One Mouse Fell Away

Gary rose early, slipped out of bed quietly, and got dressed for the cold dawn. He made sure not to wake Clara and quietly made his way downstairs. Without knowing where his feet were taking him, he found himself exiting the house and crossing to his father’s old barn.

In the faint light of the coming dawn, Gary could see the paint peeling away at the edges of every board with finality, red giving way to dull grey. It was not as it appeared in his memories. In entering, he found that instead of the comfort it usually gave him, the barn left him feeling empty and lonely, feelings which matched the barns physical characteristics. When he was younger, and his father had been in charge of the farm, the barn had been a source of life. Horses lined the stalls and bales of straw could come in from the elevator in the back. Gary enjoyed countless memories of summers long past; countless days of hard work and countless afternoons of cool lemonade with his mother and father.

His hand, outstretched, traced the etchings of names in the walls of the horse stalls, now empty and desolate. As his fingers felt out one particular name, they recoiled in sorrow. Gary turned away and set his jaw against tears which welled up from within. The name was as dead as the barn itself. What had once been a living and breathing center of his life was now gone, an empty shell now given over moreso to mice and grass snakes than to livestock and vitality.

Cobwebs now dominated the majority of the barn, and had done so ever since the farm was shut down. Gary walked to the end, as rotting straw fell away at his boots. In the back, he took the ladder up to the loft, where he had often gone to think about things as a boy. Settling himself, he took notice of miniature life scampering about the floor. Mice.

Gary watched them for a time, zigzagging their way across the ground like an army battalion. He could imagine them shouting out “no man left behind, forward ranks, c’mon boys, it’s just over this next rise,” and then the trump tromp of their mousy boots, more like a tip tap.

But One Mouse was left behind. It lingered behind as a barn owl suddenly swept low, and clutched up the mouse with a throaty hoot. No mouse rushed to his comrade’s defense. No mouse lifted arms to liberate the One Mouse. And that mouse’s last vision would forever be his friends running away as he was taken out of life, leaving him behind to die alone at the hands of his attacker. It didn’t even have the chance to shriek.

And Gary broke down in tears.

C: Dominyms, Death of the Dominym, The Dominym

Dominyms

I think I've already shown you how to create The Dominym... and I've already revealed that William Wordsworth used the form long before I even imagined that I had created it (Death of the Dominym)... So I'll just say some things that I hadn't said yet.

Anyway, the problem with a lot of rhymy-dimey stuff is that it comes off as childish more often than not. This posting is a perfect example. Now, I didn't write all of these at the same time - one day I just decided to compile them all and post them. But that first one, the one about Hell, was the first one I ever did. I think. And aside from "The Ultimate Dominym," (which apparently I've never posted?) I think it's my favorite.

The thing I like about Dominyms is the flexibility they offer concerning tone. They can be short and silly, long and gloomy, or anything in between. They can have the aspects of a haiku or a limerick, or they can have the aspects of an epic poem. And I will of course touch on this again when I write the commentary for Multinyms, which, if you haven't figured it out by now, are just multiple Dominyms strung together.

C: No More

No More

I'm pretty sure I wrote this in AP Calculus... and finished it in AP English. Emphasis for this poem was drawn from a Pink Floyd song called On the Turning Away, a song that everyone must listen to at least once. If it's not your cup of tea, no big deal. And if you've heard some Floyd and think "Oh, I know I won't like it," give it a try. I don't think many would say that this song represents their sound as a band, so it's probably not exactly what you expect.

Anyway, it's a weird poem. The tempo is so variable, yet, the last two lines stick in my mind enough to erase all the memory of the lines coming before them... haha. Really, the last two lines are the only good part of this poem... blah. Luckily, I wasn't trying to get the feel of On the Turning Away down to a T, so at least I didn't commit the heinous crime of ruining it.

You can tell that I wrote this in Calculus too, because of the last line. "A function of..." Yeah, that was a deliberate math analogy. It doesn't come through, but it's just an interesting tidbit of what was going through my mind at the time.

C: Windswept

Windswept

I have to say, as you might already know, that I have a strange fascination with ships. Like, almost any kind of ships. But mostly 18/19th century ships (and spaceships).

You'll see the line "We are the most who we fear others to know," which is one that I think I've used in multiple places... I don't know. I like it. I'm not sure how much truth rings in it, but since when have writers cared whether what they say is true or not?

