Friday, July 31, 2009


Horn of Neverwhen-31,833; not yet finished.
Wizard's Alchemy-138,564
Love By Nightfall-15,055

*and various other stories, unfinished.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Being Hated.

My friend draws tattoos on women with 
bodies like spiders.
He says it makes him happy.
Every day I tell him he is a good person,
that he has a good heart.
He says he knows this.
One way or another, he says, the world is like
a sheet of glass-you can either look
through it or break it down,
but if you break it down, your knuckles
won’t survive the bust.
I don’t know how to do anything.
I am a writer; it’s what I do.
It doesn’t even put food on my table.
I try to write about nature; about birds
and bees and pirates.  It never comes out
right.  My friend, who is an artist,
always has the upper hand-
he’s the kind who smokes cigarettes
on occasion, and can make friends in
every situation, even though he knows
they are part-time friends, not real friends
that people really need.  
Somehow, I always make
enemies.  I wear glasses; they are like two
sheets of glass.  But it doesn’t make me
feel better.  Nothing does.  I still make
the music, still eat the food, 
even though it’s disgusting and I feel like
throwing it up, feel like smoking weed
and drinking booze and I never do.
Nothing ever works out the way I want it to.
People hate me more than average.

The Last Boat.

The boat goes around and around in a circle
in the middle of a lake that is polluted
and filled with broken bottles.
Rain has been falling every day for a week.
The weatherman says it’s going to be a scorcher
every day in September, but I don’t believe a
word of it.
I told you about the tattered magazines I found
in the alleyway, how they were torn up and thrown
away by a man who hated the government,
who despised the U.K. and Israel.
He used to be a lawyer, an attorney,
and was fired by his boss for being late on three
occasions.  The man wanted to sue him but
he fled the country, perhaps to South America.
No one has seen him since then.
The boat still goes around and around in a circle
in the middle of a lake that is polluted,
and the president declares an emergency on India;
while, somewhere in Ohio, an old man watches
the news and cries over his granddaughter who
was lost in a storm.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009


I submitted some poems to a magazine called "Five By Five."  Waiting for a rejection.

My vampire story is now 14,341 words right now.

Monday, July 27, 2009

the fir trees glare down at me.

the fir trees glare down at me
from afar, from where I sit on the porch,
leafing through old letters you sent
to me.   my tears blot the page.
I sit on my feet,
humming a melody.  I can’t think
when the wind is moaning like
moaning like a river frothing
at the mouth.  moaning like
some giant dog.

you came up the mud bank,
your hair glistening,
as if you had just gone for a swim.
I know you were at home,
taking a shower,
getting ready for the day.
you smile at me, and words fall prettily
from your purple mouth.
I catch a scent of your perfume
in the palm of my hand.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

The Word, "Love."

The word love should not be thrown 
around lightly-
it should not be taken into consideration
unless you speak about the lions
in their dens,
about the genius of a blank page.
I guess you could say that I have
angered the gods.
My shoes are not on too tight.
My heart is broken and misused.
I could not stay away from
the cub,
could not believe the words
that drifted in the fog.
Being on tv will do that to you,
especially if your words are in the media,
especially if you walk in a straight line.
I come home every day after work
and kick back and relax and
look at the newspaper.
Sometimes, my mind is beyond my grasp.
Sometimes, I don’t know where I should 
I see faces in front of me,
but they won’t speak aloud.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Blurb for Keep Her Safe.

Who stole Sarah’s prize diamond necklace?
Sarah, the wife of a rich businessman, is flabbergasted when the famous necklace she received from Princess Victoria is stolen right from under her. Realizing she showed it to the maid, Mona Verion, before the burglary, the woman is fired from her job and the entire manor is re-staffed. With the help of Mona’s boyfriend, Shawn Parker, and a snotty, boisterous lawyer, she is bailed out of jail; Sarah apologizes for the accusations, and re-hires her on the spot. Intent on making things right between her and her boss, and determined to show her innocence, she goes on a search to help her find the missing diamonds and clear her name-once and for all.

I have about 5,000 words on this new story; I want to send it to For some reason, literary agents tire me at the moment. I think.

It Won't Work, Melissa.

There was the time Melissa tried to get me into a singing career; there was that agent at the Billowing Pig, who knew someone in Hollywood who knew some casting director at American Idol and was looking for new faces. I don't care about Hollywood. I care about reading books. So, Melissa, if you are reading this, no, I am not going to be an actress or a singer in Hollywood, no matter how well I sing. I'd rather learn how to make birds out of loose leaf paper. I'd rather learn how to make paper cranes.

