Be Patient: a Eulogy of Fall.

Be patient. Fall does not start for another few weeks.

Be patient. Wrap your arms around something real.

Be patient. The light is turned on in the bedroom.

Why are you that way? I tried to call at the end of the

freeway,

to peer down into it.

I tried to speak of the heart that brings in reason.

I do not speak at the end of it.

The blue car zooms on the freeway.

I can't see you, can't hear you-the radio is turned way up high.

These tears run dry.

I am wearing a pair of blue jeans.

They were on sale.

Be patient. My dreams are safe for now.

About My Writing.

I post stories on here sometimes, usually chapters. If you see an error in there, I almost always know what it is but I leave it in anyways, first because it is just a rough draft, second because I could get money for it one day, and third, no one helps me with my writing so I have to do something about stress myself; fourth, because I don't know who reads this thing anyway, and it's just for myself, not for others. Writing is not for everyone. You can be famous, like Stephen King, but there is a lot of problems that come with it. I usually wait to send something out because I am not old enough; and because I pay attention to the sales of other books. A publisher picks up something that sells, not necessarily something that is just good writing. Most writers have to write something that an average sixth grader can read-firstly, because a book is not something you buy every day; secondly, because the average population reads at a sixth grade level. Sad, but those are the statistics, although I have not checked them lately and could be wrong about that.

Wizard's Alchemy Chapter 1.

Nicknamed Eltos and Betusl, the two suns spin around a strange and distant world called Merlin, as it was so named by the wizard who created it with his mind. Eltos appeared in the eastern horizon during the winter months; Betusl appeared in the western horizon during the spring, summer, and fall. Merlin began with a simple burst of magic, thousands of wars and thousands of years later, magic still reigned. The story begins on a planet called Earth, where Merlin was originally from.

Merlin is filled with a swirling mist of blues, greens, and browns, a beautiful planet some 789 billion light years from Earth. The galaxy it resides within is called Y’rln.

***

Merlin stared up at the towering castle, his mind on magic. A screaming sound came from deep within the castle walls. It was Prince Art, having one of his famous noonday tantrums. He sighed, wondering what it was about now. "Bloody hell," the wizard muttered, shaking his head. "Probably tore up the bed sheets again." He scowled. Merlin, as well as King Urther and his family, lived in Camelot, the greatest kingdom in the world; they had lords and ladies; dragons and sorcerers; a prince and a king. The prince’s mother, Igraine, was killed by a wild boar when he was a baby. Merlin suspected he was acting out of turn because she was taken so cruelly from him at such a young age. It wouldn’t be a surprise if this were the case. Prince Arthur had been irritating him lately; a young man going on fifteen, he carried the patience of a seven-year-old child. His father, King Urther, taught him better than that, but he rararely displayed it. King Urther paid more attention to the Knights of the Round Table than his teenage son, and Art, as everyone called him, did his best to let his father know he noticed it. One evening, Merlin and King Urther sat at the table in the great dining hall, eating a large dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and beef. Merlin wasn’t sure he could eat anymore; he felt like he had swallowed an elephant, he was that full.

"Something must be done about that son of yours," Merlin said nervously, hoping he wouldn’t receive blacklash from him for speaking out of terms about his son. Prince Arthur wasn’t at the table. He had already eaten in the kitchen with the cook; he infuriated her by shattering a plate in a thousand tiny pieces all over the floor. King Urther sent him to the stables, and he was now out hunting with the other men, checking the traps for rabbit, deer, and fox.

"Art?" King Urther looked up from his cup, filled to the brim with beer. He blinked sleepily. "How’s that boy doing, anyway?"

Merlin groaned and slapped his forehead. The king didn’t even remember sending him out to the stables or that he had been kicked out and was now hunting!

"He’s a travesty!" a servant complained. "He jumped on seventeen beds on the first floor and left muddy footprints all over the sheets."

"He let a handful of toads in the kitchen!" someone else called.