This poem suffers, I think, from the change in direction from stanza one to stanzas two and three. What was a poem with beautifully striking imagery (this is indisputable) became a narrative, a storyline. I don't think it comes off well. But there's something to be salvaged there.

As far as the captain's speech, if it's not working for you, just imagine it read by Sean Bean, because that's how I wrote it. By the way, he was by far one of the best actors in the entire LotR trilogy, and I want to see more of him. But he's always stuck in minor parts where he dies before the halfway point. :P

I suppose I also drew much of my influence from Master and Commander... which is both an amazing movie and book. Experience both, I command you.

C: Eight

Eight

Remember when I told you that I used to fragment portions of my personality into individual characters? It was fun and it was a good way to come up with character situation. Not necessarily characters, since they all ended up acting kinda the same...

Anyway, I know I'd said that I'd post up character bios when I got to this point. The poem itself is non-canonical, in the sense that none of them really ever died in stories and so forth, but I suppose in a way they did pass on. Not unlike the storyline of *SPOILERSIdentitySPOILERS*, leaving only "myself." Interestingly, the cast of the eight changed and fluctuated as I invented new characters, the ones I hardly liked replaced by ones in cooler storylines. At one time, I myself was one of them. I'm not entirely sure which of the final eight were original or not, but I know that I'm not in it anymore. Anyway, to the psychocave! Some of this I had prewritten. It goes by the name, the aspect of my personality/mentality that they represent, other characters that share similar personalities/roles, and their character/storyline.

Adrian Hardt
-Emotion

Story: Adrian is a teen who has frequent dreams in a train station. Eventually, he is approached by a man in this dream world and given an earpiece. Upon waking, he finds the earpiece in his hand. When he places it in his ear tentatively, it disappears, though he can hear voices through it. One voice teaches him how to see the spirit realm, and through seeing it, it can see him. His story is one of conflict with demon-like spirit things that can only affect the world if Adrian is in the process of engaging them, or vice versa. The story never left the drawing board and bore, as a working title, Train.

Dominic Peters 
-Logic/Realism

Character: Dominic a functioning member of society in every possible way, but has no problem forgoing rules and regs when it comes to a logical point of view. His view of “If it makes sense, do it” makes him a unique character, but one who finds himself in a leadership role often enough.. He supports the Seven as a family unit as opposed to what it truly is. Though he is close with Will, he often clashes with Harper and Jonothan for quite obvious reasons. Where he came from none really know, but it is suspected that he has a lengthy criminal past, however unevident it may seem to those who don’t know him well. As an eternal realist, he neither scorns love nor hunts for it – he understands that at times it is appropriate and at others, not.

Story: Usually involved in some criminal guild that turns out in the end to be not such a criminal guild. He's been written into so many stories that it would be folly to try and tell them all here. Mainly in Dimension. You'll recognize him from the phrase LGD, Let go Dommy. Dominic Peters is me. He's also the greatest person in the world. :P

William Braxford 
-Analytical

In the greatest sense of the word, Will is a child. In his simple vision of facts, numbers, patterns, and other queries of a pure analytical nature, he misses out on other aspects of life. He is friends with Emmit and Jonothan for the simple reason that they intrigue him. In the early years of his life, he met Dominic (and found nothing criminal about him). The two of them journeyed together for a time and they found that their ideologies matched well with each other. In essence, the knowledge of Will merged itself with Dominic’s logic to make it more powerful. Nobody really dislikes Will, but everyone can admit that there are times when his misperception of other’s level of caring becomes annoying. In short, sometimes nobody gives a damn.

Story: It's hard to nail this down because it's all so a-canonical to any of the actual stories. Usually a stowaway child into Dominic's criminal guild... not so unlike River Tam. ***DISCLAIMER*** all of this was thought up before I even saw Serenity or Firefly. Don't think I totally ripped these ideas off. >_> Anyway, the Dominic he meets up with isn't the Dominic from Dimension, but a Dominic from another discarded upstart... maybe Phantom?

Marcus Reilly 
-Conviction

When Marcus decides to do something, he does it. When Dominic tells him why to do something logically, he jumps on board in an instant. He just plain likes to beat the shit out of people – not in the way you’d expect however. He doesn’t go out searching for fights, in fact he doesn’t like fighting at all. But when he has to he accepts it as an unchanging reality. Though in his highest moments he symbolizes intense devotion to the cause, he is not beyond persuasion from the other members of his team. In fact, the only member of the team who has little bearing on Marcus’s behavior is Will. Whether or not this is because of his age or if the facts don’t matter to Marcus as much as the reasons do is unknown.

