News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

July 26, 2012

Liquid Love (A Poem)

I was feeling a bit contemplative and wrote this little poem just now (no editing, this is raw material). Enjoy, my dears :)

google images


Liquid Love

Dip my soul in water,
Free my breath to the air,
Send my veins to Indiana
And stop to taste and share.
Taste and share the freedom,
Sponsor blood from Spain,
Lend your heart to a passerby
They’ll rip it straight in twain.
Rip it straight in twain they will,
From top to bottom, rent.
So spare yourself the heartache, love,
Isolation is heaven sent.
Heaven sent, it is, my dear,
Right from Eden’s gate,
Isolate your soul right fast,
Before it is too late.
Too late to stop from falling,
From falling off a ledge,
The merciless expulsion
Of the living’s willing pledge.
The willing pledge to live, indeed,
The oath to never die,
The swarthy breath of freshest lungs,
That hope will never shy.
Will never shy from duty,
To keep the sun all bright,
And make each day alive and new –
To give the will to fight.
To fight against the world, my love,
Against all powers of hell,
To trust in God’s deliverance
And pray that all ends well.


Signed with liquid love,


July 20, 2012

Twillow's Dream (An Excerpt)

This is an excerpt from my recent exploitation of novel writing. I found myself intrigued by Twillow and this dream (a portion of which I've recorded for your reading, below) so I do believe I shall be writing more with regards to this particular situation. 



“Soft whispers in the night arouse your sweet, sweet soul, my love. Come to me. Come away.” The voice echoed through the blackened chambers of Twillow’s mind, beating against her heart like pounding surf. She’d been here before, many times. So many she could not count them, and still the voice taunted her with its mournful, disembodied voice.
Turning, she glimpsed the soft, velvet glow of white light. Her feet, unshod, pressed against the cold floor (if it were a floor indeed, for all she knew it could be the ceiling or the wall). Moving forward, ever so slowly, ever so steadily, she neared the light. It was always this way; always had been, always would be.
“Gently, my soul’s desire. Quietly.” The voice careened against unseen walls, vibrating within her dampened ribcage. Twillow felt her throat constrict, partially in fear, partially in excitement.
The light, now vibrant, shining as though it were a giant goose-egg, floated somberly in the middle of the room. Still, nothing around it was visible. It pulsated and shook with whatever strange passion resided within.
“Gently, closer.” The voice called to her amidst the swirling light. Milky tendrils danced in and out of the egg-like globe, threading their way back and forth several inches above their source.
Twillow couldn’t see herself, but she knew her hand was outstretched before her, reaching for the light, yearning for its touch.
The globe sparked, hissing loudly as one tendril broke away from the rest and jaggedly tore towards Twillow. She covered her face, but the sight remained the same, for she saw not with mortal vision but with the eyes of her soul.


Signed with acorns and hazelnuts, 


July 16, 2012

Post-Rebellion (A Tale of the Bravery of a Young Lad)

I was sitting down doing nothing (which does count as something, in my mind) when an image of a citadel, post-battle (by at least three days) came to my mind in detail. I wanted to capture some of the desolation I imagined, with the constant flowing undertone of persistence. Again, I'm still quite rusty. It didn't come exactly as I wanted it to, but I'll share my rough draft with you :) 

Also, I picked Run the Banner Down by Shearwater as the music to accompany the piece, not because it inspired what I wrote, but because I thought it best fit the mood I was attempting to create. That mood being one of slight withdrawal from the scenario: as though looking at everything closely yet from a distance; from the perspective of Cage but also from that of children sitting around a fire before bedtime as their grandpa retold the daring tales of the Revolution that happened many hundreds of years prior. Perhaps I achieved this, although I don't quite feel it.'s a scenario that intrigued me. 


