A Canvas of Fire.

I had a dream where I loved setting fire to my house’s curtains. The black ashes break away, filling the air with tiny black angels; they take pride and enjoyment in filling and smothering my nostrils. Feeling pain was a pleasure.

And I would wake up. My hovering blank ceiling never fulfilled any childish fantasies of deep-space voyages, or a themed bedroom representing career aspirations.  I was a blank canvas. My father behind a newspaper, my mother being swallowed by the cooking steam; none was there to provide me the paintbrush.  And so, without contents/context/substance, I stared into the kitchen where both parents remain in the hums of the solitude house.

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The Lonesome Crab and The Inquisitive Fish

I am hungry.       I sit at the edge of the world, where the cold blue            smashes and dissipates into white clouds.                 Please, fish         bring me your strong fleshy muscles.                      The blue touches my claw            sending an earthquake                        echoing inside me.          Unlike my brothers,        I fear the discomfort.     Unlike my brothers,        I’m a lonesome coward. Suddenly, a fish calls out to me.

I am afraid.         “Hey, what are you doing there?” she calls out.                 I tell her, I’ve been waiting for her.          “Why are you alone?”        Her voice, an entrancing call        her flesh, an iridescent hue of red.      An erubescent red Salmon.             I tell her, I am a Lonesome crab.              I tell her, the effort of making friends,                               I fear the most.                 In words of tinder,  in a voice of flint,              she says “Well, I’m here.”

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Intro to A Memoir

When the Existentialist Exists.

I pause in front of mirrors; viewing jars holding me. Please, let me just have this one.

This existentialist is a questioner and a hopeless dreamer. He often ponders on the existence of the past and future. So when given the task of recording all that had formed his person, his black ink bleeds on paper like a dying sun. Does he use eloquent calligraphy to start at emergence from the womb? Or does he begin with blunt, print handwriting at the end?

The only memories that arrive to him are the loves that had shaped him, and the experiences that had followed behind: the growth, the decay; the birth, and the death. He could write about his birth, his growth from Spanish Harlem, to living in a strong fruitful community; but those moments in time have faded; blurs amidst the foggy memories that had occurred before his true prints. The prints, the loves that had made him him, will always leave their mark. All perceived positive qualities derive from such experiences, and the remainder of his memories serve as mere building blocks; but as an existentialist, he questions its existence.

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Ars Poetica

The desolate road became a second home.

The yellow bars stretch down to the empty horizon;

A painful reminder that nobody ever really stops by.

And my little vending stand shivers with every brisk chill.

 

However, once in a blue moon, a child of figure or mind,

Stops by to take a look at all of my creations.

They’ll pick up a shining glass or a baked good,

And I explain that my love and tears went into this.

 

They smile and nod, reminding me it’s never good enough.

And I push the object forward, assuring of its quality.

But, they’d rather destroy than accept a love given.

And all I can do is drench the sand with the water I shed.

 

This, my friends, is what I am:

The unpublished, the failed salesman.

I wait at this desolate road, trying to convince others.

But my offered heart and soul is yet to be accepted.

 

A Supposed Father

People often inquired of my beginnings; they’d say: “What made you this way Nate?”
and I never had an answer for them. When people wanted to describe this Nate, they often use
the words: strange, apathetic, hard, lifeless, and cruel. I don’t know why I am the way I am, but
if I was to guess what has ‘created me,’ I tell them the story of my father’s death.
My father was also a cruel lifeless man. He always had a look of winter in his eyes; eyes
that would narrow and study me with hate and despise. I was a bane in the cold blue eyes of
his; I was an anchor preventing him from reaching the isles of aspirations. However, I never felt
spite or absolute hate for him. He was still my shepherd, even if he was a shitty one at that.

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A Plucked Tree

Hums of the vent drown the bursts of internal screaming;

I grab at the absence.

I love when he holds me in his hands;

his body hungry, his lips thirsty.

I felt the branches of intertwining blades at night;

Didn’t want to wake him.

The weight held me beneath the white sheet surface;

Smothering and alone.

The mirror reflects the war-torn horrors;

And it stares back with sewn blind-man’s eyes.

All eyes on the walls track me;

How I wish I could remove theirs.

So I hope,

With lack of bearing fruit,

Will he always,

Yearn for my nectar.

Fatale: New Comic Obsession?

So I picked up this issue yesterday at my local comic book shop and just read it now. There’s a reason why Ed Brubaker is by far my favorite comic book writer for crime noir; and this just further proves why. This comic is a fantastic twist on your typical crime noir by adding monsters, magic, and mythology. However, what I love about Mr. Brubaker is his talent for story-telling. I don’t want to give any spoilers to any comic fans, but this is definitely a great read. Besides, I’m still a bit confused as to what’s going on in the story, but it’s all a part of the mystery. Gasp. PICK THIS COMIC UP!

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Talking Dog Task.

Writer’s Digest assigned a public task to write a short story with a certain storyline. Hope you enjoy my rendition :D.

TASK:

Your kids have spent years asking you to get them a dog. You finally break down and get one, only to discover that this dog talks—but only to you. More interestingly, the dog loves to gossip about your kids and their lives. Write a scene where your dog rats out one of your kids for doing something they shouldn’t.

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below. (I accidentally went over by 82)

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TALKING DOG

“Hey Tom, hey Tommy! Tommy Tommy! Hey!” repeated Buck.
“Shut up Buck, please for God’s sake, just shut up for once! Just be a normal dog and just, just, sit there!” I yelled.

I then resumed watching the television and once I glanced over to Buck his ears droop down and stares at me with large wide eyes. He wants me to love him again, to pet him and not be angry with him anymore. I submit and proceeded to rub his head in which he thoroughly enjoyed.