Story: Marcus Reilly is the only character that saw his way into a finished work. Dragon Storm/Indemnity's Resurrection/Sons of Liberty was a postapocalypic story where the people sought refuge from a poisoned atmosphere in bunkers. Come to find out, the governement had been keeping them down so that they could profit. Revolution, etc. It's a good screenplay, for two Juniors in High School.

Jones Bailey 
-Social

Not in any story. At all. Not even planned for anything. Unique in that way, he exists primarily for the sake of existing... in fact, the only character to get a blog post of his own?

Emmit Long 
-Philisophical

Another character of DS/IR/SoL, Emmit was a revolutionary that met up with Marcus. He was a literary type, found reading Moby Dick at one point. One of two characters out of a cast of 10+ that lives at the end of the story.

Jonothan Klein 
-Theoretical

Had the ability to manipulate reality... Existed mainly as a concept character, and little else.

Fabian Harper 
-Duty

Usually thrust into the role of "bad guy general" who isn't really bad, but just stuck in a "bad guy government." Usually would end up joining in with the hero when he realized that everything he had supported and worked for was corrupt.

C: Where Does it End?

Where Does it End?

Ooooh I love this poem. Even though it's pretty crappy in the second half, that first stanza will always be golden. And the last stanza.

I wouldn't be surprised if I just filled in the second and third because I felt like I needed something there. Well, it does need something there, but what I put down sucks.

Speaking of stanza three, you'll find ideas similar to the ones here in much of my poetry. The whole "I wish I was X, but I'm not" as well as the concept of embracing darkness and rejecting light.

I think it's quite salvageable if I could redo the 2nd and 3rd stanzas. What do you think?

Marvellous Thing Will Happen

People don't sit around and wait for magnificent things to happen because they've got nothing better to to. They don't wait because they have faith in good things coming. They don't wait because they're happy with what they have.

They wait because they're afraid.

Afraid of the responsibility they would bear for changing the world.

A Small Consolation

"The trouble with standards..." he began, "is that you and I will probably be alone for a very, very long time."

"I suppose we're better off for it. At least we have our heads on straight."

"Well, Rick, you and I both know that that's a very small consolation to the beauty of a woman."

The two friends joined in laughter and ordered another round.

Dead End Rock Island

Maria looked all over town, starting at the sound end and working her way north. Then, she'd move over a block and head the other way. She felt like a fool, peering into shop windows, restaurant windows, back alleys - like a girl who'd lost her keys. Except these keys were too big to lose. These keys were a full grown man. And she had no idea where to start looking.

She was on the verge of giving up and heading home when she received a call from Karen. She'd seen David in the courtyard by the docks, staring off into space.

How long ago? Less than a minute?

Maria hung up before Karen could utter another word. She tried to call again, but Maria let her phone buzz away in her jeans.

She sprinted to the courtyard and found things just as Karen had described. David sat hunched over on a stone bench, facing the grassy yard. His hands were shoved in his pockets agains teh cold, and his hood was drawn up like the shell of a turtle.

Maria apporached slowly, delicately. She sat down on the bench next to him.

"We've been worried about you," she said after a moment's silence.

"Mm," he grunted.

Maria let another moment pass. "Dave, what are you doing out here?"

Dave drew in a large breath. "Thinking about stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Maria asked, prodding for more.

Dave paused again, considering, and then sprung to life. His right hand flew out of his pocket and he began to gesture as he spoke. "You see how the concrete jutts out into the grass, how it interlocks with the grass? How it's all perfect 90 degree angles?"

"Yes," Maria said slowly. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the grass, and then shifted back to David.

"I was just thinking, do you think they were trying to say something, when they built it like that. You know, something beyond what it is."

"Like what?"

"Like..." His hands drew grand pictures in the air. "Like maybe nature and man are locked together with each other. Clasped together like a jigsaw puzzle, like the grass and the concrete here. They've got separate identities and separate composition, but you can't really define one without the other." He stopped.

Maria cocked her head to the side. She didn't see where David's observations were headed.

