It all came before me, as my boat sailed on
A warm, heavy sun fell upon me swiftly,
I had not a clue where I had gone.
The river had suddenly opened up to sea,
And there I was, just paradise and me.
To my left was the grandest of all sights,
A high cliff decorated with waterfalls and vines,
With lush jungle sitting just above the heights.
Clearly a landscape crafted from impeccable designs.
Yes, mine was the greatest of all man’s finds.
The water all about seemed enchanted in some way,
Sparkling with such avidness and glee.
I was in a sea that left me with nothing to say,
My tongue speechless, mind in jubilee.
There was never a moment where I felt so free.
I was happy in this land beyond imagination;
A feeling of peace never before tasted by my lips.
But I knew I’d never again know this sensation,
Though I would have the memory of this, finest of all trips.
And it was then that I saw, in the distance, ships!
Classic frigates floated near the cliff,
Hundreds of feet up, their masts shot into the sky.
Even with just light winds, all their sails were stiff.
Yet the vessels’ appearance were no fright to the eye,
No more than that of a common fruit fly
At the center of them all was a behemoth to be true.
To the clouds and beyond did this one extend,
And just as I saw it, I not only felt, I knew.
My boat was leaving the sea and entering a bend,
I was leaving paradise, my visit at an end.
But, I would remember this place without a doubt.
I’d think about it in class later on and pray,
Praying to be able to remember that route.
That route that led to the deep blue bay.
That bay that I pray above all to return to one day.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
"A Dive into Wet Cement" and "The Pitch (First Edit)"
These two stories cannot be posted onto my blog, so if you would like a copy of either to enjoy, please send me an email @ ghostdj42@gmail.com
A Dive into Wet Cement had to be taken off as a precondition when submitting it to literary journals. It's the story of a teenager teetering on a bridge as part of a rite of passage, while also teetering on the bridge between adolescence and adulthood. Personally considered to be my best story.
The Pitch (First Edit) is a multi-layered story about a writer trying to pitch a story, and so much more. In it, the writer toys around with the conventions of writing a story on his way to pitch it. He's both a character, in two ways, and also the writer. It's complicated, postmodern, and has laughs. If you like Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine of the the Spotless Mind, or Donnie Darko, you'll like this. Hopefully. Because of its varied fonts, strike-throughs, and variety of colors, I couldn't post it in its perfect form on the blog, so I chose not to post it at all.
-blogfully, Derek
A Dive into Wet Cement had to be taken off as a precondition when submitting it to literary journals. It's the story of a teenager teetering on a bridge as part of a rite of passage, while also teetering on the bridge between adolescence and adulthood. Personally considered to be my best story.
The Pitch (First Edit) is a multi-layered story about a writer trying to pitch a story, and so much more. In it, the writer toys around with the conventions of writing a story on his way to pitch it. He's both a character, in two ways, and also the writer. It's complicated, postmodern, and has laughs. If you like Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine of the the Spotless Mind, or Donnie Darko, you'll like this. Hopefully. Because of its varied fonts, strike-throughs, and variety of colors, I couldn't post it in its perfect form on the blog, so I chose not to post it at all.
-blogfully, Derek
Monday, July 13, 2009
I'll Meet You in Dreams
I'm in a place I've seen before. I've never been there, per se, but I have seen it. I think I'm in a level of a video game that I've played before, something like a World War II game. I'm walking along, carefully watching my feet, planting on foot in front of the other as if I'm doing a sobriety test.
You're there above me, to my right, walking along a ledge like a gymnast on the balance beam. Your hair is down, aside from a few hair clips, and the winds that come along blow it around and give you the aura of a goddess. As in most dreams, I don't know how I know things, I just know them. I'm taking you to the train station to see you off. This I know, though neither of us have made mention to it. The carnal thoughts in my mind begin to multiply, and I can barely hold back my feelings for you.
You begin asking me conditional questions, "Would you love me if..."
