Fingers through her hair
I can feel the air
around me
around her
Sounds just like spiders
crawling inside there
how can we last much longer?
In here
out there
I step to the light
there's no time for fright
I just know it's right to
fight, the bastards off!
beat them at their own game
bite! a sneer or scoff!
There's no telling
what they are doing
I could be sitting
While they could be stewing.
What do you want out of this?!
What do we get out of this?!
Why are we here, what do we do
Who are we?
who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we?
Who are you?
Feet on the solid ledge
cut through the paper edge
scribble it now
write on it, how?
There should be more
Help with this door
what do we do with ourselves?
how can we go?
how can we stay?
just stay away...
...while I...
fight, these bastards off!
beat them at their own game
I'll bite! I'll sneer! I'll scoff!
There's no telling
what am I doing?
I could be yelling
That won't stop the swelling.
What do you know about this?!
What do you get out of this?!
Why are we here, what do we do
Who are we?
who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we?
Who are you?
Who are you?
I've seen you face a million times
but now I know it was just my mind
I can taste the memories we once shared
but I don't know if you ever cared
like a lamp post melting in the sun
we lost what was normal for everyone
Should we just join them now?
Is that was you really want?
We could be on our way
to be just like them?
But we aren't, we're new, we're fresh, we're ready, we're steady, we're underground baby, just listen close you can hear my love, hear it? hear my love, we aren't like them, I know what they are, but not us, no baby, no baby, it ain't enough, we have to wonder what the fuck is love?
I'm trying to figure it out.
Fingers in her hand
I can feel the gritted sand
around me
around her
Sounds just like spiders
crawling inside there
but I know we can last!
out there
I step to the light
there's no time for fright
I just know it's right to
fight, these bastards off!
beat them at their own game
bite! a sneer or scoff!
There's no telling
what they are doing
I could be sitting
While they could be stewing.
What do you want out of this?!
What do we get out of this?!
Why are we here, what do we do
Who are we?
who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we?
Who am I?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Come out and play.
I gripped the handles tightly in my fist as the gauntlet formed around my arms. Immediately that familiar sensation filled my gut, like having a leather glove on your hand again after years of exposed skin, it felt right, familiar and safe, all with a foreboding sense of danger. It was still a good feeling, and it could only mean one thing.
I heard them rattling off behind me as I stood there, but I wasn't listening. It was my time now, and I didn't bother with their prattle. The gauntlet was on now, it was mine again, I could feel it's weight being screwed into my shoulders like it had never left me. I didn't bother to discard my cigar, I just glared at it all. So how long was I in this hole? Why did they bother to bring me out? I had to admit that while it felt good, I wasn't about to thank them. I'm sure they still hoped I would go out there and get myself killed.
The arms of others surrounded me busily, placing each piece of armor onto my nearly naked body. The shackles that were on my legs and arms were gone now. They wanted me prepared for battle, they know that I was strong enough to take on the enemy, and that handicapping me would only handicap them as well.
There was the familiar feeling again of the shoulder plates, leg plates and shin guards as I stepped into the large, prepared boots in front of me. The massive weight of the suit would have crushed a lesser man, but being part of the military had made me tough, and being a prisoner had made me desperate and even tougher. I hefted it all proudly.
The feel of cold steel on my body shot goosebumps all around my body, I gritted my teeth as the bolts settled in, my muscles flexed as I felt around inside my tin can. The helmet was placed on my head by another set of arms, the voice drolling on in the background suddenly sounded more important. I took in as much of my cigar as I could.
"All marines prepare for launch."
I stared at the computer screen and glared briefly.
"Hell. It's about time."
The visor on my helmet closed, and as my HUD appeared, all I could think of was my old buddy, Jimmy.
The powered armor moved smoothly as the rockets fired up, lifting me away to the next battle again, this time, though, it would be different from all the others I'd seen.
Now, for those of you who don't know, this is a narrative for the character shown in the first Starcraft 2 cinematic. I found the entire cinematic to be moving, beautiful, brutal and grungy all at the same time. It is about time Blizzard, it has been for awhile. If you haven't seen the trailer, I suggest watching it. It's not hard to find.
I bought the game today, which is it's release date. Starcraft has, much like Warcraft, influenced my entire life in many way, particularly in regard to my art, but it also taught me strategy, lateral thinking, and logic. It's like Saturday morning cartoons, or Mario, it was there when I was a kid, and seeing the second part of it take off brings back such nostalgia. Here's to you, Blizzard, you've done it once again. Keep on doing it, so that this person can continue experiencing the incredible stories you create.
