Genius in three photographs. Click through for more of the same.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
"Because I Could Not Stop..."
I was assigned a to write a short story for class. It had to be a horror story, and it had to contain an element from Dracula. I chose the blue flames from the initial ride into Dracula's castle.
I hope you like it, and that it makes sense.
******
I never wanted it to end like this. What were we doing out here? I should have known this was a bad idea from the get go. “Let's go camping,” Jen said, “state parks are boring. Let's camp in the Pine Barrens.” Well, she's not saying much now, is she?
It all started so simply. Jen, Liz, Kris and I were all itching for a chance to get out of the city. The economy tanking hit us all quite hard, and we needed a break. Jen's bank was downsizing, and she was holding on by the skin of her teeth to her job, and her luxury Manhattan apartment. Kris had just finished his divorce, and had started dating Liz. They both worked at City Hall in the same department. She was about ten years younger than he, but they balanced it pretty well. It helped that they were both health nuts. As for me, freelance reporting paid like shit during a good economy, and now it was downright abysmal. They all had a week's vacation to use or lose, and as for me, I saw a nice fat travel article I dig out of this. Plus, I was the only one of us that had a car.
None of us really knew much about the Barrens before we went, unless you count that X-Files episode Jen and I watched a while back. That should have been warning enough for us: “never camp where an episode of the X-Files was filmed.” We'd all heard the stories of the Jersey Devil, of course, but what kind of person believes in ghost stories? Jen was beside herself; she got to organize everything. Liz was looking forward to the canoeing and putting her camera through its paces. Kris was mostly along for the ride. He was a city boy, born and bred. I think he considered visiting me in the Bronx roughing it. Liz had him snared but good if she got him to agree to camp for a week.
We all met up down near Jen's place to start the trip. Initially, the only horror we faced was downtown traffic. Gradually, we broke free and entered the tumble of concrete and rust that constituted New Jersey. Over time, the industry began to fade, and smaller and smaller towns graced the roadsides. Eventually, the towns faded, and the green began to surround us. We made it to the canoe rental place, and we had the locals show us on the map where we could camp. It was by mutual agreement that we took the deepest site to which we could drive. Man, it was eerie. All that peace and quiet that really isn't peace and quiet. The swamp teemed with life, and birds and insects sounded out in the spring air. We were all in awe at the size of the place. We seemed to be driving forever to get to our little patch of tamed wilderness.
The next few days went according to plan. We canoed during the day, the spring’s heat held at bay by the tall pines. All we could see were the trees and the waterway that we paddled through. Occasionally, we spotted some of the local wildlife, and we’d go to town with our cameras. We relaxed, ate picnic lunches, and killed more than a few beers at night when we got back to camp. It was so peaceful, and just what we needed. I wonder if they were watching us, even then. We didn’t even notice anything until the fourth night. Jen was midway through a story when she stopped short. “I didn’t think there were any other campers out here.”
I turned to where she was staring. “It’s not a campfire. Campfires aren’t blue,” I said.
“Well, thank god you’re here, Bill. That’s some crack investigative journalism right there,” quipped Liz, “still, it’s too blue to be a flashlight.”
“Maybe it’s one of those new LED lights,” interjected Kris, “or it could be swamp gas.”
“Then it’s aliens,” Jen said with a smile, “whenever a government employee talks about ‘swamp gas’, it’s actually aliens.” Kris grinned with one hand on his beer can, and the other waving a lazy finger in response. “I’m a permit guy; the professional liars are a few doors down, thank you very much. Still, we haven’t gone that way yet, we can check it out tomorrow.” We all agreed that would be a good idea, and would be fun. We all returned to our conversation, but we kept glancing over there to see if we could spot it again. No such luck, if that’s what you’d call it.
The next day, we all got in the canoes and headed north. The currents were in our favor, and we made excellent time. We docked on a small island for lunch, with Liz tying the canoes down, and ate lunch. The four days of paddling must have worn us out much more than we knew. We all passed out for an unexpected nap. When we awoke in the late afternoon, we found the canoes moving in the current, freed somehow from their moorings. Most of our gear floated serenely by us as we chased after it. Liz was our only real swimmer, and she dove in to get them, but they were too far away. All it got her for her pains was to be muddy and wet.