To each one I say, "Yes." To each "Yes" your smile grows brighter than all the sun's rays. I've never seen you smile that big in reality, and the sight causes me to freeze in my steps. You're so incredibly beautiful when you smile like that.
We turn the corner and find ourselves at platform where we must go our separate ways. You turn to me. The tension between us grows. Your face flushes. I look at your lips; a lighter shade of rose. I have so many things to say, but there's no need. We both know it's inevitable now. We know it's now or never. We move closer than ever.
Our lips, about to come together at last. My heart races, knowing it's you I'm about to feel. The first encounter is ever so brief, with my bottom lip brushing your top. We separate and look at each other in surprise. We've finally kissed. Now let's never stop. Let our next one last forever. My left hand find the bottom of your back, the right one finds your thigh.
This is the greatest feeling in my life. We're not thinking, we're just doing. That's how we know what is between is real. I make my way to your neck but then it strikes me: I can go no further. I must come to halt. You have to go and so do I. Our chins hover just above each other's shoulders. We must depart.
More than anything, I want to commit the greatest sin, to just to stay with you and touch my lips to your skin.
Instead, I smile at you in a reassuring way. At the very least, we've taken that next step, and for that I should be happier than any man alive. One last look into your eyes and I take my leave. As good as this dream is, I must go, I must go wake up. I leave you standing there, watching me walk away. We can't see each other now, but we both know we're smiling.
And then I wake up.
_______________________
I walk out of my room and into the kitchen, looking for a midday snack. Before I reach the fridge, I look out the back door and see you there. You've returned to me. I can't believe it, to be honest, and I just stare with a slack-jaw in your direction. You're shooting me that smile from that night at the train station. That smile breaks me from my spell. I rush to the door and jump outside to see you. You take a step forward and we meet. We embrace in a full body bind. I just keep thinking in my head, "I love you, I love you, I love you." I pull back so I can get a look at your face.
Though it's only been one day in between my dreams of seeing you, it's felt like ages. You're wearing those glasses that I adore, the ones that make you look devastingly brilliant, which you are.
You begin asking a thousand questions. I cock my head to the right as I listen to you, barely hearing the questions, but losing my breath at the soothing and comforting sound of hearing your voice again. I nod my head and recall saying, "Really?" to something you say. The only question I remember fully is when you ask if I saw you in the paper.
"I did. It was lovely."
This sudden surprise appearance has caught me off-guard, however, and I realize it's but a dream again. You're slipping away from me quickly. Your visage fades to white. I'm losing you again, with only a fleeting memory to take with me.
I love you dearly. Goodbye.
I've awoken.
You're there above me, to my right, walking along a ledge like a gymnast on the balance beam. Your hair is down, aside from a few hair clips, and the winds that come along blow it around and give you the aura of a goddess. As in most dreams, I don't know how I know things, I just know them. I'm taking you to the train station to see you off. This I know, though neither of us have made mention to it. The carnal thoughts in my mind begin to multiply, and I can barely hold back my feelings for you.
You begin asking me conditional questions, "Would you love me if..."
To each one I say, "Yes." To each "Yes" your smile grows brighter than all the sun's rays. I've never seen you smile that big in reality, and the sight causes me to freeze in my steps. You're so incredibly beautiful when you smile like that.
We turn the corner and find ourselves at platform where we must go our separate ways. You turn to me. The tension between us grows. Your face flushes. I look at your lips; a lighter shade of rose. I have so many things to say, but there's no need. We both know it's inevitable now. We know it's now or never. We move closer than ever.
Our lips, about to come together at last. My heart races, knowing it's you I'm about to feel. The first encounter is ever so brief, with my bottom lip brushing your top. We separate and look at each other in surprise. We've finally kissed. Now let's never stop. Let our next one last forever. My left hand find the bottom of your back, the right one finds your thigh.
This is the greatest feeling in my life. We're not thinking, we're just doing. That's how we know what is between is real. I make my way to your neck but then it strikes me: I can go no further. I must come to halt. You have to go and so do I. Our chins hover just above each other's shoulders. We must depart.