I heard them rattling off behind me as I stood there, but I wasn't listening. It was my time now, and I didn't bother with their prattle. The gauntlet was on now, it was mine again, I could feel it's weight being screwed into my shoulders like it had never left me. I didn't bother to discard my cigar, I just glared at it all. So how long was I in this hole? Why did they bother to bring me out? I had to admit that while it felt good, I wasn't about to thank them. I'm sure they still hoped I would go out there and get myself killed.
The arms of others surrounded me busily, placing each piece of armor onto my nearly naked body. The shackles that were on my legs and arms were gone now. They wanted me prepared for battle, they know that I was strong enough to take on the enemy, and that handicapping me would only handicap them as well.
There was the familiar feeling again of the shoulder plates, leg plates and shin guards as I stepped into the large, prepared boots in front of me. The massive weight of the suit would have crushed a lesser man, but being part of the military had made me tough, and being a prisoner had made me desperate and even tougher. I hefted it all proudly.
The feel of cold steel on my body shot goosebumps all around my body, I gritted my teeth as the bolts settled in, my muscles flexed as I felt around inside my tin can. The helmet was placed on my head by another set of arms, the voice drolling on in the background suddenly sounded more important. I took in as much of my cigar as I could.
"All marines prepare for launch."
I stared at the computer screen and glared briefly.
"Hell. It's about time."
The visor on my helmet closed, and as my HUD appeared, all I could think of was my old buddy, Jimmy.
The powered armor moved smoothly as the rockets fired up, lifting me away to the next battle again, this time, though, it would be different from all the others I'd seen.
Now, for those of you who don't know, this is a narrative for the character shown in the first Starcraft 2 cinematic. I found the entire cinematic to be moving, beautiful, brutal and grungy all at the same time. It is about time Blizzard, it has been for awhile. If you haven't seen the trailer, I suggest watching it. It's not hard to find.
I bought the game today, which is it's release date. Starcraft has, much like Warcraft, influenced my entire life in many way, particularly in regard to my art, but it also taught me strategy, lateral thinking, and logic. It's like Saturday morning cartoons, or Mario, it was there when I was a kid, and seeing the second part of it take off brings back such nostalgia. Here's to you, Blizzard, you've done it once again. Keep on doing it, so that this person can continue experiencing the incredible stories you create.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Aerials.
The ink of the pen filled the iotas of the paper, drowning it in black like smoke filling in the trenches of a burning battlefield.
It was as if the words were already written, so the ink simply followed the path of least resistance upon the page. Mirroring the parchment was a blackened hand. Not charred, but dirtied by the walnut it knew so well. Would it ever wash off? Not likely, it had been stained again and again, and this time was no different. Washed often, perhaps, but not nearly as often as it was bled into by the souls of words and cascading drawings which littered the tiny desk of the writer.
The skritch skritch skritch of the quill passing the paper was such a familiar sound that it now brought comfort to the writer who was barely even aware of it. A white noise that soothed the soul of the enraged monster put to elegant words perhaps. More likely, a grand cacophony, filling the mind with the constant scenes of revelry, lust, destruction, birth, life, death and all manner of other things seen fit to grace the swatches of paper which would eventually be constructed into a book. Like the bones of a tome, the words were the foundation of all that the writer poured into life.
The hands steadily raced across the pages, filling in the words with a practiced skill, he knew just how to balance the quill so that a single drop never touched the paper unless he willed it so. Gravity was no factor here. As if he could control the ink itself, command it, not as a slave, but like water through an aqueduct of Rome. It was elegant, and beautiful. Like most readers of his works, though, they did not know of the process gone into the creation of a masterpiece.
He dipped the quill into a black box. He paused for a moment. Staring in contemplation, the man looked up from his desk. Was it possible. Perhaps he could live more if he were to write the adventures of his own life, not with ink, but with his own two feet. He had begun writing at an incredibly young age, and though many things distracted him from it, he had always been writing, even while doing other things. Maybe it was time to stop writing; to take action. To mold his life the way he had his stories. He could always return to them if need be after all, but to continue forward, out the door of his home. There was no doubt that his stories were amazing, but had he lost fulfillment on the way? Lost himself? Lost everything he had ever loved, given everything away for a pittance in comparison to the lives of those in his grand epics?
The door hung open to grand cabin. It was a spartan dwelling, no pictures, no hangings. Very few objects at all were in the home, except for the basic needs. A table in the kitchen, littered with parchment, envelopes, tomes, dusty pages, old cheeses, breads and other accoutrements. The kitchen could not be called dirty, but it was not clean either. Thick dust was caked around almost all areas, and fingerprints were easily seen on knives, cabinets and other furniture.
In the center of the room was an empty desk with an inkwell and some papers, which were half written.
