she always had; strong and happy. Then, he looked to his own crystalline analog; pudgier around the mid-section, haphazardly wearing a scarf too loosely; he'd apparently lost his eyes. 

Sighing, he took a few black buttons from his pocket, roughly shoved them in the spots they should be, and stared into the opalescent circles for too long. At length, he turned away from the snow-folk, their arms linked hand-in-hand, as the man must have placed them absent-mindedly. Walking inside, he turned on the Christmas lights, warmed up a mug of cocoa, and turning on a showing of "It's a Wonderful Life" in the background, he sat and looked out the window, as he had for 20 years.








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Sunday, November 17, 2013
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House of Matchsticks

She built a house of matchsticks
and hoped that it could stand.
It was built for independence,
she needed no woman or man.

One by one she stacked them, until
her home stood three stories tall.
Tenuously, they held together,
though eventually they'd fall.

When you build a house of matchsticks,
foundations of wood, not stone,
then it takes only one wind or spark
to take everything you own.



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Saturday, November 16, 2013
Friday, November 15, 2013
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Disquieting Reflections

I can't help but wonder
about the root of my malice.
Is it truth or is it blunder
pushing me to avoid a kiss?

It's these disquieting reflections
that cause blackness and antipathy,
because we hate all of the ones
who hold traits we also embody.

I can't help but decline
any relations that could ensue,
regardless of the heart or mind,
I fear in me what I loathe in you.

It's these disquieting reflections
I see when finally you've gone.
There can be no true absolution,
so long I deny myself one.



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Thursday, November 14, 2013
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II

I keep running for what seems too long. Eventually, a fear creeps over me that maybe I'm chasing a hunger pang. The mistake, I think, has lost me my camp. Just as I turn back, the insistent trill echoes some ways ahead in the direction I'd been heading. Despite thinking better of it, I charge again toward my feline friend. 

Finally, I come to a clearing. The cat, for his part, sits atop a rock breaking like the Rockies out of the snow-covered landscape, his foot held high at a diagonal angle above his head as his tongue works furiously.

"Well...this was worth it!" I say dryly after a few minutes of staring blankly at the strange little beast. The cat being a cat goes right on licking, changing legs when he's satisfied the other is clean. Tired of standing in my growing disenchantment, I walk over to the cat's mountainous perch, letting myself sink down to the ground, my back feeling every chilled contour of the rock. As I quickly fall asleep, warm steps make their way down my shoulder, then down my chest, until they finally reach my lap where a toasty, purring ball of fluff takes his place.

--

The next thing I know, a furred gauntlet is toying with my earlobe.

"Wha...what?" I demand groggily, craning my neck around to where the little devil is perched.

Naturally, the creep responds with a rough vulgarity, swiping me again with unnaturally powerful little paws.

"What do you.." I start, when I finally see what the little fellow wanted all along.

Breaking from the treeline across the arctic clearing, a second cat, this one clad in patches of orange and white, a black, velvetine belt wrapped around its midsection, is sprinting toward us with, of all things, a miniature Santa cap atop its little head. 

As the new cat arrives, my gray keeper leaps down to meet her. Stepping forward until their noses almost touch, the two exchange pleasantries, seemingly holding an entire conversation silently between themselves. The conversation apparently comes to the topic of me as the two turn their heads to stare, the new one issuing her own challenge; the gray fellow follows suit with his typical rumble.

I think to ask again what they want, but the best I can muster is, "Fine! Whatever!" and defeated I go quiet.

They continue to stare until, finally, as if on queue, the calico takes off, followed by my friend. For some reason, my legs begin churning in hot pursuit. Running through the chill, back the way the tricolor had come, the night seems to grow darker around us.

Crossing into the thicket, the wood remains dark, deadened until, when we're some twenty feet in, the forest bursts into life. Garland, lights strung like captured blue and white fireflies break the midnight silence as they illuminate the world endlessly around them.

My feline friends must have expected the change for they take the explosion of color in stride. For my part, the surprise knocks me from my feet, eyes going wide with a mix of confusion and fear. Just when I think I've recovered, the wind is again taken forcefully from my chest. 

The little graymane and my tricolored acquaintance approach on either side of a beautiful arctic fox. The air audibly leaves my mouth as the creature's opaline eyes meet my own.

"Relax, human. You are among friends here," she assures me.

Taken over by disbelief, the world swims and leaves me.