“Now what do we do?” yelled Kris, “we’re screwed. We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s nearly dark, and we’ve got no gear, no cell reception, and no way of getting back to camp!” Jen took over. “Look, this sucks, but we’re going to have to walk back. We’ll laugh about this later.” Kris looked like he was going to respond, but Liz put a hand on his shoulder, and it calmed him a bit. I asked Liz if she still had the compass, and she nodded. “Let’s start heading south, then,” I said. Jen looked at me and mouthed the words “Great knots, Liz”, and I rolled my eyes. Knowing what I know now, I don’t think it was her fault.
What remaining daylight we had was a hell-march of mud, swamp water and bumps and bruises. We all hated each other at that point. As night fell, we found a grassy spit of land to collapse on. Sleep came quickly, whether from exhaustion or something else, I’ll never know. We all awoke with a start. Some strange sound had awoken us. It was neither man nor beast, but something other. The blue light, now visible as a flame, was what drew our eye south. It was a beacon pointing directly where we needed to go, though at times it seemed to move. I turned to Liz and Kris, and asked if they saw it, too. I looked for Jen. Jen was gone. I pushed the tall grass aside where she lay, and there was nothing. No sign of a struggle, no evidence to suggest that she was ever there, except for the depression in the grass. It’s as if the swamp had swallowed her. The three of us remaining felt the panic rise. We called her name, but there was no answer save a mocking echo of our voices. Kris lost it. He insisted we head out now, that we get back to camp as soon as possible, and that Jen was probably there waiting for us. We all knew that was a lie, but the need to do something, anything to leave this place was upon us. Despite the dark of the new moon, we took out our otherwise useless cell phones to light our way. We didn’t need them anyway. We knew where we were headed; the blue flame lit the way. We plodded slowly at first. But the sense of unease grew, and we all became aware of something watching us from the dark. We began to lope and crash through the wilderness. Kris got ahead of both Liz and I. We could see the dim light of his cell rounding a tree, and could hear him calling Jen’s name.
And then the calling stopped. Liz and I rounded the tree, and he was gone. The pool that claimed him was crowned with a cold blue flame. It seemed to have no source, and no heat came from it. As we stared, mesmerized by the flame, we became aware of a ripple in the bog that was moving toward us. Liz and I needed no words; we ran. We dashed headlong into the Barrens, not caring where we were going, just know it was far away from whatever it was that had claimed Kris.
Ahead of me, Liz stumbled. I thought it was a tree root, but in a moment of clarity, I saw a hand had reached from the swamp to grab her, and the wrist was adorned with a bracelet I bought for Jen last Christmas. Liz was being dragged into the dark waters of the swamp, and god help me, I didn’t stop. Why didn’t I stop?
I haven’t stopped running. The car and camp were destroyed when I go there. The days are safe, and I run then. At night, the things that used to be my friends hunt me, whether for sport or food I’ll never know. I don’t know if I’ll last the night.
I hope you like it, and that it makes sense.
******
I never wanted it to end like this. What were we doing out here? I should have known this was a bad idea from the get go. “Let's go camping,” Jen said, “state parks are boring. Let's camp in the Pine Barrens.” Well, she's not saying much now, is she?
It all started so simply. Jen, Liz, Kris and I were all itching for a chance to get out of the city. The economy tanking hit us all quite hard, and we needed a break. Jen's bank was downsizing, and she was holding on by the skin of her teeth to her job, and her luxury Manhattan apartment. Kris had just finished his divorce, and had started dating Liz. They both worked at City Hall in the same department. She was about ten years younger than he, but they balanced it pretty well. It helped that they were both health nuts. As for me, freelance reporting paid like shit during a good economy, and now it was downright abysmal. They all had a week's vacation to use or lose, and as for me, I saw a nice fat travel article I dig out of this. Plus, I was the only one of us that had a car.
None of us really knew much about the Barrens before we went, unless you count that X-Files episode Jen and I watched a while back. That should have been warning enough for us: “never camp where an episode of the X-Files was filmed.” We'd all heard the stories of the Jersey Devil, of course, but what kind of person believes in ghost stories? Jen was beside herself; she got to organize everything. Liz was looking forward to the canoeing and putting her camera through its paces. Kris was mostly along for the ride. He was a city boy, born and bred. I think he considered visiting me in the Bronx roughing it. Liz had him snared but good if she got him to agree to camp for a week.
