A Mind in Motion

     It wasn't the early morning drive on just a few hours of sleep that had her on edge.      Or the way the radio only seemed to find more static than songs.      It wasn't the lack of traffic on the road--as she was traveling through the country after all, nor the occasional unnecessary amount of pot holes she had to keep avoiding on her way home.      No, it was The Fog .      The all consuming white mist that seemed to let her see just two car lengths ahead, and barely a full car length behind her as she passed through it.      It wasn't like it was unexpected, it was often foggy on her trips home when she had been out and about the night before.      But this one felt different.      Hell, it even smelled different.      Not like damp fallen leaves and wet wood, something that usually said fall was in full swing to her.     ...

     A torrent of rain fell from the broken clouds above, screaming into the night as each drop sizzled against his raging skin. He knelt, pleading into the rapidly warming mud caking his body and clothes for some kind of mercy, but each cell in him continued to burst into flickering wisps of flames.      The pain was maddening, his joints seizing and flexing under the strain like he was a marionette strung tight to a demonic marionettist. Spittle foamed out of his mouth and waves upon waves of colors like churning cinder washed across his vision.      Death had been far more peaceful than this furious rebirth.      His robes, spun from the finest material, burned like wicks, surrounding him in a glowing pulsing light as the individual flames bursting from his skin began to merge and grow together. The air surrounding him was suffocating--billows of colored smoke rising up, tangling themselves with the rain drops that contin...

     There was a rumble in its depths, a Hunger that trembled the earth around it, and teeth--jagged like clustered razors--grinned with awareness. Ancient muscles, stiff from slumber, stretched and rippled across its massive cramped frame. Long toes, tipped with sharp claws the color of midnight, bent and pushed against loose rocks surrounding it, encouraging them to slide and tumble free from the surface walls of the weakened chamber it was in. Fingers that could curl into themselves like rolling tumble weeds, also flexed within its confines--joints popping and claws scratching at granite that had once been a flowing bed of magma.      Eyes, so white even darkness could not dull them out, slowly drifted open like a cluster of fluttering fireflies and finally took in its surroundings. What had once been an almost endless cavern, was now nothing more than a shallow grave.      A guttural sound, much like a trill, echoed up from its depths,...

**Here is a small extract from the prologue of the science fiction piece Sihmarán I've spent the last few years working on. I hope you enjoy it!** The vessel—shaped like a gaunt faced grinning tadpole—bucked and turned on its side as tendrils of fire uncurled themselves and reached out towards it. Scorched cries of frustration vibrated out amongst the stars as the battered ship evaded one searing grasp after another, pushing itself to its straining point, it’s hull rattling as it raced for freedom. She gritted her teeth, her bruised forearm shaking under the fierce grip she had on the side-stick control column as the vessel bucked and rolled again from the gravitational pull of the consuming planet below. The warning klaxons echoed around her as the ship’s systems struggled to hold up under the weight of the fight. But she held on, her eyes focused on the perimeter of space just beyond the planet’s threshold. They were almost there and she refused to fall a...

     Sunlight scattered through vibrant green leaves swaying gently in the soft breeze as it pierced through dense forest treetops and lit the woodland below. The thick scent of wild flowers, moss and pine sap drifted on the wind, wrapping around towering trees and skittering across the noses of scurrying creatures as it journeyed through. The wings of birds flying from one perch to the next echoed in the serenity of nature--murmuring like a heartbeat outward to all approaching it--and the Wolf finally found what it had been looking for.      Yellow eyes flickered over the worn stone that sat nestled in the perfectly formed Fairy Ring , soft grass rustling like gentle touches against its washed out grey surface. The deep grooves carved into the weather worn face swelled with shadows as they circled around the ornate dais, marking it with sacred words so old they could not break across the tongue unless uttered upon the granite alone.      ...

     The first time they filled the air around them had been on the battlefield as they crashed against one another from opposing sides. Blades sparked, skin perspired, muscles flexed and eyes devoured emotions bursting forth like clouds of chaos. Teeth rattled with their amor and words sliced where swords could not, but their hearts echoed in rhythm as they recognized a tether between them.      Through the haze of war, their Lust turned from Blood to Passion and their lips swore to meet again.      The second time was in the dead of night--the air so chilled their breaths billowed like ghosts as they met secretly beneath woodland stars. Shy lips were emboldened by the heresy they were creating, so they filled the cracks within one another--shaping and shifting Passion into Love .      The third time was a knife to the Soul for them both.       Fire danced around them, keeping them divided by the t...

     I don't know what's going on,  I must have gotten' some bad shit, Alice is often a wrong hit.      All I see is breaking down. No queen for me, let her be, I'll take your frown without the crown.      No crows, no feet, no rabbit's teeth, A bottle of hearts, a mushroom tart,      Just a jar, and a game of cards. The walrus, the cat, a courtroom packed.      The Hatter promised, I'm being honest. I didn't know, I wasn't alone.      He said it was tea, just for me, But obviously it wasn't, it's very unpleasant.      I don't know what's going on, I must have gotten' some bad shit, Alice is often a wrong hit.