"Do you think death is like that?" he continued. "The grass runs up to some point and just stops. And some strips stop before the others. And what about those slabs there?" he asked, pointing to isolated islands of concrete in the middle of the lawn. "Even where it doesn't belong, it seems like death is there. It doesn't wait at the end, it just appears how and when it wants. It doesn't care how fair it is. It's just a dead end rock island in a sea of dying grass."

Maria resisted the urge to agree with him. As right as it might be, she didn't want to put her acceptance of his apocrypha on him as well. He had enough on his plate already.

"I'm only 23, Maria," he said. He looked left, met her eyes, and looked back to the concrete patterns, casting about for something, anything to accept his wandering attentions.

"Lets go home, Dave," she said. "It's cold out here and we don't want to get sick before finals."

She kept her eyes on him as he nodded with all the determination of dripping honey. Then the two of them stood up, arm in arm, and made their way across the grass, step by step. Walking though a sea of grassy life.

Blackwave

In a dream I saw a black wave
rise against a blacker night
It swelled upon the shore
threatening to devour all life - to devour me
Then the hand of the Lord reached out
and around me formed a shield
And though the wave tore at the earth around me
I did not falter - I stood strong
And now I admire the beauty of Gods creation
from 600 feet below the surface

We Exist in our Dreams

All of the things we wished we could do, but didn't prepare for in life,
All of the places we wished we could be,
All of the superpowers we always wanted,
All of these exist in our dreams.

I've always thought dream journals were an interesting idea, but never really got into the habit of keeping one. But now that I realize the me in my dreams is the same me as in life, I think I just might start one. I mean, I would love to act in another High School play, and last night I did. And I had a pretty big part, too. And looking back on the actions I took behind stage and the conversations I had with other members of the play - I was there. I did that play. It is a part of my continued character outside of the dream.

I don't know, it's kind of exciting.

Obsession

Can a writer become so singularly possessed by an idea or event that he can think of nothing else, write nothing else, or ever do anything else? Obviously. If only he could do this with his plots instead of with his greatest and most recent misfortunes... I suppose he can always turn those into his plots... But how to write when you're wearied by the mere weight of the situation? He must detach himself in some way; what better way than the writing itself?

But alas, I near a paradox.

Sacrifice

To sacrifice is to love. If it arouses guilt in the one being sacrificed for, then they are missing the point. Sacrifice that espouses guilt is not true sacrifice.

Only one being has ever sacrificed completely, selflessly. If you believe in Jesus, that is.

Which leaves us with what? Incomplete sacrifices made from one person to another.

Personally, I'd be wary of somebody who sacrificed anything and everything for me. Changing entire lifestyles for me.

I'd much rather them approach my way of thinking, my way of living, through the use of reason. And I'll just as soon approach theirs in the same manner. That way, when they or I do make a sacrifice, there are no illusions about it. It's pure love.

The Producer

What is it that makes me happy in life?

Probably a good many things.

But I'll tell you what really makes me shine.

The act of producing works. Everyone produces something. Farmers produce produce. Artists produce images. Writers produce literature.

Why not just say "creating things" and leave it at that? Simply because we do not so much create as we do assimilate and assemble what is already there into something recognizable by our fellow men.

Case in point - does a photographer create his images? Or does he look at them in an interesting and emotional way?

We are disillusioning ourselves if we claim to create. Whether you're religious or you believe that we were born on the backs of crystals, you did not create the components of your "creation," you merely rearranged them into something intellectually or emotionally pleasing.

We are all of us spectators in a world full of wonder.

And my greatest desire is to bring that wonder a little bit closer. To you. To me. To the world.

Whether it's acting as the Centipede in James and the Giant Peach, giving speeches on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, teaching Sunday School, filming, speaking, or writing, I will be content to share the works of the world with you.

For I am the Teller, and this is my Tale.

The Darkness

Scream into the darkness.

It will not scream back.

Why?

Because your life is insignificant.

Your problems? Insignificant.

Your passions? Insignificant.

You must either learn to accept this...

Or you must learn to change it.

Empty words, considering I've no idea on the how.

But what the hell.

At least I'm breathing.

Somebody Somewhere is Ruining my Life

And he doesn't seem to care.

What can men do against such reckless abandon?

I want to appeal to human sympathy. I want him to stop, for my sake. I know he's never met me in person - I know he has no reason to care for me. But I had hoped that I could appeal to something I thought we all shared. As people.

But I can't.

And that somebody somewhere is ruining my life. He's taking the knife that somebody else thrust, and twisting it for his own personal gain. Not that he stands to gain from my suffering - merely that my suffering is an unavoidable result of his actions.

