Blindfold the New Year?

I serve the tea of certainty
On the distant lakes of sand
Where grow the flowers of the hours
Slipped through Fortuna’s hand

But why? They asked a bit too fast
A daring move for sure
So threw I them a two and ten
But still they wanted more

The time is nigh said calmly I
And tapped my wrist for measure
To wit, they said and we ate bread
Then parted ways with pleasure

--

We have not quite yet passed the post where Janus sits, but it's Monday so what can I do? Happy New Year! At least this way you have a couple days to solve this poem before the ball drops.

An Alternate Ending

And then the house exploded. Shrapnel rained down upon us as the story ceased to make any sense. The alien mother ship, having lain dormant in the ground for a thousand years rose up out of the wreckage in accordance to some Mayan prophecy, its lasers flying. I barely dove out of the way as a green and red beam struck our tree. It burst into flame. I raised a fist in the air declaring that somebody would rue this day and my father pounded his hands on the ground in defeat. We had been so close to having nothing go wrong… so close to a story free of anything ridiculous happening… so close to the deadline before the author went insane.
--

Ever wonder what authors do when they come to a point in the story where they are not sure how best to continue? Suddenly encountering writers block in the middle of a story is no fun, but sometimes it can be made into fun. Thus this little sample.

If my school had a class on how to procrastinate I'd be willing to bet I could pass even if I never got around to doing the homework. Yes, I'm that good at it. The hazard of this when you have a major writing assignment is time and the large crunching noise you get when your procrastination slams you into it at top speed.

And since it's best to actually have my long rambles end up at a destination to keep them coherent, this snip is a combination of writers block and a time crunch. See, I can't really tell you how other writers handle the block, but my method is to just keep writing anyway. Did I take into account that the story this sprung off of was non-fiction? Nope, not at all.

Oh, and Merry Christmas. If you're wondering where the Christmas theme is in this... well the non-fiction story was about my family going to get a Christmas tree. It's really just too long to stick on this blog though. If I split it up we'd all be reading it until the snow surrendered to the tulips.

Things Unowned

Grass, blanketed in snow, sings of dewdrops from Heaven,

Long since have the arrows of birds pierced the sky,

Frogs, deep in the great sleep of hibernation,

Dream of warm tranquil waters, now a lie,

Trees, their arms outstretched, collect the silver lining of the clouds,

While the sky, blazing with new light entrenches,

The horizon, an illusion hidden by mounds of stone,

Peaked by ice sculptures viewed only from natural benches,

Horizontal logs, now recushioned by unbroken softness,

Rekindled glory to the fallen that once paid the toll,

A king of unrealized royalty is one, who leaves these things untouched,

Realizing that the things unowned are what make the world beautiful.

--

Don't tell anybody this, but I nearly forgot it was Monday. After a quick shuffle through some of my old stuff I happened upon this poem. Seems to fit the season nicely. This wasn't a past assignment or anything like a number of some of my previous 'dated' postings have been, more of something I wrote because I was in the mood to write something. I experimented with form a bit here too. I was writing poetically rather than writing a poem, though the end result is about the same.

Project Asclepius

The cell phone hummed again. Gary turned the faucet handle and shook the still clinging moisture from his hands into the sink. He scanned the number.

“Same as before,” Gary mumbled and then jabbed at the power button, holding it down. The phone closed with an irritated flip and he slid it back into his pocket. “Well, there’s my temporary solution.”

“If you’re going to do that there’s no reason to even bring one.” Don said. “Anyway, I’ll go ahead and get us set up. Grab one of the cages when you come alright?”

“Know what Colubrid toxin we’ll be using today?”

“Coral, not sure which species. Just check the handling manifests.”

“Right.”

Don left through the double doors and after a moment of preparation Gary followed. Immediately he was accosted by a familiar pungent aroma. It held an everlasting gloom of a scent that hung about the place like some ghostly pall. As his nose slowly acclimated to the stench, the protest of many birds replaced it, filling his ears. Unlike the odor, this din was more of a recent addition to the labs.

“Project Asclepius has advanced far enough to begin live animal testing,” The project director had announced when the first avian shipment arrived. “Medical immortality may be closer than you think.”

Gary hated that motto. If not for Jennifer’s condition he never would have signed onto this ridiculous project to begin with. He scowled and then paused. A lone dark shape sat pecking at something on the floor before him.

“Hello, Jackdaw,” Gary greeted the bird solemnly. “What are you doing loose?”

“Kak-kak.” The crow tilted its head up at him and then hopped a bit to one side, granting Gary the space to pass.

--

This clip was done as part of a writing assignment for my creative writing class. The teacher called it 'Relay Writing'. Basically, we started with a story and each week we added something to it and passed it along to another student from the class at random. We all started with the same two stories, but by the end of the semester there were several wildly different tales floating around. Almost without variance I declared each week's story worse than the last and impossible to contribute to. And almost without variance each week I was surprisingly pleased with my own additions. Largely my annoyance at what others had done was over the apparent lack of coherence resulting from the story stuttering slightly with each new addition. Despite my griping, it was fun. I can't help but wonder if anyone would be interested in doing something like this with a group of my fellow writing/story blogs.

Once on a Skewer

When the eels slide by I am reminded of that day at the fair. Do you remember our last trip before we came here? I made that dare in front of the booth and the old man behind us said I should be the first to try. They made an 'S' on the skewer, like a dollar sign, and we each took a bite at the same time. It was disgusting, but I pretended it was the best thing since peppermints. I feel sorry for them now. You thought they looked like they were still alive, but once on a skewer nothing lives for long.

--

Found this scribbled in one of my journals. As for what it is about...? Your guess is as good as mine. All I can remember about it was that they were living in some underwater city. From where this left off I'm guessing it wasn't a happy place.