More than anything, I want to commit the greatest sin, to just to stay with you and touch my lips to your skin.
Instead, I smile at you in a reassuring way. At the very least, we've taken that next step, and for that I should be happier than any man alive. One last look into your eyes and I take my leave. As good as this dream is, I must go, I must go wake up. I leave you standing there, watching me walk away. We can't see each other now, but we both know we're smiling.
And then I wake up.
_______________________
I walk out of my room and into the kitchen, looking for a midday snack. Before I reach the fridge, I look out the back door and see you there. You've returned to me. I can't believe it, to be honest, and I just stare with a slack-jaw in your direction. You're shooting me that smile from that night at the train station. That smile breaks me from my spell. I rush to the door and jump outside to see you. You take a step forward and we meet. We embrace in a full body bind. I just keep thinking in my head, "I love you, I love you, I love you." I pull back so I can get a look at your face.
Though it's only been one day in between my dreams of seeing you, it's felt like ages. You're wearing those glasses that I adore, the ones that make you look devastingly brilliant, which you are.
You begin asking a thousand questions. I cock my head to the right as I listen to you, barely hearing the questions, but losing my breath at the soothing and comforting sound of hearing your voice again. I nod my head and recall saying, "Really?" to something you say. The only question I remember fully is when you ask if I saw you in the paper.
"I did. It was lovely."
This sudden surprise appearance has caught me off-guard, however, and I realize it's but a dream again. You're slipping away from me quickly. Your visage fades to white. I'm losing you again, with only a fleeting memory to take with me.
I love you dearly. Goodbye.
I've awoken.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Why Pittsburgh Always Loses - A Lesson
A boy and his father have just finished watching Game 2 between the Detroit Red Wings and the Pittsburgh Penguins. The boy, inquisitive, turns to his father.
"Dad, why are the Penguins losing all the time?"
The father smokes his fancy pipe for a moment before answering his young son's question.
"Well, son," the father begins, "For starters, the Penguins are captained by a preteen boy, not much older than yourself. That's Sidney Crosby, the little fella out there with the scruffy facial hair getting double-teamed all the time. See, our captain, Nick Lidstrom, is an experienced veteran who earned his captainship by playing for years as an intelligent defensemen and one of the best in the game, not because the NHL executives, especially Commissioner Bettman, hyped him beyond belief as being the poster child and future of the league when really Mr. Ovechkin of the Capitals is. Oh, also, Lidstrom's a future Hall of Famer."
"But their captain got a lot of points during the season. Why isn't he doing anything?"
"Good question. Easy answer. It's because he doesn't play Detroit 82 times a year, otherwise you wouldn't see those kinds of numbers. Also, Crosby isn't good enough to handle Detroit defense, which is widely-regarded as being the most efficient for nearly a decade now. Zetterberg and Lidstrom in particular make neutralizing Crosby look like a breeze."
"Neutralizing?"
"It means to make Crosby look like he's never played hockey against a professional team before."
"Oh...so that's why they're losing?"
"Oh no no no, buddy. There's a lot more."
"Like what?"
"The Penguins' leading scorer, Evgeni Malkin, is also the Hunchback of Notre Dame."
"Like in that Disney movie! He's Quasimoto!"
"Exactly. His face is grotesque, but because the Wings have been playing ugly mugs like him for so long, his face has no effect on them. During the regular season, defensemen would move out of his away to avoid looking at him, giving Quasimoto...er...Malkin, an open lane to score all the time. But our guys, like Zetterberg, aren't afraid of him, and will even fight him, like you saw at the end of the game."
"But Zetterberg was defending Ozzie after that bad guy knocked him down after the whistle. Why didn't Malkin like that?
"Because Malkin isn't a classy player, and he's upset that his team is doing so badly. You know how you get mad because you can't beat your video games and you slam your controller on the floor?"
"Yeah."
"That's why he got mad, because Detroit is like your video game, set on 'All-Star,' and Malkin and the Penguins aren't good enough to beat them, so they get mad and push and fight."