We all met up down near Jen's place to start the trip. Initially, the only horror we faced was downtown traffic. Gradually, we broke free and entered the tumble of concrete and rust that constituted New Jersey. Over time, the industry began to fade, and smaller and smaller towns graced the roadsides. Eventually, the towns faded, and the green began to surround us. We made it to the canoe rental place, and we had the locals show us on the map where we could camp. It was by mutual agreement that we took the deepest site to which we could drive. Man, it was eerie. All that peace and quiet that really isn't peace and quiet. The swamp teemed with life, and birds and insects sounded out in the spring air. We were all in awe at the size of the place. We seemed to be driving forever to get to our little patch of tamed wilderness.
The next few days went according to plan. We canoed during the day, the spring’s heat held at bay by the tall pines. All we could see were the trees and the waterway that we paddled through. Occasionally, we spotted some of the local wildlife, and we’d go to town with our cameras. We relaxed, ate picnic lunches, and killed more than a few beers at night when we got back to camp. It was so peaceful, and just what we needed. I wonder if they were watching us, even then. We didn’t even notice anything until the fourth night. Jen was midway through a story when she stopped short. “I didn’t think there were any other campers out here.”
I turned to where she was staring. “It’s not a campfire. Campfires aren’t blue,” I said.
“Well, thank god you’re here, Bill. That’s some crack investigative journalism right there,” quipped Liz, “still, it’s too blue to be a flashlight.”
“Maybe it’s one of those new LED lights,” interjected Kris, “or it could be swamp gas.”
“Then it’s aliens,” Jen said with a smile, “whenever a government employee talks about ‘swamp gas’, it’s actually aliens.” Kris grinned with one hand on his beer can, and the other waving a lazy finger in response. “I’m a permit guy; the professional liars are a few doors down, thank you very much. Still, we haven’t gone that way yet, we can check it out tomorrow.” We all agreed that would be a good idea, and would be fun. We all returned to our conversation, but we kept glancing over there to see if we could spot it again. No such luck, if that’s what you’d call it.
The next day, we all got in the canoes and headed north. The currents were in our favor, and we made excellent time. We docked on a small island for lunch, with Liz tying the canoes down, and ate lunch. The four days of paddling must have worn us out much more than we knew. We all passed out for an unexpected nap. When we awoke in the late afternoon, we found the canoes moving in the current, freed somehow from their moorings. Most of our gear floated serenely by us as we chased after it. Liz was our only real swimmer, and she dove in to get them, but they were too far away. All it got her for her pains was to be muddy and wet.
“Now what do we do?” yelled Kris, “we’re screwed. We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s nearly dark, and we’ve got no gear, no cell reception, and no way of getting back to camp!” Jen took over. “Look, this sucks, but we’re going to have to walk back. We’ll laugh about this later.” Kris looked like he was going to respond, but Liz put a hand on his shoulder, and it calmed him a bit. I asked Liz if she still had the compass, and she nodded. “Let’s start heading south, then,” I said. Jen looked at me and mouthed the words “Great knots, Liz”, and I rolled my eyes. Knowing what I know now, I don’t think it was her fault.
What remaining daylight we had was a hell-march of mud, swamp water and bumps and bruises. We all hated each other at that point. As night fell, we found a grassy spit of land to collapse on. Sleep came quickly, whether from exhaustion or something else, I’ll never know. We all awoke with a start. Some strange sound had awoken us. It was neither man nor beast, but something other. The blue light, now visible as a flame, was what drew our eye south. It was a beacon pointing directly where we needed to go, though at times it seemed to move. I turned to Liz and Kris, and asked if they saw it, too. I looked for Jen. Jen was gone. I pushed the tall grass aside where she lay, and there was nothing. No sign of a struggle, no evidence to suggest that she was ever there, except for the depression in the grass. It’s as if the swamp had swallowed her. The three of us remaining felt the panic rise. We called her name, but there was no answer save a mocking echo of our voices. Kris lost it. He insisted we head out now, that we get back to camp as soon as possible, and that Jen was probably there waiting for us. We all knew that was a lie, but the need to do something, anything to leave this place was upon us. Despite the dark of the new moon, we took out our otherwise useless cell phones to light our way. We didn’t need them anyway. We knew where we were headed; the blue flame lit the way. We plodded slowly at first. But the sense of unease grew, and we all became aware of something watching us from the dark. We began to lope and crash through the wilderness. Kris got ahead of both Liz and I. We could see the dim light of his cell rounding a tree, and could hear him calling Jen’s name.