"He tried to use my staff and it bit him in the rear-end," Merlin added darkly. He didn’t want to rat on the boy, but tattling was fun, and he hated it when someone else used his staff, especially someone who was less than worthy.

"We can buy you a new staff," King Urther said, scowling at the lot of them. "It’s not a problem. Really. You needn’t criticize him for that. He’s doing the best he can. Unlike some people who don’t know how to stop a war." He glared around the table, his gaze fixated on Merlin. Merlin ducked his head nervously. War wasn’t always his fault! The king should know that. Merlin shook his head. "That’s the only magic staff I have," he told him. "You can’t buy it at the market."

King Urther wasn’t about to give up. "We’ll call Brutus. Get him to find you one."

"I don’t think there are any staffs like that in the world!" Merlin said, annoyed the king didn’t understand that magic wasn’t an every day, average thing that anyone could have. "I made it myself. With my bare hands. The magic came from lightning." He was pleased with himself.

The king looked at him in surprise. "You made that ghastly thing?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It’s ugly. You really ought to talk to Contessa; she has good fashion sense. Why, you haven’t used your magic here in ages. We haven’t had a war lately."

"Yes, I did make it," he explained impatiently. "It’s a magic staff. I showed you magic before."

King Urther hunched his shoulders in amusement. "I’m the king. Maybe I should have a magic staff." He pondered this, deep in thought.

Merlin took a sip of honeymead beer and put it on the table in front of him. It had the sour taste of being spoiled, and waved to a servant nearby to get him a new one. "I can make you a staff, but it won’t be made out of magic," he said. He was amused. Making a staff for the king. How quaint.

"Why not?" The king looked surprised, if not a little offended by Merlin’s rude remark. It wasn’t often that someone challenged the king.

"Because I said so," Merlin said. He was annoyed by the king’s childish demeanor; Merlin wanted to get back to work as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to have an actual conversation with him. "Are you finished drinking your beer or do I have to use my magic carelessly, as usual?"

The king nodded, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "You may take it away."

Merlin scowled and shook his head. "I’m not a servant. I’m a wizard."

"You are my wizard," the king said happily. "That’s enough for me."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Don’t remind me." He rose to his feet and stretched. "I think I’m going to find that son of yours."

"If you see him, tell him I said hello." The king's head dropped into his bowl of soup and it wasn’t long before he was snoring heavily in a pile of his own drool.

*

Prince Art glared at the stable door and kicked it with his feet, irritated that his Uncle Brock sent him back to the stables, and was making him work with the stable boy. He didn’t do anything! Honest! It was true the cook had shrieked at him this morning because he got in the blueberry pie when she told him not to, and it was true he had scared one of the maids while she was cleaning one of the hall closets, and it was true Art put a stuffed animal in one of the traps and made it look like a real animal, but they were just jokes. Really. They ought to know the difference. Besides, he shouldn’t have to talk to common folk if he didn’t want to. They were just jealous of him.

"If you’re going to destroy my barn," a familiar voice said patiently, "at least be polite about it." And there stood Merlin in the doorway of the barn, wiping his hands on his pants.

"What are you doing here?" Prince Art said, looking at him in surprise. "I thought my father was making you come up with love potions again." He chuckled at the thought.

Art was old enough to think about girls in that way, but he didn’t know who to ask yet. There was Cherri, the cook’s daughter; Minerva, his neighbor; and there was the girl his father paid to befriend him. She was by far the cutest but he was embarrassed she had been paid to talk to him. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Nowadays his father gave him less pleasant feelings as time wore on, and he had to rely more and more upon himself.

Merlin shook his head. "I told him the potions wouldn’t work," he said in a patient tone. "Somehow, I didn’t think the information set in yet." He chuckled. "Now, I’m saving you from a lifetime of labor. Come inside, boy, I have something to tell you."

