The Joys of Anonymity

My face is often seen
As a ballad within a scream
In hopes of getting dashed
The checks I cashed

Crickets are preferred to birds
Like taking dreams over turds
Forgive my mind so crude
But I am still... "just a dude"

Just some guy you'll never know
Planning trips on which he'll never go
Penning books you shall not read
Living for art and not for greed.

- B

My Most Magical Dreams

Today I awoke with this phrase dangling from the rafters of my dusty mind:

"Oh the things I see in dreams - the whimsy overwhelms and inspires. Yet the most beautiful ones are with you, when nothing transpires."

Of course that's the translated version for Twitter, within the dream world it went something like: "In dreams I see beautiful, convoluted nonsense like nothing I could ever imagine awake. Yet when you are in the dream and we do nothing but enjoy each other, I find those dreams to be the most magical." And I suppose it's true. Perhaps I am a romantic, and I've denied myself the ability to channel that nature for the sake of my art. There is indeed someone I love, and yet I refuse to act upon it... so uncharacteristically.

But this entry isn't about my personal affairs and the meaning of the dream itself-- I have a dream diary for that. No, this entry is about the strangeness of these simple, romantic dreams. How can an uneventful dream possibly trump the wild, reality distorting experiences? How can a mere person who exists within reality be more exciting than everything else in a world jammed with the impossible? In dreams, I can see colors beyond the rainbow. I can experience stories told by my mind firsthand without even making them. I can be heard. I can be microscopic.  I can be everything and anything... and yet I chose to be with you.

I suppose that's symptomatic of my cancer's stage. I'm a lover sans a lover, so my mind's malady pines for 'm'lady.' I slip into stupor and perhaps poetry. And for what? What can I express? Dreams exist to convey a message, and I hear it with the clarity of megaphone being shoved in my ear. The question then remains:

Does she dream of me, if she dreams at all?  Are they the most magical?


- B

Living Fiction

Fiction. 

The word is all encompassing, and perhaps too much so. The various breeds comprising the majestic art of fictional writing are so diverse that I'm often left questioning whether some genres belong to a different species entirely. The rules of reality shift with each genre-- and within them. When transitioning from one book to another, our minds must accept new physics and relearn history. The sheer dissimilarity of  each author's thought processes is palpable to an avid reader.  Like an immigrant, an individual work of fiction comes from another culture, carrying with it a unique language and appearance starkly different from its cohorts'. Fiction transcends its simple word casing. It's more than a mere category; fiction is a multiverse.

Whenever I tell anyone I write fiction, they usually ask, "What kind of fiction?" as if it were a question capable of providing a concise, one word answer. What kind of fiction do I write? What kind of person are you? Right now, harness your very essence and tell me absolutely everything you stand for in one word. Can't do it? Neither can I (with proper justice.) To a writer dedicated to his craft, being asked to pinpoint his precise niche within the unfathomable space of fiction is just as absurd of a request.

Medieval fantasy, modern magical, military mystery, Victorian-era period piece romance...  

These may seem like acceptable answers, but they really fall short by a significant margin. Sure, those tell you where you can expect to end up and give a hint to the style of plot, but -- and maybe it's just me here-- don't they make it feel a little cheap?  I feel like a slave-trader rattling off a sick list of selling points for a living, breathing person. That's perhaps too bold of a comparison, but the question offends my identity as a writer. You wouldn't assign dehumanizing categories to to a human being, so why would you dehumanize a book containing what should be representations of them? I toiled countless nights to give my characters and worlds life, so why should I rip it away?  

For me, my characters are alive-- so much so, that I actually feel their pain. I find myself apologizing for the ill I must inflict upon them in order to give their lives meaning and grounds for my characters to court a meaningful friendship with a reader. Writing isn't a job or hobby for me. Creating fiction is my life's meaning. My words are to be the manifesto of another. My plots and plans dictate and often end the lives of others. The word 'fictional' is the only thing separating my responsibilities from God's. Writers are the deities of their creations, tasked with forming ideal worlds for a stressed society to find refuge within.

Thiller, adventure, mystery, horror, romance, suspence...

A good story contains all these aspects and should not be categorized under just one. I write under the oath of no genre, and with each separate work I vow to uphold this philosophy and succeed in an entirely new way. My novels shouldn't be defined by concrete categories, but the outlooks, experiences and relationships they offer readers. Perhaps I'm alone. Maybe my fellow writers will not agree with the harsh expectations I have for my work, but it's my guiding principal nonetheless and I will never compromise the integrity of my art. But I'll be fair, I'll answer the question-- though perhaps only here to avoid sounding arrogant and overly idealistic.  