     The storm raged on around them, encouraging rolling waves to thrash about as if they were dancing to the torrent of emotions spilling across the distance Between Shore and Sea . Words whipped and echoed like arrows across the tides, inflaming sun tanned cheeks and pale skin with blood red passion.      It was to have been a simple affair--no heart and all body.      But as the being had come ashore in the dead of night what felt like a lifetime ago--and settled its charcoal eyes on a beauty carved from mortal flesh and bone watching the stars in wonder--it had felt a daunting pull that spoke of white hot heat and doom.      From that moment forward they had spun a web of Emerald Longing and Golden Wonder around themselves as their bodies twined again and again. By dawn on that very first morning they were unable to draw themselves apart, so they had stayed cocooned, nestled in a world of damp wood, soft sheets and the...

     I've been digging my way out, so much dirt between my fingers, blood streaming down my face.      You'll be sorry for this, I guarantee it.      I will be the one to cast doubt, they'll finally see the true deceiver, and it will be the seal on your fate.      You'll learn repentance, I'll fucking see to it.      I can see your paltry face now, pretending you care with your false demeanor, the swaying of your rosary faking your grace.      You'll never know heaven, there are no demons in it.      There are crimes to take into account, even immortals must pay the holy reaper, an offering of sacrifice must be made.      So take head of the church bells seven, I'm about to start this shit.      Because I'm digging my way out, there's no more dirt beneath this revealer, no more blood in my way.      You'll be sorry for this, I gua...

     There are those that flutter to the bright lights of others. They crave their warmth, their bold, wild spirit--and dance around them, no matter the risk to their personal self.      But there are others, those that are a flicker as well, and they flutter to the sparks of internal combustion --not to hover around them, but to merge with them, to experience their consuming existent.      In the end, they either dissolve into something cohesively new, or tear pieces of each other apart until they leave cinders in their wake.       "I am not a moth. I am a flame seeking to dance with other flames..."

     It was a Tickling Sensation that pulled him from the murky depths of slumber.      Just a slight scratching, a tingling against the back of this throat.      Eyes still closed, he tightened the heavy muscles in his chest and cleared his throat, a wet gurgling bubbling up as he did so--hitting the back of his tongue in sticky acidic warmth.      His brow furrowed as a burning sensation quickly followed, up from his mouth as if it was gas, into his nose--forcing him to take air in deeply and exhale it back out in tiny puffs.      It only worsened though, finally encouraging him to open his sleep crusted eyes.      There was nothing worse than trying to bring yourself into consciousness after a chemically induced sleep. The fog in your brain is so thick, and your body is so sluggish and weighted, you get stuck in this lull between being hyper aware of your surrounding and still feeling like...

     There are secrets even the world cannot express but in the merest whispers--haunting truths that carry heartstrings with them across time, space, and the particles between. These unraveling mysteries phantom themselves into our lives--they pass us in the street, sit beside us in the park, or become an integral part of our being.      They are The Drifters , people who have been lost to the spell of existing in the folds of reality.      You know them, have felt the hair rise on your arms in their presence, breathed in their unnatural air with puzzlement and fascination--and you have loved them and lost them.      We call them lovers, mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers, children and strangers. Their eyes sparkle, their smiles beam, and their hearts soar with such awe that we firmly believe they should be sailing in the skies on strong feathered wings than planted firmly on soil with rooted trees. It is no wonder ...

    The trickles fell slowly, Crimson Sins against porcelain perfection, as they burned tracks past taunt muscles--past rippling tendons--past pulsing nerves, to finally fall free of flexing fingertips into worn porous rock beneath the madness that born them. Each splatter echoed like wretched screams in the silence of the deeply buried cave. No creature, no being, not even the sky could hear her ramblings.      Words bubbled past soft lips like songs spouting out of a child's music box, but they held no rhythm, their jumbled refrains jumping from one tempo to the next with such fevered need that they sparked out like dying fireflies in the suffocating darkness.     She was An Open Wound to the world, her bright wide eyes shimmering with the colors of creation as they sought sight beyond the haunting visions that festered inside of her. She seeped with emotions, their perspiring desires soaking past ornate clothes wrapped like delicate bandages ar...

     He settled on the stone, his crinkled eyes sweeping over the faces gathered around him as he gripped the staff with the gleaming stone perched atop it warily in his hands. It all felt different--like he was suddenly alone, separated from them--and his shoulders curled a bit up and forward as if the sensation had weight and he wished to protect himself. Their stares no longer regarded him as father, grandfather, brother, ally or even enemy. No, they looked at him as something else now--something undefined but necessary.      He did not know what to expect of them and, he suppose in turn, they did not know the same of him as well.      This was all so...well, he had no comparison.      Perhaps, he thought, this was where they should begin.      Lifting his chin up, drawing their attention towards his face, he gestured to the vast plains and jungles around them--his hand slightly cupped to be clear he was d...