Cage stumbled up the last few steps, gripping the torch firmly. He pressed the palm of his free hand against his side and pulled it away, grimacing at the sight of fresh blood.  His shirt, once freshly ironed and starched now hung in tatters about his boney frame. The cool, swift sensation of stone under his bare feet became a reality once more as his mind cleared from the haze that had threatened to pull him into a sea of oblivion.
He squinted his eyes as he looked up at the wildly flapping flag that danced beside the tall watchtower, wreathed in smoke plumes that ascended from the city burning below.
The watchtower.
Just a thousand more steps.
Cage licked the salt away from his lips, which were cracked and bruised. He steadied himself against the wall, letting his hand slide against the cool stone, leaving behind a streak of blood. Then he stepped forward. One foot in front of the other – living life as each second was given to him from the Creator above.
Glancing left, then right, he entered the passageway that wound around the citadel wall. No one was in sight. As quietly as was possible, Cage turned right. The only sound that reached his ears was that of his own heavy breathing and the stealthy pattering of his feet.
A wooden door, scorched black by flames, appeared within the circle of torchlight. The golden bolts shone vibrantly, as though daring the boy to halt and muse but a moment.
Cage blinked and pulled the door open. Despite the damage wrought by flame, it stood sturdy. He edged around the door, holding the torch in front of him.
Swiftly, he pulled back, stifling a gasp. Before him a Watch Guard stared to the left, unblinking. Cage swallowed back bile as he realized the guard had been pinned to the stone behind him with several spears.
His eyes travelled down his fellow countryman’s uniform, only to snap up before he saw past the warrior’s waist. Cage swiftly passed by and made his way up the first turn of stairs. What the fire at the door had done to that poor man’s lower body was unspeakable.
Dry-heaving, he paused a moment to gather his breath before continuing on, one step at a time. Just 984 left to go.  He forced himself to think of the sweet smell of honeysuckle that permeated his grandma’s house during the spring, but all that filled his nostrils was the scent of death that seemed to drip from the walls.
The journey up the stairs is another story for another time. Cage passed many dead men, some of whom he knew and silently mourned. Several times, he tripped and fell, bruising his already battered bones, but he kept on. For his king. For his country.
After what seemed eternity, he reached the top of the watchtower. A wooden ladder, untouched by flame, stretched up through the ceiling. Cage grasped the sides firmly, careful to keep the torch away from the burnished wood, then he climbed.
If any beast of the air were to observe the tower at this time, they would have seen a tiny head pop out the top into the cold night air, followed by two small hands, one brandishing a torch that flickered in the darkness. But there were none to observe tonight. It was simply Cage. Not even a cricket witnessed the events that followed, yet somehow, everyone knows the tale.
Cage shuffled towards the center of the stone roof, where stood a tall and mighty warning beacon. He exhaled softly and gazed at the fire that danced upon the edge of his torch. A dark shadow passed over his face but a moment before he shoved the torch into the center of the beacon. A moment of hesitation passed and then, with a powerful whoosh, it caught fire. The flames ran swiftly up to the top, encompassing the beacon with angry yellow light. Cage removed the torch and backed away. He climbed down the ladder, then pulled it down after him and set it against the stone wall of the tower.
The boy trembled, holding the small torch in his hand. Sweat glistened on his emaciated face. He had summoned help and if God answered his prayers, help would come. For now, all that was in his power to do was to hide and hope to escape the citadel with as many survivors as possible, if any were left. If not, he would fight till his last breath, defending his people and country, knowing deep in his heart that if the Creator were gracious, help would come…someday. 


Signed with smoke,

July 14, 2012

The Scourge & Half General Cletus (A Command Scene)

I've been listening to a lot of Thomas Bergersen's music lately (he does trailer music and is also part of Two Steps from Hell with Nick Phoenix, so it's mainly "epic" orchestral pieces that really set you on the edge of your seat). Anyhow, after meandering through a few thoughts while gardening I came upon three prominent options for writing:

  1. Write a romance-type short, because Promise by Bergersen is PERFECT for the walk-down-the-aisle sort of scene (I really fell in love with that piece). 
  2. Write a short on mosquitoes and their kamikaze battle against humans...because I was literally getting my blood sucked dry out there :/
  3. Write a battle scene short, because Rada by Bergersen is the perfect creepy-battle kind of piece. 
So I opted for number 3, because the first two didn't appeal to my imagination at the time. However, my desire to write an adventure-packed battle scene didn't exactly come out the way I wanted it to -- it turned into a small clip about a messenger carrying word from another contigent :| thanks mind...I really appreciate how you work (not). 