"So...the Penguins are losing because Crosby isn't experienced enough to lead his team, isn't good enough to beat Detroit's defense, and because Detroit isn't afraid of Malkin."
"That's right, and because Malkin doesn't have the discipline to control himself when his team is doing bad."
"Ok. What about their goalie? Why does he let in so many goals that Ozzie would stop?"
"That's another good question, pal. Marc-Andre Fleury is a good goalie, but he isn't a great goalie, and has a tendency to let in easy goals that even your mother could save with her Ove-Glove. He doesn't have the kind of mindset to get over those goals, so once he messes up, he keeps messing up. Oh, also Detroit's offense is relentless and has immense depth, meaning anybody on our team is a scoring threat. That means that Fleury never gets to rest and must always be afraid, which he is already."
"He's afraid?"
"Very. Remember last year when he fell coming out onto the ice?"
"Hahaha yeah! That was funny!"
"That's a tip-off to how anxious and nervous he was to play the Red Wings. A year later he's still afraid of us."
"Wow. Is that all?"
"They also have a player on their team named Satan. Which is spelled S-A-T-A-N, just like Satan. And what did we learn in church?"
"Satan never wins!"
"That's right! And neither does the team he plays on."
"Dad, what about Marian Hossa?"
"What about him, buddy?"
"Why did he leave to come play with us?"
"Well, a lot of folks say it was because he wanted to play with a team that had the best chance to win a Stanley Cup, which is partly true, but also because he realized all the stuff I just taught you right now. That with a little boy leading the team, a half-man half-Picasso painting leading in points, a sissy-pants-wetting goalie in net, and Satan on the ice, that Pittsburgh would never help him win a Cup. So he came to Detroit."
"Wow, Hossa's smart!"
"He sure is, son. That's why he's wearing the Red and White."
"Pittsburgh doesn't seem like they have a good chance to win this series, Dad."
"No chance to be honest. Wings in 5."
The father goes back to smoking his pipe and watching the post-game show, but the son has one more question.
"Dad, is Mickey Redmond crazy?"
The father puts his pipe back down.
"This is going to take a while, son. You might want to go get some ice cream."
"YAY!"
"Dad, why are the Penguins losing all the time?"
The father smokes his fancy pipe for a moment before answering his young son's question.
"Well, son," the father begins, "For starters, the Penguins are captained by a preteen boy, not much older than yourself. That's Sidney Crosby, the little fella out there with the scruffy facial hair getting double-teamed all the time. See, our captain, Nick Lidstrom, is an experienced veteran who earned his captainship by playing for years as an intelligent defensemen and one of the best in the game, not because the NHL executives, especially Commissioner Bettman, hyped him beyond belief as being the poster child and future of the league when really Mr. Ovechkin of the Capitals is. Oh, also, Lidstrom's a future Hall of Famer."
"But their captain got a lot of points during the season. Why isn't he doing anything?"
"Good question. Easy answer. It's because he doesn't play Detroit 82 times a year, otherwise you wouldn't see those kinds of numbers. Also, Crosby isn't good enough to handle Detroit defense, which is widely-regarded as being the most efficient for nearly a decade now. Zetterberg and Lidstrom in particular make neutralizing Crosby look like a breeze."
"Neutralizing?"
"It means to make Crosby look like he's never played hockey against a professional team before."
"Oh...so that's why they're losing?"
"Oh no no no, buddy. There's a lot more."
"Like what?"
"The Penguins' leading scorer, Evgeni Malkin, is also the Hunchback of Notre Dame."
"Like in that Disney movie! He's Quasimoto!"
"Exactly. His face is grotesque, but because the Wings have been playing ugly mugs like him for so long, his face has no effect on them. During the regular season, defensemen would move out of his away to avoid looking at him, giving Quasimoto...er...Malkin, an open lane to score all the time. But our guys, like Zetterberg, aren't afraid of him, and will even fight him, like you saw at the end of the game."
