A Mind in Motion

         Music has always had a way with me. It's like it grabs my imagination, with each instrument and rhythmic beat, and takes it on a journey from one story to the next. Often lyrics tell the story the music wants you to know, while instrumental pieces themselves give you the freedom of exploration in interpretation.      There is a particular song, lately, that I have fallen in love with.  Experiences by Ludovico Einaudi  seems to sweep me up, splashing from one scenario into the next like a never ending dreamscape. It doesn't just tug at me artistically, but emotionally as well. The journeys that seem to unfold out of nowhere are beautiful, tragic and achingly honest.      Perhaps it is just the way the strings of the violins come together with the steady pace of the piano. Maybe it's the tender moments of quiet in an otherwise resounding piece that nestle in my mind and begs me along. Maybe I just experience music differently. Either way, it is inspiring and jus

     They carried on--their masks coin bound, their poisons quick, their daggers sharp--the beat of their drums and lyrical guitars swaying bodies in rhythm to deals made in the dark.       Assassins of beauty and grace in the honest lines of smiling faces, they sweep into balls and creep into chambers leaving nothing but ghosts of their misdeeds screaming of plunder.       And always they carry on--moving forward to the next town--to another series of faces enraptured by the mystic of their wagons and temporarily relieved to be free of the sins of their crown.      Their feet never rest, the cloud of Dust that trails behind them never tires--they never hunger for more than their needs, though their hidden treasures rattle with gold and sapphire.      They sing into the night, haunting melodies licked by flames, of days gone by so their history remains. They know not when, if ever, they'll settle, for they are born Travelers and their dead rest along weary roads where their b

     Time Travel fascinates me.      Especially when it is a part of a much bigger notion or tool in a story. It's often used as a means to fix something or reach an axis point where the direction of a moment can be encouraged onto a new path. The conditions or the reasoning are often selfish, even hidden under the guise of doing so for " the greater good" . On rare occasions, the traveler(s) are also curious explorers, fascinated (like me) by the many ripples that exist even within a fraction of a second of time.      But what if a traveler or two are just individuals who have accidentally crossed paths and, drawn by strong emotions, like love, find themselves breaking the barriers of time over and over again to forge moments together? What if they defy the notions that they could never be together like tragic star ( or in this case time) crossed lovers and don't just travel through those ripples but literally build new bridges where none are suppose to exis

     There are certain lines or mingling of words you hear that just reach into you. They inspire, tingle your senses, and tug on your emotions. It's like your mind never realized, until that very moment, that you needed to hear those words, that you had been missing out on their effect upon you. Sometimes they are a line from a book, a lyric in a song, or a simple misunderstanding of words in a conversation that nevertheless stay with you.      For me, it was a song lyric. Apparently the singer has an accent and it was influencing the way I heard the words. It wasn't until I looked it up that I realized I was wrong in what I was hearing and then I was disappointed. The song had moved me, I was drawn to it, but only because I had heard the refrain wrong. Still, I couldn't let the words go. I had to put them down. And then they inspired me on to a second line, to give them a place or purpose that I had previously felt.       "I hold you down like poetry ....in the

An excerpt from The Diary of Mina Lifetimes have passed since I have put words to paper, I dare say even, since I have been brave enough to share my voice with others. Nay, I have not been mute all these years, but I have left my internal struggles unspoken. Until now. I cannot hold the devils tongue that cries so loudly for me to share the world I have come to live in any longer. Though once vial and the damming fiend that took my soul, he is now my only true companion, a lover that has never left my bed nor my side. His whispered desires turned me away from the life I once lead and pulled me across oceans and vast mountainscapes to this still foreign country I call home. As I write this, recounting so many years gone by, I am sharing space with three ghosts who occupy, not just this very room, but so much more than time. Their voices are just as loud as his, each with tales so tragic, so heartbreaking I fear that once I have shared them all I too will break, but I can

Frustration. That is a word I see being used more and more today by audiences, whether they are reading a book, watching a movie or binging on a web and/or tv series. They are frustrated--with the story, the characters, the writing style, the special effects--you name it, they have a frustration about it. Funny thing is, growing up as a kid, a teenager and then as a young adult, I found very little frustrations in stories myself. Even as a budding writer, I had few issues with whatever entertainment caught my interest. So what's changed? Is it us? Is it them? Is it all of the above? I don't know. I've previously talked about the changes I have seen in storytelling on my  tunblr  and how the  Dorothy Implicit Characterization  has been affected by it. But now, sitting here as I've done more writing in the last year than I have since my childhood, I'm wondering about the responsibility of the writer in making sure our character's construct is clear a

     It was everything she never wanted.       Rain pounded down upon the land, muddying the fields and sucking the fallen bodies into temporary graves. Blood continued to stain the sea-foam grass to rust as weapons crashed--flesh tore and bones shattered. There were cries echoing around the cacophony of Battle that chilled your spine like Widowers picking souls free from their corpses.      Her breath billowed like smoke, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession under her soiled gown. Her hands trembled. Her eyes watered. Her knees quaked.       This was the weight of the Crown .       The dying and the orphaned.       The wasted homelands.      The stained soils.      The Broken .      She had promised them freedom--vowed to protect them at all cost.      And they had repaid with their lives.      She huddled in tents, ushered away by her guards, forming strategies and replenishing resources as quickly as they dwindled. She fed the starving, attended to the sick,