Published here:

Thursday, July 16, 2009

On rejections.

Rejections from "Flash Fiction Online" and "Uglycousin." They say it varies by taste, but you know it has to do with popularity. My name is not popular; and if you don't learn things exactly how they want you to do things at college, you're pretty much screwed if you're a genius or prodigy or if you simply like to learn (which pretty much constitutes for a genius nowadays).

If you want to know why certain things sell and others do not, it is because most products are so simple that an IDIOT could understand it. They don't care about knowledge or talent-American Idol is a prime example. Even names like Michael Jackson or Matt Damon or "baseball" are simple words that the average American can understand. It is quite fascinating, really, I have always wanted to do a study on linguistics and the game theory. It's all about the money. If I had gotten money for the ideas I gave away, I would be able to get published or get a job or go to school anywhere I want. I do have some dignity, thanks, people who are actually intelligent DO have a sense of responsibility to maintain.

Say you made up a word and used it in one sentence a month for a year. Less than 7% of the people you encounter would be able to pick up on the fact that it's NOT a real word. And how many people have actually read a Stephen King novel? Not many. Some buy it to impress their friends. Poetry is a lot worse off, no one understands it, and therefore, no one accepts it. I mean, JEWEL published a book of poems for the love of God! I should just throw in my towel right now.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

All the Good Deeds in the World.

All the good deeds in the world have been done-cashed in
Like a check, I am using the pen my grandfather gave me,
Blue with a flashlight on the end of it. Saturday you came
And we went to the grocery store and ordered salami from
A red-headed hooker whose mind was somewhere else,
Probably on fucking a man in a yellow suit, who can’t sing
With a damn.
At a J. Geil’s concert, my aunt sits between an old woman
Who looks like a duck and has a bad hair perm, ignoring
The stench of too much perfume. I am calm in my mannerism,
Trying not to become one of the faceless voids in the crowd,
Trying to be polite, trying not to cast myself out.
People act like
Zombies without an original thought in their head. I wonder if
They like it. I wonder if their moods change from day to day,
If they are happy about their life, if they are proud of what they
Have done.
I am not proud, I am disgusted, self-loathing, and insecure,
Wallowing in my own self-pity of acceptance. I try to fit in and give
Up, force myself to do good deeds. You say I am ridiculous,
That I can’t see past a brick wall.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009


I cannot be who you want me to be.
My body is ever-changing, like a sapling
Rising from the ground, like the sun
Dripping gold over the horizon.
Shadows whisper and wan. My mood has
Changed. I am a blue-collared mongrel,
You say, and a fiend and I am hungry,
Wanting bread, maybe a hot dog with yellow
Mustard dripping from the edges of it.
I cannot be who you want me to be.
My body is ever-changing, ever crying,
Filled with pieces of information, skin cells,
And a lung.
Every day is just like the one before.
I have no family. I am homeless, without
A man, without a label-I quit my job as a waitress
Last week, my last check has been cashed.
I beg for change on a street corner, pretending
I am someone.


And now I am writing a tv pilot about vampires....buahahhahahahaahahahaahhaha.

Monday, July 13, 2009


I wish I had my characters back.

I was just trying to learn how to write a story. :/

Sunday, July 12, 2009


Now I am working on four projects-

The Great Panda Mystery (script)
Wizard's Alchemy (novel)
How To Say I Do (script)
By Nightfall (novella)

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Wizard's Alchemy: Sebastian and the initiation.