"But Zetterberg was defending Ozzie after that bad guy knocked him down after the whistle. Why didn't Malkin like that?
"Because Malkin isn't a classy player, and he's upset that his team is doing so badly. You know how you get mad because you can't beat your video games and you slam your controller on the floor?"
"Yeah."
"That's why he got mad, because Detroit is like your video game, set on 'All-Star,' and Malkin and the Penguins aren't good enough to beat them, so they get mad and push and fight."
"So...the Penguins are losing because Crosby isn't experienced enough to lead his team, isn't good enough to beat Detroit's defense, and because Detroit isn't afraid of Malkin."
"That's right, and because Malkin doesn't have the discipline to control himself when his team is doing bad."
"Ok. What about their goalie? Why does he let in so many goals that Ozzie would stop?"
"That's another good question, pal. Marc-Andre Fleury is a good goalie, but he isn't a great goalie, and has a tendency to let in easy goals that even your mother could save with her Ove-Glove. He doesn't have the kind of mindset to get over those goals, so once he messes up, he keeps messing up. Oh, also Detroit's offense is relentless and has immense depth, meaning anybody on our team is a scoring threat. That means that Fleury never gets to rest and must always be afraid, which he is already."
"He's afraid?"
"Very. Remember last year when he fell coming out onto the ice?"
"Hahaha yeah! That was funny!"
"That's a tip-off to how anxious and nervous he was to play the Red Wings. A year later he's still afraid of us."
"Wow. Is that all?"
"They also have a player on their team named Satan. Which is spelled S-A-T-A-N, just like Satan. And what did we learn in church?"
"Satan never wins!"
"That's right! And neither does the team he plays on."
"Dad, what about Marian Hossa?"
"What about him, buddy?"
"Why did he leave to come play with us?"
"Well, a lot of folks say it was because he wanted to play with a team that had the best chance to win a Stanley Cup, which is partly true, but also because he realized all the stuff I just taught you right now. That with a little boy leading the team, a half-man half-Picasso painting leading in points, a sissy-pants-wetting goalie in net, and Satan on the ice, that Pittsburgh would never help him win a Cup. So he came to Detroit."
"Wow, Hossa's smart!"
"He sure is, son. That's why he's wearing the Red and White."
"Pittsburgh doesn't seem like they have a good chance to win this series, Dad."
"No chance to be honest. Wings in 5."
The father goes back to smoking his pipe and watching the post-game show, but the son has one more question.
"Dad, is Mickey Redmond crazy?"
The father puts his pipe back down.
"This is going to take a while, son. You might want to go get some ice cream."
"YAY!"
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Warwolf
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warwolf
Towering in height, to the Brits t’was a sight
And they christened it the loup-de-guerre.
It would frighten their foe, and leave them in woe
But as in love, all in war is fair.
Quite a distance it could throw, and to Scotland it would go
By order of Edward the King.
Stones three hundred pounds or more, would be sent in the air to soar
With just the lightest fling.
Approaching the castle Stirling, it was ready to do its hurling
Only to be told to halt.
The Scots caught its eye, and rather than die
Asked that there’d be no assault.
The battle had not even begun, but the Brits had it won
And the conflict had been defused.
But as the swords fell, Edward let out a yell,
“Fire!”
Saying, “I’d still like to see it used.”
Towering in height, to the Brits t’was a sight
And they christened it the loup-de-guerre.
It would frighten their foe, and leave them in woe
But as in love, all in war is fair.
Quite a distance it could throw, and to Scotland it would go
By order of Edward the King.
Stones three hundred pounds or more, would be sent in the air to soar
With just the lightest fling.
Approaching the castle Stirling, it was ready to do its hurling
Only to be told to halt.
The Scots caught its eye, and rather than die
Asked that there’d be no assault.
The battle had not even begun, but the Brits had it won
And the conflict had been defused.
But as the swords fell, Edward let out a yell,
“Fire!”
Saying, “I’d still like to see it used.”
