Emo-Poetry Week

And, it begins. A journey into my angst – the dark tunnel of rumination.

 

Please be kind — these poems seemed deeply serious to me when I wrote them. Deeply. Serious.

 

I’ll put up one or two a day, until I cringe myself into oblivion.

The Five

Subtly, I turn
the dark books i burn
not safe, but stable
hiding under the table

how close was i to the nine-day feast
where my demons prowl and sing in the east

walking the walls
damming shut the falls
trying to keep light
in my echoing halls

i am a master programmer
quite caught in a stammer
lines of code
not sure of the flows
i throw it all up
and watch it loop down
on a black throne
with my cerulean crown

i bite off stanzas
and try not to look
at the Cleaver Man
giggling
and stropping his hook

just have a
few moments
til the fire burns down

pull tight the bandage
and hope i’m still standing
when the Five come creeping
wearing my heart
on their shield
and grinning their
family smiles

who am i without them?
how could i ever doubt them?

come dark brothers
to you i never lie

white-knuckle
rusty blade
come now
5 beds are made.

Poem-gate.

Just can’t do it — my finger’s been hovering over the Publish button on one of my old poems for a few minutes. It just fills me with horror to release these into the world — these are yearbook-bad.

Maybe tonight, after a few beers….

Oh Noetry.

So, would it get weird in here if I posted some angsty-ass poetry that I wrote nearly a decade ago?

Like, this weird?

I’m cringing at even the thought of doing this, but this blog is supposed to be about me as a writer — and for better or worse – GULP – I wrote these things.

All of them are super bad, but I dug through and found the ones that are the least embarrassing – I think…

Sound off in the comments!

The Stadium

Clack. Ka-chunk. Clack. Ka-chunk.

The subway stank. Yellow plastic, scrubbed by rot and ignorant crustaceans.

Clack. Ka-chunk. Clack. Ka-chunk.

George looked out the window, the stone walls and blips of color a gray river.

His suit had been nice once, the red tie brighter and well pressed.  Now the shirt was stained at the cuffs, the elbows of the jacket patched with the wrong shade of black thread. His hair was thin, and his face lined.

The subway emerged onto a wide trestle, and he could see it.

The stadium. Four spotlights waved, yellow, white, green and blue.

He pressed his forehead against the glass, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could smell the grass.

George sighed, and leaned back. He brought a hand to his collar, and ran a finger around the silver collar at his neck.

He had been Shackled for years — but he never forgot that he was wearing it. Not once. Not even for a moment.

George dug into the white cup of boiled peanuts, and fished around for a large one.  He pulled out one that suited, and popped it into his mouth. He looked at the stadium again.

Placing the cup between his legs, George stared at his right hand – at his fingers. He covered it with his left, like a lighter in the wind.  He pushed his eyes close to the little cave of his fingers.

George snapped. The barest wisp of green sparks popped to life at the end of his fingers.

He leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes, and smelled the grass of the stadium.

Fantasy Plots are ridiculous.

The Lodestar Crew, in their finest. ARTIST/W.Steven Carroll

Take any fantasy plot, and try to explain it to the uninitiated with a straight face.

Guess what?

You sound like a crazy person.

I tried to write out the plot of Lodestar, leaving out all side plots, character plots, backstory, and world building — and reduce it to it’s essence. THE MAIN PLOT. How I would explain it to someone who knows nothing about the story, and nothing about fantasy.  Here’s my first pass.

So, there’s this Gate.

Behind the Gate, is something Very Bad. VERY, Very Bad.

The only way to open this Gate is with Three Magical Items.

The Crimson Key.

The Blue Shield.

The Blood of the Precursors.

The first two items are fairly straightforward, but the third is the problem. It’s a bloodline, carrying the genetic structure of the Gate’s creators down through the centuries in a few human families.

Bad guys have sought the descendents for a long time. Other bad guys have been killing the descendents for a long time.