Intrigued, Prince Art followed him into the barn. It smelled lovely, manure with a mixture of hay and wood and just the hint of spice. Sunlight fell in the windows of the barn, the gold glimmering against the shadows around it. "What do you want to talk to me about?" he asked, wondering if the man was going to give him another lecture. Everyone gave him lectures; the cook; the servants; even his father, on occasion, when his mouth wasn’t around a drum stick.

"Magic," Merlin responded with a smile.

A smile lit the boy’s face. "Magic?" he said. "Really?"

Merlin nodded.

Finally! Something fun! He knew he could count on Merlin, even if he was just a crazy old crackpot with too many magic tricks.

"Are you going to show me one of your tricks?" he asked eagerly.

Merlin uttered a short laugh. "It’s not a trick, boy," he said, shaking his head. "It’s real magic."

Art looked around. "Where’s your staff?"

"Hidden inside my robe." He pointed to a block of wood. "Sit on that, please." He pulled another block of wood next to him.

"Now," Merlin began. "I am sure you are already aware of magic. You perform magic yourself-each and every day." He smiled, pleased with himself.

Art scowled. "I knew there was a catch." He started to get up.

"Hold on! There’s a point to the story. A very good one, too."

Art groaned. "Let’s here it," he said, wishing he was anywhere but here, even inside, cleaning the sheets, like the servant wanted him to do earlier and his father saved him by sending him outside.

"The point of this story is," Merlin continued. He frowned. "I forgot the point of the story." His face brightened. "I know! I’ll make one up!"

Art scowled. "Why don’t you just make me clean the stables instead? It’s quicker."

Merlin nodded. "Atta boy. Get to it. Up! Up!"

Art rose to his feet, picked up a rag, and started washing the dirty windows.

"Art!" Merlin started to say.

Art looked over his shoulder but the man disappeared.

"Just great!" Art complained. "Now I have to clean the stable by myself. Some

advice," he grumbled, and started scrubbing the windows fiercely.

*

This Is Not My Life.

My ears revolve around satellites.

My old friend, Stan, gave up his life in

return for a few radishes-radishes that

were old and had potato bugs stuck on them.

You said you would not go back to that place,

the place with the dirty walls and dirty homeless

fools who fell from grace,

who switched from being businessmen to jerks

wearing brown jackets.

I am not proud to admit this, but my old friends

are like this, old and misused ones who would

trade a million dollars for a drink of beer,

for a date with a hooker, for a credit card.

The dreams are not there any longer.

They have been buried underneath piles of sand

by parents who thought too much about themselves

instead of their own children,

about handmade pot holders with pictures of

snowflakes on them.

My old one fell behind the stove.

I can't use it anymore.

I asked Jon how his date with the hooker went.

He stared at me, bleary eyed, smelling of too

much beer and onion rings,

his sorrow in a bottle, his eyes holding back tears.

He has problems with finishing the things he started.

Mrs. Alsworth.

Do not follow me, my seventh grade teacher said,

do not follow where the path may lead-follow your own path.

Do not follow bears, chipmunks, lima beans.

Every day a boy named Joshua brought her an apple.

She was pleased by it but others did not like it,

they called him pirate, scalawag, girl-boy.

Every day he brought her an apple,

and he only got C's in math, and went to church like everyone else.

His suit was old. Worn.

And when he grew up he got a job at a factory

and made money selling pamphlets at the local pharmacy and

barely had enough money to pay his bills.

He did not hate the government, he merely shunned it,

did not shun the president, the Senator, the FBI.

The days wore on and violence grew less and less until he changed

tactics and became a famous rock star but he never

grew tired of those pamphlets that he kept in his closet.

untitled.

Words dash against wooden planks.

Ancient words are not words themselves.

I move, like Shakespeare, he iseth me note!

Not like wounded soldiers in the Battle of Stalingrad.

O harketh! My wounded soldiers speaketh note,

wherefore I am blustery like the rivers of Babylon.

I babble on and on in radios, on television,

people stare at me with bitter eyes and nothing is

forgotten, begotten, like a long begotten son

who glimmer glares down at me from some other tree.