     The wood beneath her heeled feet thumped with the beat of the bass as she weaved her way along the far wall between the bodies hugging its graffiti framework and the masses gyrating against one another on the dance floor. The cocktail of scents that drifted from each glistening skin was driving her mad, her nostrils flaring in hunger as her mouth watered and her tongue kept scraping against her teeth. Golden irises flickered over the sea of swaying limbs, the blood pumping in their veins and the pheromones being expelled like pollen in a field of mixed flowers, tugged on threads deep in her belly like magnetic points driven by instinct to one another. She wanted to taste them, to lick the sweat and honey from their bodies, to bring them bucking and writhing against her in ecstasy.      But there was one--so sweet, so spicy, so unlike them--only one, she wanted the most.      In the Shadows of Twilight streaming into the warehouse, acr...

     So I sat watching tv a bit in my free time this weekend, taking in the very few currently airing shows that I like, as well as indulging in ones I have loved in the past. In doing so, I have come to see a shift in storytelling that I'm not fond of--and the more I see of it the less I understand it. There may be a proper term for it floating out there that I haven't seen or heard of yet, but in my little writer world, I'm calling it The Crowded Effect.      I know you have seen it.      I've even heard some of you complaining about it.      I just haven't seen the destructiveness of it until now.      Let's take your favorite show all the way back to season one. You remember that, don't you? The awesome intro to the world of characters A+B+C+whoever else that is the core of the show? The people who will be with us in the beginning, and though not all may make it, the one at the very least who will be ...

     His pen tapped erratically against the creaking oak beneath him--his right foot nestled in worn out docker shoes tapping out an inharmonious rhythm along with it--while his office chair creaked with each rocking of nervous energy as he bounced between the open book in front of him and the figure leaning against his doorframe. Stubble rubbed harshly against the collar of his open sweat stained button down and his nose twitched at the smoke curling up from the still lit cigarette he had put down in the overflowing ashtray just moments again.      But still his attention never wavered between the two entities that had the hairs on his unwashed body raised in alarm.      "An-...and that's all I have to do? That's it?"      He hated how his voice seemed to rasp so loudly in the narrow room, the sound of overwhelming city life somehow muffled out as if there was a bubble around them.      The figure nodded, a ...

     The dust drifted around her boots like a phantom snake slithering across the desert sands as glittering shards of fallen tears crystallized by the sun painted mirages in the distance that tempted her hungry eyes. Her skin prickled at the beads of sweat that railed like scorched rivers across her tanned plains, rolling steadily down into tattered clothes that clung to her aching frame, but she carried onward.      Vultures lurked in the shadows under the thick heat chocking the air, their beady eyes trailing every stumbling step she took, waiting for her knees to sink into the rusted land beneath her one last time. When one got bold enough to try and encourage her back into the grave she had pulled the knife they had so graciously buried into her back and drove it deep into the screaming birds eye, gouging as far as her own pain ran until it fell limp in the trail of her boot prints. None had bothered since to try and get close again.     ...

     He whistled softly as he left his cubical and stepped out into the open hallway, his eyes fixed on the paperwork in front of him that needed copying. The tune he could faintly recall drifted in the air along with the hum of the ducts above pushing recycled stale air out like it would make a difference to the smells that every other office he had ever worked in seemed to create--a melting pot of metal, plastic, food and bodies.      Watching the slight gleam of light kick off from the still rather large device--he often wondered how technology could make smart phones with scanners but copiers still stood like sentries hogging corner space--he caught a glimpse of movement behind him and turned slightly to catch a shadow quickly dart out of sight. It had been getting bolder over the last few weeks, more willing to let him see clearer shapes of its form, but it still kept to itself during the daylight hours.      He hadn't decided yet if ...

     As many of you know, I started the year off with a fresh notebook I intended to fill up with drawings on a daily basis until it was full. It's a simple sketch pad with 70 pages in it and I thought I could easily do a doodle a day as I am often sketching one thing or another. And it was simple, for the first few days, perhaps even into the first few weeks. Then I felt something I had not experience before--a dry well.      It wasn't that my imagination was empty, in fact it daily over flows with ideas and visuals, but my drive, my energy to give them an outlet, started running low. There were many days I only had an hour to get a sketch in and, with so much going on in my life as it was, I felt like I was just dropping little random lines with very little emotion behind them just to say I had done it. Pride is an awful creature that can push you forward when your feet can barely hold you.      It got to the point I had to evaluate wha...

     He remembered the first time he had heard the tale--the Haunting Story of a beautiful woman swallowed by the sea who beckons men with phantom lips to a watery doom--and though he had been but a boy, he had pulsed with heartache. How unfair, he had thought, for such a creature to be lost under the sway of Poseidon. His imagination painted many vast imageries over the years of what she would be like--swirls of cerulean blue, sea foam green with obsidian eyes--and he yearned with curiosity to capture a glimpse of her.      It was no surprise then that, as soon as he was able, he had traded dry land for long nights on rocking wood and sea legs that jellied at ocean born squalls. Wet ropes tore and calloused his young hands, rum became a permanent taste upon his tongue and salt water dripped from his pores. Each night, as the stars glittered above and the lapping waves rocked against the side of weathered wood, he would hang a lantern over the railing of ...