The shadows stretched low over the land as Sebastian Monteserrio walked towards the ruins, afraid and frightened of what might transpire in the next few seconds, the next few minutes, the next hour. It was said that these initiations were terrible things that changed men forever. The Elves had an easier time with it because they adapted more easily to magic. Sebastian despised magic. He glanced up at the sky. A full, silver moon rose above him, throwing shadows in front of him and not behind him or to the side. He did not want to be here. But Alira, the love of his life, was in constant danger and he had to do something-anything-to protect her. This was the only thing he could think of.
The Dark Wizard looked at him, his expression grim. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Sebastian swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes,” he whispered, his words so low he could barely get the words past his throat. Tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes and he could not cry, could not let the tears fall. He hated crying in front of people. A bat flew overhead. He jumped.
“Where is the Gate?”
“You must walk up to the ruins of the monument, and put your hand inside it,” he answered, “and then you must try to pull the key out of the lock. If you are able to pull out the key, you are a real Dark Knight. If not, we will cast you into the Wild Blue.”
“What’s the Wild Blue?”
“It’s a skeleton graveyard beyond the ruins. Some survive; most do not.”
“Why not?” Sebastian asked.
“It is hard to find food and water. All the trees are dead; monsters roam the land like shadows.”
Sebastian nodded. “Thanks for the four one-one.”
Crandek smiled. “Anytime,” he replied. “Now, you must go.” He glanced behind him. Sebastian followed his gaze. Nothing but darkness was seen. It made him afraid. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Several Dark Elders clustered around him, chanting an odd, haunting melody that reverberated in the back of their throats, and a terror unlike anything he had ever known filled his soul and clawed at the back of his mind.
The words were this:
“Annatey-arah, kain, tarenmen, ahwie, ehuil, sarahpah,
Arahd, silvea tei lein nah anah fuan!
Harah ney anah dah,
Gorah Hepah haun!”
The wind picked up, faster and faster, until a howl of voices surrounded him. All at once he imagined fingers grabbing him, the invisible fingers of ghosts. Sebastian nearly passed out. A Dark Elder steadied his shoulder. He wanted to scream at them, Don’t touch me! And couldn’t. He was frightened, and it was no wonder, for he was in the land of ghosts. A hand steadied his shoulder. War made it all the worse.
He glanced at Crandek. "I must go by myself," he said. The Dark Elder smiled, his teeth full of cragged, yellow bone. "That's the plan," he replied.
Sebastian shuddered. He hated Crandek. The man was more evil than the others. He did not know why, but he felt it deep in his soul. Stay away from this man, his mind whispered. His heart obeyed.
“Not all apprentice knights are cast out,” Crandek continued. “Therefore, we will give you one weapon. A dagger.” A flick of his wrist and a dagger appeared in his hand where there wasn’t any before. Sebastian was impressed. It wasn’t every day he saw something appear where nothing was before.
“It contains magic,” Crandek continued. “A spell was put over it to help you if you’re cast into the wild. Don’t take it as an insult. Not all apprentices make it.” One of the Dark Elders snorted. Sebastian glanced at him. That was the only sound he made.
“I’ll take it,” he said. He put the dagger in the empty sheath around his waist and moved forward.
A Dark Knight pushed him behind. Laughter reached his ears. He glared at them. “Stop it!” he hissed. “I’m going, I’m going.” He hobbled forward, reminding himself not to make friends with darkness. The ruins of the monument rose large and proud above them.
The monument, that of Merlin the Wise, had been several stories high. Up until seven hundred years ago, when a cannon had blown it up-or at least, that’s what everyone else said.
Sebastian believed it was magic that took out the great and terrible thing; whether he liked magic or not, he knew it existed, and that terrified him even more. Most of the statue still remained intact except for the front of the statue, the door that lead to somewhere Sebastian couldn’t see, and the arms had been chopped off. Most of the buildings around it had been destroyed, but a silver key protruded from the door of the monument. There were eight Merlins that had roamed the land since the first Merlin came to this world.
They are: Merlin the Wise, Merlin the Tall, Merlin the Grand, Merlin the Great, Merlin the Second, Merlin Shartenz, Merlin Oray Bradlin, Merlin the Green, Merlin the Elder.
Only the original Merlin was the most famous, and had done the most magic. Sebastian wasn’t sure if he hated the man or feared him. Some say he was still alive, even though seven thousand years had passed since he took his last breath. Sebastian began to tremble. He wanted to turn around and run, but he was trapped.
The Dark Knights would seek him out, and destroy him, if he did that. A person who did not pass the initiation would be instantly killed. He did not like these rules, but there was nothing he could do to change their wicked ways. Beat ‘em or join ‘em, had been King Og’s saying in 2123 BEC, in order to get men to join the army. It worked. Thunder rumbled overhead.
A cloud of dust rose above him. Sebastian coughed; dust filled his eyes and mouth and lungs. The Dark Knights faded from sight, and Sebastian was on his own. He walked forward, one, step after the other, toward the monument. He was so frightened he was shaking in his boots, afraid the giant statue would come to life before his eyes.
Weirder things have happened. He snorted. Like a war between Elves and dragons several thousand years ago.
His little home had been shattered by magical creatures that he had once believed were imaginary. He wondered if he was going mad. It wouldn’t be the first time the thought passed through his head and settled in his mind like burning sulfuric acid. The wind picked up.
Walking among the ruins was like walking in a graveyard that was eerie and dark, shadows moving around him like they were alive. He’d read stories about zombies and ghosts and hoped they weren’t true. Sebastian inched closer and closer to the monument.
The key glared at him like an eye. The sun had gone completely behind the clouds, a red burning thing that pulsated like lightning. Darkness was everywhere. Sebastian felt at home even though he was frightened. He was going to have to get used to the darkness. He thought about his family. Of his mother and father, their faces flashed in his mind. They had both died at an early age, their mother was the first one to go. He thought about Damsel, the Little Warrior, the Crusader who befriended magical folk, specifically the Elves and dragons. He thought of his twin brother.
They looked exactly alike, like two peas in a pod. When they were children, they played together all the time; and as they got older, and the responsibilities were thrust upon their shoulders and their father died, they grew further and further apart. It was sad, but it happened. He did not think he hated the man-he was, after all, his twin. It irked Sebastian the way Ellerhynwyn always got his way, or the way that Damsel looked up to Ellerhynwyn more than him. He usually did his good deeds in secret, like the time Aunt Millicent came over and Damsel wanted to play with her friends instead of taking sewing lessons and he distracted her while she slipped out the door. He realized his father had always been a transparent figure in his life, even before his death, he had been away on business constantly, or fucking the many hookers he’d hired to fuck. Sebastian did not know how his mother’s death affected their father, probably the worse thing that had ever happened to him.
Maybe it drove him mad. He had never had a full-time girlfriend after their mother died. Sebastian reached the stone steps of the monument and walked up them, one at a time, his eyes on the towering head of Merlin high above him.
“What have you gotten yourself into, you stupid sonofabitch?” he muttered between clenched teeth.
He stood in front of the door, studying the wood, only the door was wooden but everything else was not. It was a very peculiar statue not to mention annoyingly large.