Ships sink in a tourniquet. I am borrowed, not blue;

who, who are you? My little hand that weaves

like minnows during the Civil War and nothing, no one,

marches with glass and old buildings never shaped

from. sake.

untitled.

Stupid Atlantic Monthly. Think they'll reject my work if I send it in? Probably.

William Shakespeare.

It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety. -King Lear

The Manuscript.

The manuscript sits on the shelf, gathering

dust and mildew and the old writer still

does not see-

my life is a blank page that is open into

a door that revolves around a world that

is no longer here-

forgive me, uncertainty, for I may mingle

in doorways that see into yesterday and boxers

are calm in their waking;

and the uncertainty is not coming with something

I no longer see,

and we are here, like revolving shadows,

caskets, if you will, of broken parts,

words that speak of reason,

no more reason to be had-

Update.

I tore 75,000 words out of my novel and I am working on the main plots: when Ellerhynwyn and Sebastian were adults. That works better.

blah.

Okay I deleted 150,000 words-that was just my practice writing, not my real writing, the real story is on my laptop. It is like getting rid of a friend but I had to do it for the sake of my plot.

List of things I want to buy.

Next month I will have to buy a printer.

A memory stick.

Speakers in the Wall.

This is the world that is closed

like a void-a door swinging shut.

This is the world that speaks to me,

an endless void of blackness that fills

my eyes, fills my heart, fills my lung

like a shadow.

Clouds gather above, a thunderstorm

crashes into autumn, blocking me from

becoming something that is sinister.

Trees look like haggard old women,

dresses sway in shopping store windows.

I am Madame Quartinine, she cries, her teeth

showing slabs of white bread.

Mystery.

I found one of my old mysteries and I am working on it now. It is 12,43 words long.

A Beginner's Guide to Sign Language.

The woman signs to serpents singing

in the Baltic Sea one day, it was a Monday,

and Caesar was not well.

He did not like the feeling the war gave him,

his throat tightening, his mouth frothing,

his friends running around like wild boars on

and island and by the way did you see that episode

of the Simpsons where the children got trapped

on the island with Milhouse and a wild boar who

was eventually slaughtered? The president told me

he did after he knocked over his podium when one

of the journalists was trying to find out if trolls do,

yes, sir, exist behind podiums and not just in cupboards

and sometimes field mice live in actual fields-.

The island was not an island of forgetting.

The dawn came quick over the horizon, slicing

like a grinder and my heart stopped for a moment when

I witnessed the sun’s first rays of breath.

Update.

I sent in my vampire story at 15,055 words. It could be turned into a novel. I also started working on a script called "Don't Look Behind You" a ghost story about a haunted house. I have decided just to write the dialogue and plug in everything else later.

In an Empty House.

the house was empty when he got home
no one was there to help him unpack his things
it was a studio he rented from an apartment complex
in ohio he only moved there to be closer to his friend
alex who was going through divorce and bought
a green bicycle alex was his best friend he had a nice
house and a good job and a girlfriend he did not have
any of those things yet he was new to the area and
his last girlfriend dumped him for a sumo wrestler
who was only in nebraska for a week he hated long
nights in autumn when the roof leaked and he could not
hear himself think sometimes he wished he could think about
deep things like his friend becky but
whenever he found room to think
he didn’t know what to say afterwards.

Dog and His Bone.

the dog trots thru the traffic
hoping to find his bone he lost

the bone was special to him he
loved to chew on it underneath

the stairs while his master watched
tv in the den or read the newspaper

the master’s name was larry he
went away on vacation once and left

the dog with his bone his neighbor alice
came to check up on him

he wagged his tail whenever he saw her.
They did not have a special bond but he

liked it when she pet him.
he never found his bone but he liked it

when she pet him.

Woods In the Forest.