And then the calling stopped. Liz and I rounded the tree, and he was gone. The pool that claimed him was crowned with a cold blue flame. It seemed to have no source, and no heat came from it. As we stared, mesmerized by the flame, we became aware of a ripple in the bog that was moving toward us. Liz and I needed no words; we ran. We dashed headlong into the Barrens, not caring where we were going, just know it was far away from whatever it was that had claimed Kris.
Ahead of me, Liz stumbled. I thought it was a tree root, but in a moment of clarity, I saw a hand had reached from the swamp to grab her, and the wrist was adorned with a bracelet I bought for Jen last Christmas. Liz was being dragged into the dark waters of the swamp, and god help me, I didn’t stop. Why didn’t I stop?
I haven’t stopped running. The car and camp were destroyed when I go there. The days are safe, and I run then. At night, the things that used to be my friends hunt me, whether for sport or food I’ll never know. I don’t know if I’ll last the night.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I love you and yet love you not.
Clasped to me you are my anchor,
With distance found, soon forgot,
Sweet nothings now turned to rancor.
I cannot say what makes me so,
A broken heart turned monster,
Fickle fancies soon to go
The way of the impostor.
Love's fertile fields too soon turned fallow
The unloved self's ardor is cruelly hollow.
Clasped to me you are my anchor,
With distance found, soon forgot,
Sweet nothings now turned to rancor.
I cannot say what makes me so,
A broken heart turned monster,
Fickle fancies soon to go
The way of the impostor.
Love's fertile fields too soon turned fallow
The unloved self's ardor is cruelly hollow.
Not mine
One night to be confused
One night to speed up truth
We had a promise made
Four hands and then away
Both under influence
We had divine sense
To know what to say
Mind is a razorblade
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, no
One night of magic rush
The start - a simple touch
One night to push and scream
And then relief
Ten days of perfect tunes
The colors red and blue
We had a promise made
We were in love
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, no
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, oh
And you, you knew the hand of a devil
And you kept us awake with wolves teeth
Sharing different heartbeats in one night
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, no
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, oh
Monday, September 6, 2010
Sonnet #1
I love sonnets. I love the structure, though I'm never sure if I have it right.
Stupid iambic pentameter. *shakes fists*
Stupid iambic pentameter. *shakes fists*
Poems, public made, are a private lie,
A gross display of falsest invention,
The buzzard's caw masked as the songbird's cry,
An idle turned with hollow intention
False words turn'd into honeyed bait,
Crafted cunning to catch the broken heart,
Leave untrue wordsmiths to their fate,
And hope that soon the serpents will depart,
But, lo, my sweet verse is meant to render,
The burden of the love I cannot hide,
And thus are my words true and tender,
Shap'd crudely, wrought without thought of pride,
Your love and your trust, I would fain abuse
For you are both my solace and my muse.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A walking contradiction.
I'm sure I want to do this, but I'm not sure I want anyone to see it. But of course I want everyone to see it, and praise it. But even then, I'll know where the slapdash edits and tangled knots are. I'll know how flawed it is, and yet still desire universal praise. Praise which I, of course, will find hollow and empty.
Writers are just as unhappy and neurotic as actors, but people care less when we're drunk in public.
I want to be Hemingway without being a pig. I want to be just a Black Library author, writting canon fan-fiction for a living. I don't know what I want. Which is how I ended up in this predicament in the first place. I'm 35, or at least soon to be, and I'm so far behind it kills me. I know I want my degree; that I do know. Not for any real purpose, mind you, but to give myself the sense that for once, I finished something worthwhile. And so I can finally stop checking the box that says "Some College Coursework Completed" on job applications. Which is a depressing box to check.
Writers are just as unhappy and neurotic as actors, but people care less when we're drunk in public.
I want to be Hemingway without being a pig. I want to be just a Black Library author, writting canon fan-fiction for a living. I don't know what I want. Which is how I ended up in this predicament in the first place. I'm 35, or at least soon to be, and I'm so far behind it kills me. I know I want my degree; that I do know. Not for any real purpose, mind you, but to give myself the sense that for once, I finished something worthwhile. And so I can finally stop checking the box that says "Some College Coursework Completed" on job applications. Which is a depressing box to check.
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