I started writing a script.

Thursday, July 09, 2009

English Language.

Wow if someone says "nigga" or "LOL" or "Omgah beer!" one more time I am going to puke white chocolate. I am serious. If that's what the English language is coming to, I AM SCREWED when it comes to novels. No wonder shitty novels sell so well, the plot is so simple a child could read it. Better stop reading the dictionary and Tom Clancy.

YA novel.

I think that one YA novel idea I have would work...I just have to plot it. I wrote the first chapter, thinking about the's called "7th Order" but it sounds like a crappy Dan Brown novel, I can't think of anything else to call it besides "Untitled" at the moment. I pulled "Wizard's Alchemy" out of Baen Books again, ha! I started working on it and have 130,000 words and think I want to write more. Since it is about a world called Merlin, I am going to add 40,000 words about Merlin's life. He is kind of like a vampire-mage, came from Atlantis, realized he had the gift of teleporting, and uhhhhh....then it forwards a few hundred years to the present, where Merlin is no longer...present, only his relics remain behind. Five relics to be exact, they are called the Power of the Five, some of them include: a black book, a ring, a talisman, a sword, and a gold key.

My goal would be Roc, and I bet you they would accept it, or Tor, however, it is a lot of ink and paper and that would equal to over $75, including shipping and handling-not to mention it could be rejected even if they like it.

Perhaps I should have gotten credit for the other stuff I wrote...stupid ghostwriting. Stupid morals. Stupid art. *sad face.*

My first secret is...I wrote my own piano scores when I was five. THEN I wrote some songs. THEN I wrote a short story and asked someone to finish it for me (which they did). And so on and so forth.

Luckily no one reads this darn thing and no one will care. :/

It's not like anyone can do anything except me anyway. If I have a high IQ, what kind of school am I going to go to that I won't be bored at? If I have a high IQ, what kind of test am I actually going to pass? Not to mention my family, esp. on my mother's side, have a few people with high IQs and they get recognition because they don't have a heart condition. Who cares if I wrote the stuff myself instead of knowing who Mozart was or what time period Beethoven lived in (although I probably knew anyway and no one paid any attention, I don't remember EVERYTHING I did.)

Isn't that what Mozart did, write new stuff? And then they say his IQ is 140+? Hello!

Also a lot of the people in college are immature and offense to them.