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Lifting the Veil
I sprint through a paradise in disguise.
The vegetation is truly lush, perfect
For quiet admiration, but here I rush.
Threatening are the above skies.
Clouds swirl and forebode, intimidate
My senses as they swell; ready to explode.
My breathless running brings a burn to my thighs.
The soft ground flattened by my pounding strides, blinding
Pain cuts into me and attacks my insides.
The sting takes away the vision from my eyes.
But still on I go with all remaining might, undeterred
By these limitations that have cost me my sight.
Slowing down would be my certain demise.
The storm roars to life with thunderous barks, danger
On the rise, circling me like hungry sharks.
Rain hammers down, the downpour grows in size.
I pray for shelter before the lightning arrives, striking
Me by surprise like a million white-hot knives.
This is the Seventh Circle with the Garden as its guise.
I feel its wrath as I continue to run, begging
For its end and to again feel the warm embracing sun
The winds come to life as I whisper my goodbyes.
I fall down to my hands and knees, seeing
Now that eating from the Trees was not so wise.
The vegetation is truly lush, perfect
For quiet admiration, but here I rush.
Threatening are the above skies.
Clouds swirl and forebode, intimidate
My senses as they swell; ready to explode.
My breathless running brings a burn to my thighs.
The soft ground flattened by my pounding strides, blinding
Pain cuts into me and attacks my insides.
The sting takes away the vision from my eyes.
But still on I go with all remaining might, undeterred
By these limitations that have cost me my sight.
Slowing down would be my certain demise.
The storm roars to life with thunderous barks, danger
On the rise, circling me like hungry sharks.
Rain hammers down, the downpour grows in size.
I pray for shelter before the lightning arrives, striking
Me by surprise like a million white-hot knives.
This is the Seventh Circle with the Garden as its guise.
I feel its wrath as I continue to run, begging
For its end and to again feel the warm embracing sun
The winds come to life as I whisper my goodbyes.
I fall down to my hands and knees, seeing
Now that eating from the Trees was not so wise.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
End my Agony
Frustrating woman, you really confuse me
Your words and actions constantly lose me
I’m like Sherlock Holmes
And you’re my unsolvable mystery.
You have left me positively perplexed
Unable to sleep and thoroughly vexed
Wanting to punch walls and wondering,
“Why the fuck does this have to be so complex?”
You’re oh so flirty but I still don’t know your intent
Even after all our discussions and messages we’ve sent
You have to tell me who you see me as
Am I a Superman or just another Clark Kent?
Not knowing the answer, I’m left uncertain in the dark
Waiting for the flame to ignite, because there’s already a spark
Yet, for the time being at least, you’ve gone and chosen him
I doubt he means anything to you, but I’ll go out on a limb
And guess that you’ve chosen this guy for some specific reason
Whatever the hell it is, it leaves me feeling downright grim.
But damn it all, you’re still the most incredible woman I know
You’re prettier than Portman with a mind more beautiful than Crowe
And as much as I should cut my losses
I know
You’re the one for me and I just can’t let you go.
Your words and actions constantly lose me
I’m like Sherlock Holmes
And you’re my unsolvable mystery.
You have left me positively perplexed
Unable to sleep and thoroughly vexed
Wanting to punch walls and wondering,
“Why the fuck does this have to be so complex?”
You’re oh so flirty but I still don’t know your intent
Even after all our discussions and messages we’ve sent
You have to tell me who you see me as
Am I a Superman or just another Clark Kent?
Not knowing the answer, I’m left uncertain in the dark
Waiting for the flame to ignite, because there’s already a spark
Yet, for the time being at least, you’ve gone and chosen him
I doubt he means anything to you, but I’ll go out on a limb
And guess that you’ve chosen this guy for some specific reason
Whatever the hell it is, it leaves me feeling downright grim.
But damn it all, you’re still the most incredible woman I know
You’re prettier than Portman with a mind more beautiful than Crowe
And as much as I should cut my losses
I know
You’re the one for me and I just can’t let you go.
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