      I've always held this visual that Chaos or Tragedy would occur in the most mundane of moments. Not under the threat of an known enemy or by a predictable scale of natural disasters just waiting to let go. For me, it has always been in the quiet--the points of life where it feels just like any other day.      Acoustically, if it were to have a sound, it's the way the leaves rustle in the wind, the long distant wail of a passing midnight train--music echoing off the walls of an office or home as life goes about its daily routine. There is no orchestral build up, no pitch of trumpets or rumble of drums--just life like the movie it isn't.      That's also how I prefer to write it.  Unexpected. In flow with an environment we can all relate to. People exiting their cars to enter grocery stores or dropping their children off at school or getting a sandwich from the local food truck while on their way back to work. I feel it takes, not just the characters, but the r

*WARNING! Adult sexual content to follow. Reader discretion is advised. You don't like it, don't read it. Previously* [Stumbling onto the dias, she pulled away long enough to slap her hand upon a decorative mark accenting her throne and suddenly they were descending, the dias sinking into the floor as their bodies and mouths came together again] By the time the other woman registered the change in location she was tossing her cloak away and yanking her tunic up and out of her breeches. “Where are we?” the girl gasped as she raised her arms to allow her to pull the white material up and off of her completely. The sight of supple full breasts, now free of clothing, had her quite literally dribbling down her legs with need and she felt a whimper, the likes of which she never even knew, leave her. “My bedchamber,” she finally replied, her voice frayed with desire as her hands reached out and practically ripped the snap from the tight breeches, trying to get th

*WARNING! Adult sexual content to follow. Reader discretion is advised. You don't like it, don't read it. Previously* [ “I have come for you and I intend to give you everything you have been waiting for,” she declared between them as their heartbeats found thunder and their eyes flashed like lightning.] This! This creature ! This woman of prime youth and beauty with her skin of peaches and cream and hair of the sun! She felt her! Not just flush against her body, their fingers pressing, their lips scant centimeters apart—but in the depths of soul where its needs had only ever been satisfied temporarily. She was like a Cinder , harmless outside of a fire but here, in her domain where flames of all kind raged, she sparked hungered so ravenous she felt her mouth water with it. “If you....satisfy what needs you have here,” she whispered hoarsely, her breath ghosting onto lips that were just begging for her teeth, “you can never leave here. Those are the rules of

Previously * [Face to face again, the dark woman reached out and gently clasped her warm fingers around her jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. She watched as Honeysuckle colors sparked in amber depths with an energy that shivered across her skin before the woman simply replied, “Indeed.”] The rippling pools ebbed and flowed with the tension building between them, their voices mute as her tender fingers released their hold on her jaw and slowly trailed kinetic paths down her neck to pause at her exposed collarbone before retreating back into her dark cloak. The departure tugged a physical withdrawal from the depths of her spine and she bit her soft pink lips to suppress the whimper that rose up her throat. “What do you desire here that you could not find anywhere else? Besides the obvious, of course,” the older woman asked, her timbered voice an octave deeper and she felt the humming in her veins thrill at the notion she was not alone in this tug of war. “To answer your call

She had come here for many reasons, but her final choice had been because she knew no one else would. The dark woods and glittering hungry eyes that trailed you on the narrow dirt road kept many from even daring to cross into this dense pocket of forest. Travelers whispered tales about the beasts that thrived here and the foolish who had dared to enter yet never return. She cared not. Indeed, it was theses foul creatures themselves in which she sought solace in. They would not harm her. No, they all had their own master they bowed down to, the one she sought most of all amongst them. And she alone was her only concern. Her fair mare of cream and gold, so much like herself, followed willingly behind her, its gentle hooves leaving not even a dusty trail in their wake. It was as if the gentle summer breeze blowing through the arched trees and moonlit grass was erasing any trace of their journey into the consuming Forbidden Kingdom . Crickets passed in varying harmonies until a howl ros

I grew up around the fire stacks, hidden away in the hills surrounded by a thick forest. We were a small community but one held fast to the traditions of hard work and strong family ties. I was there the day the stacks blew and the storm clouds came in. It had never happened before, the two colliding in the sky. We had been preparing for the coming rain, covering our homes and bundling down under pillows and blankets to keep warm. The storms help the stacks cool down, allowing us to work and live around them without the ground getting hot beneath our feet. The clouds arrived like always on the backs of phoenixes. Graceful, vibrant birds with long necks and tails; the Northern phoenix with rich blue feathers like the ocean carried her grey clouds behind her as the Southern phoenix, white like snow, carried her own. It's beautiful to watch them dance in a mating ritual, soaring and circling one another, blending the clouds together in a thunderous release of passion and

     There is always a strong appeal to those who find themselves in reluctant situations and yet rise up to meet them anyway. Or are unaware how powerful and heroic they are because they are narrow sighted in their perception of themselves. These individuals draw us with their torment, humbleness, strength and defeats. Do we envy them? That they are so conflicting they can't help but tell wonderful stories? Or do we ache to be the things they are lacking? The belief to their doubt? The companion to their loneliness? The happiness to their sorrow?      "A sour Knight . An unwilling Queen . Two hearts forged by fire and tears. They felt so feeble and believed in nothing, yet they could shape worlds with their untainted Dreams ..."

     The day had come.       It shouldn't have felt so unexpected. We should have been more prepared. Still, can anyone really pinpoint the exact moment warning klaxons are going to start going off and the Space Station you built was finally breaching? Yeah, you repaired the fissures. You kept everything going, leaving the residences under your care completely oblivious, yet prepared. But you knew this day would come.         It's just that the timing sucks.     The party atmosphere suddenly dies down and soon everyone is looking around. Then their eyes settle on the screens surrounding them and the clipped automated female voice encouraging everyone to climb into the nearest space suit and launch their escape pods. It takes mere seconds and then they are moving, dropping everything as they sprint to the nearest panel where the suits and pods are hidden within the frame work of the station. Dresses, tuxedos, uniforms and ball gowns are ditched as they climb into their suits