“Oh yes, yes! Love me! Wait, wait, rub me under my chin, do it please! Oh man, yes. Oh I love it!” Buck exclaimed.

This has always been disturbing to me, so I always try to ignore his, uhm, his enjoyment.

“Oh man, this is so great, so much better than Jake! Oh ye- What, wait, why’d you stop?”
“Who’s Jake, Buck?” I commanded.
“Oh Jake, oh yes, Jake is Chrissy’s friend who comes over around uhm, I don’t know, before you come home almost every day! He’s nice, I like him a lot. He rubs my belly each time I bark when he comes over. I guess I should stop barking since I know him now, but it’s almost like a game! Oh I love games. We should play that game Tommy!”

My eyes are wide and my heart started to race with thoughts. My parental instincts start to kick in.

“No I will not. Chrissy. MY Chrissy, Buck, is only 15 years old. Why is there a boy coming over every day? Why Buck? What do they do?”
“Oh I don’t know, she usually kicks me out of the room after a while. She usually just laughs and howls, but I thought that was silly, no one was blowing my whistle. For her to howl is silly, I don’t know, maybe it was a project in school about dogs! Ha ha, that’s just silly. He also howls a little bit, but it was more li-”
“Shut up Buck!” I shouted.

My rage is becoming out of hand and Chrissy isn’t home right now. Perhaps confronting her would make her assume I’m skipping work and watching her like some paranoid father. No I can’t let a young teenager lose trust in her father. I know what to do.

“Hey Buck. Do me a favor buddy. Next time Jake comes over, I want you to bite him as hard as you can on his hands and butt. Keep doing it until he leaves the house please. I know he’s your friend, but if you do this, I’ll be sure to pet you and rub your belly everyday! Everyday until you can’t take it anymore! Sound good buddy?”
“Oh yes, yes that sounds amazing, oh yes! I love you Tommy, this is too good to be true, oh man!” He exclaims.

I started to beam and think of the coming events. In the meanwhile I pat and rub Buck’s head and he continues his rants of enjoyment. Then suddenly he starts coughing and gagging. I ask him what’s the problem and he just keeps coughing until finally he just throws up. Something reflects the sunlight in the vomit.

“Oh I forgot I ate that! Hm, but where is the chew toy?” Buck wondered.

I looked closely and it seems to be a corner of some foil with the letters ‘TROJ’ on it.

“Oh well, I’ll just wait until you walk me Tommy!”

I hate you Buck.

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The Woman with the Dark Blue Dress

Wrote this in one sitting on 7/24/11. Barely edited.

She sits alone at the bar, tracing the loop around her wine glass with her fingertips.  Her eyes survey her surroundings, looking at each individual person with large worrisome eyes. Her hand reaches for the wine glass slowly, sliding against the bar’s table as if her diamond wedding ring weighs heavy. Her eyes never stop wandering.

The large crowds of people constantly block my view from her. Everyone standing and shuffling about, awaiting for the countdown to 1980. Cheering and laughing fills the room with lively energy. Everyone is gleeful and sharing the emotion with everyone adjacent. All except this woman. This woman who’s wearing a dark blue dress. A gorgeous dress that one would wear to a special occasion. However, she isn’t celebrating, nor conversing with others. She’s all alone tonight, celebrating among herself. Why? I do not know.

She’s absolutely beautiful, I thought to myself. Too beautiful to be drinking alone. I pick up my glass of whiskey and walk toward her. Everything seems to be moving slowly. People raising their glasses into the air with large smiles and odd chants. I move through the crowd, gently pushing people aside, moving toward the woman.  I take several sips of my drink, hoping to finish it by the time I reach the bar. She isn’t smiling, but I am, for I want to bring her happiness tonight; the last night of the year. Continue reading

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Snipping that Red Ribbon

Alright, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself; I’ll be snipping a red ribbon with absolutely zero patrons watching.

This first life post shall be an introduction to myself and what my intentions are. You know, standard procedure.

My name’s Tristan, and I’m an aspiring playwright and writer. I write everything and anything I can everyday, so I warn you, I may be erratic in my writing some days. Ever since I was a kid, I loved story-telling. I would always volunteer to write a short piece of fiction that would apply to my Middle-school/high school courses; and when I got that A (sometimes B) I would be so proud of my work that I had to show everyone. I didn’t care for Test grades, or labs, just my stories. So, that’s how I came to be a writer.

When college came around, I actually did not know what I wanted to do with my life. At first I wanted to be a film director because I’ve always had a clear cut view of how I wanted stories to be told. However, people like friends and family would often look at me strange and say that it wasn’t very realistic nor practical. So I started studying Engineering. After a while, that fell through and I started studying Criminal Justice because I found it quite interesting. That interest derived from a high school course of Forensics, and as many people found, it’s a hell of a lot of fun.

In my fourth year of college, I’ve grown accustomed to my field of study and started to grow bored. I received great grades (knock on wood) and found that Criminal Justice made college repetitive. That’s when I started to scour for a minor (late I know). I thought, hey, maybe I can look into becoming a director now! But, to no avail, the campus did not offer any real film-making courses. However, I did see availability in Theater. I took up a few courses, and this past semester, I made it my goal to try to become a playwright. So far, I’m loving  Theater. It’s such an incredible world where audience and story could interact. There’s just so many possibilities and limits I could toy with. Whew, I’ll go into further detail later on.

Now you’re all caught up on my life. There are definitely some very interesting events in my life, but I think I’ll save ’em for rainy days. I hope you enjoy reading my posts, if not, I officially have a diary.

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