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Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
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Prologue

         I don't really remember how I got here; not to this exact spot. A poorly made plan led to a walk in the woods that was meant to end almost as quickly as it started. Yet, as often happens with plans, this one ran directly off course, and now I lay alone, struggling to keep warm while the blanket of crystalline chill falls thickly over me.

I

         I wake with a warm nudge. Confused and groggy, I sit up to find a brightly moonlit night. Cool blues and glassy whites work in unison to accent the sap scented boughs, subdued yet verdant pines stretching into the night-fogged distance. Thinking the warm nudge nothing more than a phantom, a symptom of an active dream not remembered, I lay back down in the sharp down of pine needles.

Some time later, I am awoken by another warm nudge; this one insistent, somehow demanding. As before, I sit straight up to find the color of the oil-painted winter shaping the landscape. Of course, this time is different. This time a cobalt-colored cat dressed in crushed velvet stares back with blue eyes that would make the Gilmore Girls' pale in comparison.

As we exchange stares, the small beast becomes verbally abusive, assaulting me with long, guttural trills from his thickly furred throat.

"What?" I ask.

My quadripedal vistior answers with another violent trill before bounding off into the distant thicket. As you might expect, I return back to my evergreen slumber. As you might further expect, the sleep wasn't meant to last long.

In what seems only seconds later, a sharp jolt shoots warmly through my cheek, immediately sending me behind a nearby pine for shelter. Looking around for the 'coon or fox who'd finally decided I'd make a fine meal, I find only my cobalt friend, licking himself viciously, no doubt trying to get my taste from his mouth. At length, my assailant quits his shower and again engages me in a staring contest.

"What?" I ask for the second time tonight.

He doesn't bother to dignify the question with even his violent grumble this time. Instead, he shoots again like a bolt of smokey lightning back through the tree-line.

"Fine," I sigh, and barrel through the trees after the little creep.





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Monday, November 11, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
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The Scent of Beer


I write to you now, as ever I did.
My words sentimental as a little kid.
I look for you. 

The words are true
as I think of you,
but the rhymes too simple.

Like all fools I believe
in the words I conceive,
but the power lies without.

Words sentimental as a kid,
I write, as I ever did
while eyes scan the crowd.

Don't take this to mean that I'm still caught,
I'll go blue in the face arguing I'm not.
Somethings will remain.

Just occasionally I'll hear
in the scent of my beer
a voice, a laugh, a want.




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The Bechdel Test: Useful but Ultimately Ineffective

This week, Sweden began implementing a "Bechdel" rating system for all movies released in the country. By implementing a Bechdel-based rating system into all films released for the silver screen, Sweden hopes to bring gender equality to its film industry. While the attempt at pushing gender equality into film is laudable, at least in my opinion, it won't amount to much.

Source:http://bit.ly/1aMR6O1
What is the Bechdel Test?
The Bechdel test, according to Feminist Frequency, was invented by Allison Bechdel in 1985, when she featured the concept in her comic strip Dykes to Look Out For. The concept is simple; in order to meet standards of gender equality, each piece, be it film, novels, etc., must meet three criteria. First, the work must have at least two named women. Simple enough, right? Next, those women must, at some point in the narrative, talk with each other. Lastly, when they talk, it has to be about something other than a man.

Now, as I've said, the Bechdel standards are something that everyone should keep in mind. The fact is that an overwhelming majority of popular films, American and international, utterly fail this test. Strangely enough, Gone with the Wind, a film that features so many anti-equality themes, passes the test with flying colors.

Useful but Ultimately Ineffective
Saying that the Bechdel test is important would be an understatement, in so far as it can be used to open our eyes to the lack of good female-driven stories out there. The problem, especially with the recent decision by Sweden, is that it addresses a symptom instead of the cause. The fact is nobody is going to start writing gender-equal or female-centric pieces until they understand that those are interesting, important stories to tell.

It can't be, or shouldn't be, any surprise to see the staggering statistics around women's issues that are rooted in a fundamentally patriarchal upbringing. The Huffington Post reports that women still make 77 cents for every dollar their male counterparts make. Statistics from the Center for American Women and Politics at Rutgers show that a shocking 18.3% of the United States Congress, an average between the House's 17.9% and the Senate's 20%, are women. 18.3%! Pages of statistics and anecdotes could be drummed up here in support of the point, but the main idea is this: so long as fundamentally backward ideas and situations affecting the lives of women remain unchanged, no test for equality, Bechdel or otherwise, will mean a thing.