I still kinda like what I wrote. I'll tell you though, I'm really wanting to add more scenery into the first half, because I feel as though I haven't quite captured the grief of the land as much as I wanted. I mean...the sensation I feel is this soul-rending, mother-crying-for-her-baby sort of feeling, and I definitely don't think that came across with my meagre imagery. Ah well, that's what I get for having scattered thoughts :P 

I was also thinking of adding perspective from a hawk, but it made me think too much of the first book in Stephen Lawhead's Dragon King Trilogy (or whatever it's called). Still, using birds of doom can add flavour :P just not the kind I really want. Hmm, but maybe a dragon's perspective? Now that would bring some intriguing flare to the scene *grin* but I won't. For now, enjoy my rough draft! I've included the music I used to write it :D

[[yes yes, influenced by Dekker, Lawhead, and L.B. Graham (BOTB :P, particularly the command scenes with Malek)]]


The Scourge had come.
The land was rent in half; no, not in half. It was shattered into a million tiny shards. The rebellion that once burned within the small towns was now extinguished by the masterful hand of the Half General, Cletus. Blackened smoke drifted greedily between crushed corn rows, smoldering amidst decaying corpses that littered the once virgin land, now sodden with the blood of innocents.
A pale dusk had begun to set – the remaining sun cast its angry glare over the battle grounds as though it would soak up the destruction caused by war. The globe energized itself on burned flesh as its bloated face sunk behind the snow-capped mountains in the west. The last flicker of light was choked away by smoke and ash.
 The clink of chain-mail and the jangling of metal and leather increased in volume as a great army appeared across the landscape. Ten thousand warriors, callused and heartless, waited on the eastern plains, covered by the thickening darkness, revealed by the fires they stood around to warm their skin.
“Move! Aside!” came the cry of a messenger as he urged his sweaty horse as fast as he could along the outskirts of the camp. His steed snorted, its nostrils flared wildly displaying the sensitive pink flesh within. White lather sprayed off its flanks as it masterfully dodged those foolish enough to step into its path.
The rider came to a halt outside the large grey tent. He vaulted from the back of his horse; guards at the front paused only to narrow their eyes before swiftly granting him entrance.
“Sir! General sir.” The messenger panted, his legs wobbling beneath his lanky frame.
A towering, muscular figure stood with his back to the door. His lengthy black cape brushed the ground; the scarlet embroidery of two snakes intertwined and engulfing each other’s tails seemed to glisten like blood in the candle light. The General raised his hand and, without bothering to look up, motioned the messenger closer.
“Speak.” commanded a deep voice.
“Sir, Commander Grevus has eliminated the rebellion to the north-west, just east of the Seventh Sea. However there were many that escaped to the Northern Keep. He is concerned they seek Avaedis and the Chamber of Secrets. I know it is only legend, but the men have become fearful and some turn away from their station. He wishes you to send reinforcements or join him for he will not pass the Northern Reach without his General.”
General Cletus stood in silence, staring at the map in front of him through slitted eyes. The flames danced upon his battle-worn face, glistening off his beard and prominent cheek bones.
“Is the Commander fearful of a handful of rebels and a child’s tale?” he scoffed. His hands, covered with black leather gauntlets gripped the side of the table lightly.
“I cannot say, sir.” answered the messenger. He eyed the silver spikes upon his master’s hand, many of which were still stained from a recent onslaught.
Cletus moistened his lips and then straightened up, “Guards. Bring food and water for this man.”
The corners of the tent rustled as hidden ears obeyed the command silently. The General turned towards the stalwart messenger, his hands disappearing into the folds of his cloak, which rustled against his form-fitting battle gear.
“How long has it been since this message was sent?”
The messenger blinked, “Not quite a fortnight sir. I rode as soon as it was deployed to my keeping.”
“And you have switched your mount?”
“No sir, my horse alone carries the commands I receive for I trust none other to be as sure-footed as he.”
Cletus nodded, “A fine beast. One whose breed I should prefer.”
The messenger swallowed, his throat bobbed up and down, “Sir?”
“Silence.” Cletus withdrew a hand from his cloak; it now grasped an envelope sealed with a thick, sickly smelling wax. The gauntlet chinked as the General extended the letter towards the messenger.
 “You will set out at first light to return this message to the Commander. Do not stop until you have reached him.”
“Yes sir.” 


