Crimson Azul

As the velvet moon rose to bring in the new day on the land of Azul, Bandarias wiped away his last tear. He swallowed one more gulp of grief and determined in his heart to persevere with hope. He began to dream; a reverie of a bright future with love and family vaguely soaked into his imagination like winter frost on a window pane. Nevertheless his broken heart, over the loss of his dear brother, weighed him down with inescapable dread. He could only wonder how he could manage to notify Garnella, his brother’s beloved wife.

He turned from his place in the desert and began his arduous trek to his brother’s mansion to reveal to a precious woman that she is a widow. He languished as he traversed the barren planes. The waves from the pulsing velvet moon harassed him while he stepped repeatedly as with a ball and chain. When he neared the infamous Nevergreen Forest along the way, he noticed red droplets in the sand—crimson drops that looked like they could only be blood. This raised a haunting suspicion in his mind, even though this territory is known for its wild predatory creatures. He decided to follow the drops to see where they led. As he walked along the murky paths amongst the damp trees and swamps, he began to hear what sounded like heavy breathing in the distance. A trembling panting of breath mingled with weeping gasps. This all compounded into an ominous curiosity and shocking fear. He couldn’t help but think that he could have inadvertently stumbled into the presence of his brother’s murderer.

He followed the sound of the frantic voice, knowing that the person was inevitably hearing his steps approaching. This would put him at a major disadvantage in the event of a confrontation, but he was too curious and furious to care. He was willing to die at this moment, because to him he had already lost his life; his brother. One more step. A bead of saline sweat slides into his eye, increasing his anticipation and raising his heart rate all the more. One more step. “Stop right there!” A crackling voice shouted. Bandarias’s eyes widened with confusion as he was surprised to hear the voice of a woman. “What have you done?!” He replied. “Leave now!” The voice yelled back. “Leave now, GO!” “Noo! Tell me what you have done!” Bandarias screamed with desperation. “Just go!” The woman shouted intransigently. Bandarias was unwilling to come this close and turn away, so he began to run toward the voice. “Noooooo!!” Screaming with rage as he ran, he was bewildered in this moment. What he found was beyond comprehension or any expectation.

He came to a beautiful woman holding a curved, rusty dagger painted red with blood. Her face muddled with dirt and dry blood. Downward streaks leading from her eyes from streams of tears. Her mouth was quivering and her teeth chattering. Bandarias dropped to his knees with his mouth agape, eyes filled with acrid drops. He was stunned; whimpering.

It was Garnella.

#My500Words

Check it, to all my real emcees … ha, no just being silly. This post is about me doing something I want to do yet do not want to do. I am committing to write something every single day for 31 days straight. Not just writing something but writing 500 words each day. It is a plan/method devised by Jeff Goins, I have joined this plan today. This is the prompt for day 1: Commit. Specifically, do so by announcing it. Hence … I have no clue what I’m going to write about. I try to write poetry every day (keyword “try” … *cue Yoda quote*) but it doesn’t always happen. I may try to apply this [attempted] habit to this plan or I might just write randomness. I am thinking about writing parts of a story, as that is something I want to do someday. Write a dope story, as an actual book. Straight up dope creative fiction. I figure this will be a good way to start brainstorming. Yet at the same time I feeel like it might be a waste of such a useful time period of developing this crucial habit. I suppose the mere practice of applying the effort and skill prevents it from being a waste in itself. As I am writing this I am realizing how much five hundred words is. Sheesh. You might have noticed I have stopped using contractions, I have also begun writing out numbers instead of using numerals (e.g. “five hundred” instead of 500). I have also begun inserting parentheticals somewhat unnecessarily (see previous sentence). (Then see precious sentence… again. As in the sentence before this one.) I might also invoke the tendency to use extensive and logorrheic language… wait that’s more letters, not words—useless. I forgot to eliminate the use of contractions in that last sentence, but it is ok because it has served to work out better as I am now explaining that mistake. I sure hope the thirty-one day’s does not go like this because if it does… boy, what a drudgery. I still have so much left to write. Perhaps this is because I am significantly hungry, and tired. My brain feels weary. I am pretty sure this was not supposed to be a free write. I do not even have any kind of paragraph structure or anything in this. If someone is actually reading through this whole thing, I sincerely apologize for what you are witnessing and experiencing. I hope you are a fan of random musings about random musings being writtenly randomly. I know one thing, if I go the route of getting up early everyday for this I better come up with some better material than this. (Note the dual uses of the same word in previous sentence. Actually I am kind of just trying to get to five hundred words faster. Not use of words for number instead of numerals.) Have you ever heard the one about the guy at work, on the tablet… —Oh! Five hundred words.

Ghetto Butterfly

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
Above the dried bloodstains;
Its wings bat away toxic breaths
Perverse and untamed.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz—
Great beauty of little worth.
Through tears gas, dodging bullets
With wings like the Fellbeasts of Middle-earth.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
No smile, no glance, no words to speak.
It wipes away a child’s fresh tear
As it passes by its cheek.

The Passionate Pen

The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.

The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote’s cloak.

‘Tis no quill
Taken from a bird’s nestle.
‘Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.

Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior’s blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat’s salt for eternal preservation.

Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.

An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.

The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.

The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
“Long live the Passionate Pen!”
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.

Just starting

I am just starting this blog. I’ve been intending to write for days but have been traveling and far too tired. I will be blogging soon and frequently though.