What is my genre?

Living fiction. 

- B

Chez Mortem

"Chez Mortem"

The dawn seems like an eye that will never open

Like this door to this dilapidated gothic church

Piano chimes, wedding bells, vows unspoken

Left to decay, like a jilted dead bride looming in the lurch

Shivering like Eskimo, who will never warm their noses

Cold and unforgiving, time has forsaken this path

Graves never etched, never graced with lilies or roses

Harsh memories of an over drawn bloodbath

Crows caw at the sound of a whispered footstep

The pendulum chimes from an unknown clock

Nerves are shattered in the wake of the doorstep

The birds moan in a choir, mocking you in flock

The dust gathers to welcome you into despair

Revolting odors creep up your shaking shoulders

This is fear, but you’ve past felt your fair share

Darkness denies, crushing hope with boulders 

Creaking like bitter patters in Roman numeral

The house has become a home to horrors

Restlessly the organ sits awaiting its funeral

The bones lie patiently in dresser drawers

The Vermilion Years: Chapter 2

Unman

I looked down at the unconscious girl, contemplating my next course of action.

To my irritation, the girl’s breathing had stopped. Reviving Fleurette was an inconvenience I did not require, as once I became her savior, societal obligation then made her continued existence my burden. The maid’s fate meant absolutely nothing to me, but allowing her to die now would make my previous inconvenience a wasted effort.  I still don’t know why I made that initial dive. Perhaps it was a leftover reflex.

Extending a long steel spire from my left wrist, I carved a tiny yet deep hole in Fleurette’s chest. I took an orb of compressed oxygen from one of the many leather pockets on my pantaloons and plopped it down the area of incision. The girl awoke immediately, wriggling and screaming like a newborn child. She was covered in blood and severe burns, writhing in an agony that trumped all the pain she’d ever known. I drove the palm of my hand against her temple, applying just enough force to knock the maid unconscious.

The next step was to solder a metal graft over the area to prevent the air from escaping. I’d used human metallurgy frequently for my own repairs so the process was quick.

I sat by Fleurette for three hours until she awoke. During this time I did clean her up, but lacking painkillers and bandaging I braced myself for the maidservant’s painful reawakening. The girl returned to consciousness in complete silence, taking me by surprise. Seeing that she was alive, I started off, listlessly heading for the town’s outskirts.

After an hour, I realized Fleurette had ventured off after me and had somehow managed to catch up.

“If you proceed, you will die,” I said.

The girl said nothing. When I looked back I discovered that she’d donned a silver exosuit, complete with goggles, a breather and a pair of ornamental sporting revolvers.

“Take off the gas mask. You no longer require breath.”

The Bard Facebook Page Launched

It's not much to look at right now, but here's the official (ha) Facebook page for my upcoming novel The Bard. I will be posting regular updates and communicating with those interested.

https://www.facebook.com/TheBardBook?ref=stream

"Still struggling to pick up the pieces of his own shattered life, Detective Edison Locard finds himself unable to dent the growing stack of unsolved homicides piling up on his desk. On the top of the pile is the case of the 'CEO-Killer,' a high profile serial-killer that has eluded the man's capture for years. Once the NYPD's finest investigator, the bright but broken man finds himself reduced to a glorified paper pusher. 

In a strange twist of fate, a mysterious song airs on the radio that knocks Ed out of his slump and into the fray. The song's lyrics convey a peculiar message- the guilt of a killer from one of the detective's unsolved cases. The true identity of the musician turned vigilante remains cloaked in mystery, known only as 'The Bard.' 

Could a guitar be just the instrument the detective needs to purge NYC of evil? Or will the Bard's theatrics miss their mark end up stirring something more sinister?"

"Coco"

With the voice of a sweet spring bird and a smile like a morning lily

The sun dares not show its face in the night for it knows the beauty of your moonlit beaming

    Your heart’s beat is but the sweet soundtrack to my own smile

    Your delicate verbatim ethereality makes my reality

There's no more and no less you could offer

You fill every need with your whimsy and graceful soul

Ranging from cradle to coiffeur you make me whole.

And yet,

I’m left with more to forget

There’s a bereft inkling of airs misplaced in a doleful gape

I’m poet.

You’re ape. 

- B

This poem is open to interpretation. (If you interpret it to be about a guerrilla.)