So, Where Do We Start?
The Bechdel test can be used as a social thermometer, a marker of how far things have come and where they are going, but if we want to actually make a change in the representations of women on the big screen, then we need to start educating people from childhood on what equality actually means. Teach little girls that it is perfectly fine to love their Disney Princesses but that life can't be lived waiting for prince charming to come and sweep you away. Teach our little boys that there is more to masculinity than being the guy kicking the door down, lightsaber in hand as they rush to save the princess. In general, show our children that, regardless of their role, e.g. gender, parent, wife, husband, that everyone deserves to have their voice heard; more specifically, we need to teach them that everybody has a story to tell. In doing so, we can improve real-world representations and opinions as well as those represented on screen.

What impact do you think the Bechdel test and the ratings systems it inspires can have?



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Saturday, November 9, 2013
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Stack 'Em Up

Oh, such distraction now
as across from each other we sit.
Screens reflect on eyes, searching for something
so we can "Like" it.

A brunette sits across from her admirer
for what must be the thousandth time;
he can't take his eyes from her,
she can't seem to get offline.

Mother, father, daughter, son,
hoping to go out for some fun.
Yet as they sit for dinner
not a word is spoken, not one.
As they struggle for something
interesting to say,
each hopes for a new invite,
the new posts of the day.

Violence becomes a status.
Amendments become a share.
Sadness becomes a hash-tag
for strangers who can't truly care.

What's the point in connection,
the point in a voice,
when disconnected "friendship"
is ever the popular choice?


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Friday, November 8, 2013
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Untitled Limerick

There once was a thing called government,
whose every decision we lament.
It does some things wrong
and then sings a song
woven of lies and of figment.

(Note: it works best if you read figment as "fig-uh-ment :P)


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Thursday, November 7, 2013
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BAMF!

Strike to the left. Behind. Across the room. Every move fills the room with the scent of burnt ozone. Every strike brings protection to these people, my friends; brothers, sisters. Of course, not one of them truly needs it, least of all the clawed one with the attitude. 

Violence is a natural, oftentimes necessary expression, but that doesn't mean it gives any satisfaction. The perfect day is one I can spend in the monastery, alone with my peace. With hate running so hot now, those times are nearly forgotten.

They call me the "blue elf", but frankly, being anything elven, blue, pink, or otherwise, would make a far better truth than my own. I'm neither man, elf, or demon, though on my best days, I almost believe I could be the former.

Too many are ready to give in to their nature, perhaps because theirs is not my own. If I was to do what came naturally, well, our Father knows what it would mean. What else could ever come from a circus freak with a sociopath for a mother and a devil of a father? Perhaps you've once thought the same about your family, but I'd bet my tail you don't, can't really mean it.

Yes, these people, with their purple dragons, mohawks, and angry, red claws have shown me that I can be more than a sinner, more than the sum of my combined, broken bloodlines. So, once again I bring brimstone to defend them, as if their blood were the same as my own.

BAMF!


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Wednesday, November 6, 2013
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Woodland Memory

The breeze touched my cheek today, offering for the first time the promise of the coming winter. Breathing deep, chilled barbs in my lungs, I began to dream of my time in the woods.

If color and scent are memory, then surely, there can be no stronger recollection than that a stiff Autumn wind brings. Yellows, reds, greens, and browns; shades of cyclical death painted on a life that is far too willing.

Yet among the decay, there is a boundless life that waits for us all to be still. I think to step without breaking every branch or leaf in my fated footfalls, but somehow, this makes me louder; intention not yielding deception.

So, I give in to the woodland wishes, retrieving a fallen bough as I draw my blade. The scrape of metal on bark, somehow, fits the thicket's ebbing landscape.

As the scrapes drone on they hide me, blending me into the wood. To my left, I see the haphazard pile of stones where you'd never lay, if I'd done what I should.


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Monday, November 4, 2013
The Good and the Bad of What Our Children Will Call "Normal"

In light of recent events, I've begun thinking, worrying in some instances, about what my children will grow up thinking is normal. I think, really, this applies to anybody ages 16 and under who are being exposed to these radical changes, both good and bad, that will redefine the way people of the world think about essential, crucially important things.
Source: http://kuwaitiful.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Confused_baby.jpg

Gun Violence is Just How It Is
This one is likely the most troublesome. As the Huffington Post points out, in the 10 months following the December 2012 school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, 78 mass shootings took place across the United States. As these shootings continue to happen on (at least) a monthly basis, with ever decreasing outcry from the American public, I'm left to wonder if we've come to accept these shootings as commonplace.

Most worrying, however, is what that means to the development of current teenagers and future children. If it becomes the case that our children see mass violence as a natural consequence of disgruntled human beings, does that result in a population which thinks that's the way to solve things?