Bad Guys A want to control What’s Behind the Gate. Bad Guys B want to make sure that their Nefarious Plans aren’t disrupted by What’s Behind the Gate.

Enter the Heroes.

They’ve been protecting a Little Girl. A Little Girl who is the true scion of the bloodline.

Bad Guys A have managed to capture the Little Girl.

The Heroes have to get the Little Girl back, before Bad Guys A can open the Gate – or before Bad Guys B kill the Little Girl.

Can you hear me trailing off lamely towards the end? Cutting my eyes to the right, and regretting even starting? Let me try again.

There’s a Little Girl, and she’s awesome. And important. The Heroes have to keep her safe or the world blows up. Or something.

Now imagine me explaining this to someone on a subway, or an elevator. Can you see that person quietly reaching for their mace?

I guess it would help if I was wearing pants.

[What? Were you visualizing me with pants? Well, I guess that’s your mistake.]

50 Pages

Okay – okay. I know I hit the 45 page mark a couple of weeks ago — but 50 is such a nice round, impressive number.

It totally is.

I was hoping to hit 50 pages by the end of the year, so I’m stoked at being ever so slightly ahead of schedule. After the holidays, I’m going to make a plan for the next few months, so my natural laziness doesn’t derail The Thing That I Can’t Call A Book.

YEAH!

Thieves of Pice

The rogue and paladin descend, the latter’s heavy steel footfalls clanking on the ladder rungs.

The Vagabond by Remedios Varo,1958. Oil on canvas.

At the bottom of the ladder, the mouth of a tunnel, carved from earth. They follow it for a short distance, the orange light blooming brighter and the sound of of wild violin music echoing against the tunnel walls.

After several minutes’ walk, the earthen tunnel gives way to quarried stone — one of the many ruins that the city is built upon. Strange bulbous mushrooms glow with bioluminescent glee, the source of the orange light.

The two adventurers pass several others as they come closer to the source of the music. Foul-complected thieves, wispy whores with glittering knives, and several cutpurses barely old enough to be away from their mother’s apron strings. Many accost the pair, but turn aside when Corben flashes the sign of Visiting practitioner.

At last the flood of traffic leads them to a vast cavern, hundreds of feet high. Stone houses fallen into ruin fill the space, but centrally located is a tall dome, surrounded by mighty columns. The music is coming from there.

A blind man stood in the center of the ruined dome, tall spindly frame whirling like a maddened scarecrow. His eyes were tightly bound with a strip of white linen, and his hands moved feverishly on the fiddle. He ducked and bobbed around the roaring fire, never once touching the flames.

Three dozen people stand around, watching the performance with varying levels of attention. Two men and a half-orc are busily occupied, sharing the attentions of a battered looking whore. A brace of thieves loll in the puddles of a ruptured cask of wine. No one immediately pays any attention to Corben or Haskeer.

The blind man stops dancing abruptly, one leg still outstretched. A discordant note hung on the fiddle.

Without turning, he spoke.

“Who the fuck are you, and what’s your business in Oregano’s Court?”

His grisly court obligingly tittered and brayed.

Oregano tapped his jutting chin with the bow of his violin.

“What business do you have here in my city? And don’t lie to me boy, I can hear your heartbeat and smell the sweat on you. I’ll know if you speak falsehood.”

Why write fantasy?

Because the steel is sharp, and the laws are cloudy.

Because the pits are dark, and torches gutter.

Because there is no need for explanation, or justification

Because you can have a purple goblin sucker-punch a dragon, a noble minotaur strumming a lute made of stolen moonbeams, and a half-elven, half-DARK ELVEN maiden break your heart from the back of a crimson unicorn.

Literally break your heart – she cast a spell that crystallized it into Soul Ice, and her gauntlets are enchanted by a fire daemon.

Because, because, because….

[This was a comment I made on a thread asking to justify genre fiction. Comments, rebuttals, and counterspells welcome.]