The woods in the forest called my name.
Minerva was my crow; I lost her last week.
She ran away and never came back. Ran
away like my cousin Wilma did when she found
out her husband was sleeping with the pianist,
the man who thought Hitler was insane.
I thought Hitler was mad, but not insane;
insaneness is a different theory altogether,
a different thing, I’m sorry if my words can
connect together better than your words can,
I grew up being alone, grew up getting along
on my own. Some say we are never alone.
That little ghosts follow us wherever we go,
sometimes hiding in cupboards or underneath our
bed, where mothballs usually go.
The woods in the forest called my name.
I wish I could go home. I am in Chicago,
waiting for my uncle to stop drinking; waiting for
my dog, Hercules, to wake up from his nap.
I moved here last week with my mother, my
brother, the boy who fell in love with a stripper
and crawled onto the edge of the world to peer
down into it.

Beginning of a new story, Shadowmaker.

The glow from the sun came drifting through the fog as the submarine made its way through the mist of the Bering Sea.  Lieutenant Theodore Walsh of the 54th Platoon stared out the periscope, his mind reeling with questions, wondering what he was supposed to do next.  He had just gotten a call on his cell phone from Commander Louis P. Harrington.  

Looks like the Russians were at war with the U.S. again and were keeping it secret.  That was a good move on the president’s part, but it didn’t make the transition any less painful than it actually was.  He was going to have to do something about it.  And soon.  But not until he got word from the president.  

"Lieutenant," a familiar voice said pleasantly.

He jumped, whirled around to face Commander Larry Samuel.  He was an oldish man, going on fifty-five, with a long white beard and beady brown eyes.  Theodore admired the man profoundly and was hoping to be just like him when he reached that age, with awards and medals galore and a submarine to boot.  "Hello," he said.  "What’s the word on the street?"

The commander shook his head.  "No word," he answered.  "Just breakfast in the kitchen.  You’ve been kind of jumpy lately."

Theodore nodded.  "Just received word from the president.  Feels like war is on the horizon."  Goosebumps rose on his arms and he shivered.  "What’s for breakfast?"

Larry chuckled.  "Eggs and bacon.  And sausage."

"Biscuits and gravy?"

"Yes.  Of course."

Theodore did a little dance on deck and followed him through the submarine until they came to a little room marked "Cafeteria."  Larry pushed open the door and they entered, side by side.  Six pairs of eyes followed him.  Commander Sarah O’Connor; First Lieutenant Sarah Walsh; soldier, Patrick Littlefoot; and others.  Theodore saluted them and pulled out a chair.  A steaming plate of food was waiting for him.  "What’s this?" he said, surprised and pleased.

"Food," Sarah Walsh answered.  "Clyde got a call from his wife and he wanted to take it."

"I thought his cell phone broke."

Patrick chuckled.  "He got it while we were on land in Barbados."

"And now we’re all the way at the Bering Sea," he said.

Patrick nodded.  "That is so.  Dig in."

Theodore looked at it, wondering if the man had spit in it.  He shrugged his shoulders and dug in.  The food was delicious, and he went to the breakfast buffet to get more.

story update.

I got another rejection from "Flash Fiction Online."  They said it went to the second round; I thought it didn't get past the first round.  At least the story didn't completely suck.  I would send it out more if I could actually buy a new printer that works longer than a year.

Morning House, Morning Glory.

The house looks foreign in the morning.

Like a Nazi warrior grimacing over broken bones

and pots and pans, over cousins who steal

jobs from foreign workers and promises we

can’t see.

Over darkness that wans; over moonbeams

that give a glimmer a glow of something we

can’t keep to ourselves, to keep us back, 

keep

us moving forward in a time we have been convinced

isn’t real, isn’t sacred, isn’t 

England, isn’t community.

O ode to Walt Whitman, who was unreliable in

his standing; who didn’t like writing anything worth

reading, who stared at Abe Lincoln’s statue and

groaned his lover’s name, a woman who became

a teacher.

The house looks foreign in the morning, sometimes,

after a comma is hashed out, after darkness wans,

after the moon smiles at you and you can’t see

in front of you, you can’t see anything behind you.

This is what I said it is what it is.

This is what I said it isn’t.