The Political System is a Waste of Time
It's no stretch to say that people my age and older are disenchanted with the political system; this applies to people on both sides of the aisle, and really why shouldn't people feel that way? American politics is stuck in this cycle of foolishness, authoring its own destruction. If we think that our government is a useless exercise in corruption, how can those coming after us think it any better?

Genetically Modified Food is Delicious and Healthy
With the United States continuing to battle over whether or not Americans have a right to know their food was created in a lab like Frankenstein, mega-corporations, like Monsanto, continue to consolidate their grasp over the agricultural industry. Apparently, allowing the company responsible for Agent Orange to taint the very things we rely on for our survival seems like a great idea.

If the trend continues down its current path, then you will have two camps. The minority will be pocket groups of people who grow their own food; well, at least until Monsanto finds a way to make that a theft of intellectual property. The majority will be eating flavorless tomatoes, modified with fish genes for some reason or another. Unfortunately, most people will grow up without the real taste of nature on their lips.

The Only Good: Social Equality is a Moral Imperative
If there can be anything positive said about our future societal norms, then it has to be said about equality. Don't get me wrong; I don't see women suddenly filling up the White House, rape culture disappearing, or anyone without an ivory complexion  suddenly being free of the prejudice tossed on their backs by the narrow views of history.

What I do see is progress, however. I see children who understand that love is love, regardless of the couple makeup. I see children who can put a woman into the highest office of the land; that's assuming my earlier precognition of governmental disinterest doesn't coming true. Whatever form it takes, I think equality will be the single thing that changes for the better for the new class.

~

What do you think the future will be like for the young folk?  Am I being too cynical?


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One more night finds two AM alone. Eyes close tight as the theater of the mind spins to life. Another night, another place, another bed--none feel of home.

I remember, now, asking--maybe--sardonically they'd reply, "time heals all wounds", they said, though they never meant to lie. 

They don't mention when healing means no more than scars, etching burning muscle deep, changing the way you move, the way you breathe, the way you are.

They never meant to lie, I've said, though  they rarely have the choice. When the question is lacking as much meaning as it is lacking voice. 

When you ask when it'll heal, you're asking when you'll again be made whole, but the truth they cannot tell you is some never heal; some not at all.
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Sunday, November 3, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 1: Untitled

Today marks the first day in a 30 day project around writing. Every day from now until December 3rd, I'm going to write something creatively. I don't know if it'll be prose, poetry, a short story, or what have you; frankly, 30 Days of Prose just sounded great. Some of the entries, most of the entries, are likely to be shoddy at best. However, I hope both you and I can find a diamond in the rough.

Also, as an asides, please bear with me through the website's design woes. I'm making progress, but it is slow to be sure.

Untitled

Oh, were it so that every wish came true
the moment it left my heart,
and instead of forlorn it gave rise to new morn,
a picture as in art.

Yet now I sit wishing, maybe hopelessly,
maybe hopeful but still,
I know it is better to be denied every letter
than carelessly granted my will.

The question is ever asked of me
"how does failure drive you on?",
and for my part I reply "it's your failure, not mine, 
that beckons my dreams be gone."



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Friday, November 1, 2013
If You Could Only Pick One: Superior Spider-Man #20

This week was a slow comic week for sure. Yes, Marvel's Battle of the Atom wrapped up, though it did so with much more of a whimper than a bang. DC's pickings were as light as ever, and my Dark Horse, IDW, and Image reads are all monthly books, unfortunately. So, for better or worse, this week's pick is Marvel's Superior Spider-man #20.

Spoilers: The cover is completely misleading.
Cover: http://bit.ly/160araB
Now,  GFWP has not been in action long enough for me to voice my endless rage against Dan Slott's run with Spidey. I've felt since the beginning that the whole story-line leading to Doctor Octopus taking over Peter Parker's body was a betrayal of the character of momentous proportions. And, yes, I know that this is effectively not Spider-man. Instead, it's somebody running around in his skin suit.

Even so, I want Peter Parker back as he should be, as Spider-man should be. This week's Superior Spidey shows that we may be on our way to getting there. In a series of mishaps that range from betraying the real Spider-man's friends to Doc-Ock-Parker-Whomever being revealed as an intellectual thief, the web --pun intended-- is unraveling.

If you're like me and you've been hoping for the wrap up of the enraging experiment that is Superior Spider-man, then #20 might just be the book you're looking for.

Have you been following Dan Slott's run on Superior Spidey? What are your thoughts?

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