That is all! God bless folks :) 

Signed with pollen from a sunflower, 


July 12, 2012

I Couldn't Escape If I Wanted To (:P)

So Jake of Sadaar was prowling my blog page and tagged me in two events over at his blog Teenage Writer (go follow him! he's UBER amazing!!).
Normallly I don't do tags, just ... cuz... I don't :P but this time I figured since it was the Sadaar I might as well do it. Plus I haven't done much writing on here for a while...soooo here goes!

Here's the rules:
- If you're tagged/nominated, you must post eleven facts about yourself.
- Then, you must answer the eleven questions the tagger has given you and make eleven questions for the people you are going to tag. 
- Next, tag eleven more bloggers. 
- Tell the people you tagged that you have tagged them. 
- No tagging back. 
- The person you tagged must have less than 200 followers. 

Well, I'm not going to do the tagging part, because...I'm not :P However, if you think this is a cool idea, then feel free to say I tagged you and go write :) You can use the same questions Jake used (because I'm just not going to write more... although you can substitute the Kansas question with "Canada" >:D).


  1. I love peanut butter. Sometimes I like to mix it with honey in a bowl. It's like the juice of heaven (except it's not juice :P) 
  2. We have three cats, one of whom I call John the Terror. He likes to eat me in the morning... *blink* 'nuff said. 
  3. I am a huge fan of squirrels. If you hurt a squirrel, expect to visit the Bone Chapel >:D (kidding...I just had to use that reference though *shrugs* you know...Wayne Thomas Batson's new series :P I just love it). 
  4. I do have a favourite song of all time over all songs and all genres of music. However, it's a secret :P 
  5. I'm going into my 4th year of university D: (good grief, where's the time gone???)
  6. I do not draw. I'm an awful artist...even though my friend tells me I could be good if I practice :P well, maybe I could...but for now, I'm not ^_^
  7. The number 7 is my favourite number
  8. I have access to a beautiful two-volume set of Edgar Allan Poe (his complete works of prose and poetry *hugs books*)
  9. My favourite move is Master & Commander
  10. I'm allergic to penicillin.
  11. I love music. Pretty much any kind of music you name and I like it :P although there are a couple genres that I won't really touch. for Jake's questions...

  1. What's your favourite place in the world? Hmm, I'd have to say my favourite place would be my farm :P because it's awesome sauce. However, assuming the home can not be picked, I would have to say the East Coast of Canada. It's gorgeous!
  2. What do you think about Kansas? It's a magical place! Isn't that where the Wizard of Oz took place? You know, the setting for the story? :P Aha, that's all I knew about Kansas until Jake showed up and discussed it's normality with the rest of the world. Yeah...I don't know much about Kansas, but it sounds like a cool place to live. 
  3. Favourite Song? I do have one :P but it's secret.
  4. Favourite Quote? Hmmm, I have lots of favourite quotes...I can't even think of one to pick right now :/ pardon that. 
  5. G.K. Chesterton is, to you, what? Your opinion? I say he's a genius thinker and writer. I love his material. He's awesome sauce!
  6. Best speculative fiction you've read recently? In absence of speculative fiction, what's the best book you've read recently, fiction or non-fiction? Hmm, well I haven't done a ton of reading lately so I can't really say :(
  7. Best kind of cookie? either chocolate chip or peanut butter (or, get ready for your mind to be blown away...HOW ABOUT BOTH TOGETHERRRR!!??!)
  8. Your opinion of pie? LOVE IT!
  9. What colour is your favourite shirt? Blue.
  10. Are you procrastinating? Currently? Yes. Over time? Probably :P I procrastinate a fair amount :( 
  11. If you're a writer, what are you currently writing? If you're not a writer, what big thing have you done recently? Well, I am a writer...but I haven't been writing much lately. I've done a bit of poetry and some random prose stuff...but yeah :( not much writing getting done around here *teardrops*. 

So that is all! Now I must retreat to my batcave and obtain nutrients so I can go out and fix fences :P cheerio ya'll!! Maybe I'll see some of you on the Underground *cough cough* not that I go there much anymore. Is it even alive still? I shall see >:) 

Signed with silver sprinkles, 


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