The room was completely empty, as the sun shown through a window. It reflected on the copious dust in the air after someone had abandoned the cabin, taking only a quill, perhaps a reminder of things left behind.
It was as if the words were already written, so the ink simply followed the path of least resistance upon the page. Mirroring the parchment was a blackened hand. Not charred, but dirtied by the walnut it knew so well. Would it ever wash off? Not likely, it had been stained again and again, and this time was no different. Washed often, perhaps, but not nearly as often as it was bled into by the souls of words and cascading drawings which littered the tiny desk of the writer.
The skritch skritch skritch of the quill passing the paper was such a familiar sound that it now brought comfort to the writer who was barely even aware of it. A white noise that soothed the soul of the enraged monster put to elegant words perhaps. More likely, a grand cacophony, filling the mind with the constant scenes of revelry, lust, destruction, birth, life, death and all manner of other things seen fit to grace the swatches of paper which would eventually be constructed into a book. Like the bones of a tome, the words were the foundation of all that the writer poured into life.
The hands steadily raced across the pages, filling in the words with a practiced skill, he knew just how to balance the quill so that a single drop never touched the paper unless he willed it so. Gravity was no factor here. As if he could control the ink itself, command it, not as a slave, but like water through an aqueduct of Rome. It was elegant, and beautiful. Like most readers of his works, though, they did not know of the process gone into the creation of a masterpiece.
He dipped the quill into a black box. He paused for a moment. Staring in contemplation, the man looked up from his desk. Was it possible. Perhaps he could live more if he were to write the adventures of his own life, not with ink, but with his own two feet. He had begun writing at an incredibly young age, and though many things distracted him from it, he had always been writing, even while doing other things. Maybe it was time to stop writing; to take action. To mold his life the way he had his stories. He could always return to them if need be after all, but to continue forward, out the door of his home. There was no doubt that his stories were amazing, but had he lost fulfillment on the way? Lost himself? Lost everything he had ever loved, given everything away for a pittance in comparison to the lives of those in his grand epics?
The door hung open to grand cabin. It was a spartan dwelling, no pictures, no hangings. Very few objects at all were in the home, except for the basic needs. A table in the kitchen, littered with parchment, envelopes, tomes, dusty pages, old cheeses, breads and other accoutrements. The kitchen could not be called dirty, but it was not clean either. Thick dust was caked around almost all areas, and fingerprints were easily seen on knives, cabinets and other furniture.
In the center of the room was an empty desk with an inkwell and some papers, which were half written.
The room was completely empty, as the sun shown through a window. It reflected on the copious dust in the air after someone had abandoned the cabin, taking only a quill, perhaps a reminder of things left behind.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Stand for Something!
My previous post, Smashing the Opponent was something I wrote because I was in a highly emotional state, but I still feel strongly about it. I sent it to Jurell, and he liked it a lot. I respect what he has to say because he's a great poet.
I've decided to incorporate it into a short, illustrated story, which I'll create.
Along with this project, I'm going to be working on many other things, so who knows when it will be done, but the end goal would be to publish it. Maybe by the time I'm done with it I'll have the artistic prowess to do it justice.
I think that strong art will compliment it extremely well, so we'll see how it goes.
I've decided to incorporate it into a short, illustrated story, which I'll create.
Along with this project, I'm going to be working on many other things, so who knows when it will be done, but the end goal would be to publish it. Maybe by the time I'm done with it I'll have the artistic prowess to do it justice.
I think that strong art will compliment it extremely well, so we'll see how it goes.
So like a rose...
Shirley gets me every time. She can be so majestic with her vocals.
Anyway, I've been feeling kinda crappy lately, but more importantly, I was bit by a mosquito and had an alergic reaction after I tried to make it explode by pumping blood into it!
Not recommended.
Instead of it dying, it drank my vital essences. My hand (where it bit me) is kinda swollen, red and itchy. Not good!
Oh well, school is coming up soon. I'm excited to do drawing but between still having to work, and all these new exciting video games out, I'm going to have my hands full! Still, it'll be a good learning experience I'm sure, and I'll get a lot out of having an actual teacher.
Anyway, I've been feeling kinda crappy lately, but more importantly, I was bit by a mosquito and had an alergic reaction after I tried to make it explode by pumping blood into it!
Not recommended.
Instead of it dying, it drank my vital essences. My hand (where it bit me) is kinda swollen, red and itchy. Not good!
Oh well, school is coming up soon. I'm excited to do drawing but between still having to work, and all these new exciting video games out, I'm going to have my hands full! Still, it'll be a good learning experience I'm sure, and I'll get a lot out of having an actual teacher.
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