Only, it's not so unavoidable. All it takes is, as I've said, human sympathy.

I am a dying dog in a dying street. Any time, somebody could walk by and save me.

But if they never come...

If they never come, then the responsibility for my death will pass to that somebody somewhere. Don't you see? I am in pain! Don't you care? I am in pain!

Lord, make me a stone.

The End of a World, Muse - Showbiz

Controlling my feelings for too long

I've always been an emotional person... I'll be moved by a movie or book, and my eyes will moisten. But I'll never let a tear fall.

Controlling my feelings for too long

Sometimes I just need to vent, to reach out and touch the world. To know that I am a force and that force is me, and I can do amazing things.

Controlling my feelings for too long

Sometimes I erupt, and destruction follows in my wake. I look back and smile a half smile. Do you not see? I have just proven my existence.

Controlling my feelings for too long

My actions will create consequences; this is unavoidable. But those consequences create conflict in the now, and in releasing them I free myself.

Forcing our darkest souls to unfold

I must learn to know myself. My whole self. The good and the bad. The right and the wrong.

And forcing our darkest souls to unfold

I must learn to define myself. To rediscover the person I was, and choose the person I will be. But I must have the entire picture. I must know from where I come and to where I am going.

Pushing us into self destruction

In a way, I am creating myself as a monstrosity, only to pick out the best parts and destroy the rest.

Pushing us into self destruction

In a way, I am defragmenting myself, forcing out bad clusters and packing my useful data together. I am creating new spaces within which I can move forward and assimilate new clusters.

And they make me
Make me dream your dreams
And they make me
Make me scream your screams

Insanity mounting, I will endure. To resist is to be targeted - to be targeted is to be in the right. To claim the right is insanity. I will endure.

Trying to please you for too long
Trying to please you for too long
Visions of greed you wallow
Visions of greed you wallow
Visions of greed you wallow
Visions of greed you wallow

I must do something amazing. I must. It is who I am, what I am. It is the air I breathe. It is I who must push onwards, it is I who must face the reality of life, it is I who must forge the hammer to break through the walls of this existence and forge a path into the beginning of the end.

And they make me
Make me dream your dreams
And they make me
Make me scream your screams

I must become a master of the mind. Of my mind, of all minds. I must choose how best to achieve this.

Controlling my feelings for too long
Controlling my feelings for too long
And forcing our darkest souls to unfold
And forcing our darkest souls to unfold
And pushing us into self destruction
And pushing us into self destruction

Faster and faster the memories curl at the edges as they blacken and burn away. But the words will never cease to exist, first found in the rocks of the mountains, they were written with finality, forever destined along their path to this point, whereupon they separate into ash and scatter with the wind. And in the face of the winds, I will scream anew - I will scream freedom.

And they make me
Make me dream your dreams
And they make me
Make me scream your screams

And in finding myself, I will find you. And the drumbeats of our hearts will forever beat into the end of the days. They may beat together - they may not. But the both of them will beat and they will decide us. This is the unalterable truth. This is the mission. This is the passion. This is the end of a world and the building of another. This is me.

Overwhelmed but Moving On

I live in Seattle now. Lots of things have changed. And, in short, I'm overwhelmed by the possibilities that my life holds.

I can do anything I want to.

Or I can fail to do anything at all.

Things I must overcome:

Laziness:

I tell everybody how much I love to write, and then I sit at home and watch movies or play videogames. Because it's easy. And who wants a challenge when you can do something easy? (Answer: Me, at the conscious level. Overcoming the subconscious desire to vegetate is the issue).

Apathy

At times when things cease to go one way or another, it's hard to keep yourself in the game. Again, it's simply easier to just relax, power down, and go with the flow. Apathy is not an aspect of character. APATHY DESTROYS CHARACTER.

Fear of Failure

I fear to write because I fear that I will not be satisfied with what it is that I am writing. I know that this is a paradox broken only by the act itself, yet here I sit paralyzed. Lame!

Fear of Loneliness

This one, though legitimate, is merely a hindrance to my own personal progress. I must (re)learn to be Matt Lund. MMFL. ML10. Dominic Peters and all that jazz. Asa Thibadaux once said "How can I expect anybody to think that I'm a hot commodity if I don't think I'm a hot commodity?" I like that. That's how I used to think. Maybe I'll try it again.