writers as readers

1 to be comfortable reading, all i really need is a book. most positions, surfaces and temperatures dont bother me that much. so really as theres enough room for my rather long body and its not freezing or boiling i should be completely fine to read. im not very picky about noise either. i could read in dead silence or in a crowded auditorium. i cant read with music though. i like music too much and i end up just listening to music and not reading so its not very efficient

3 i love the writing style of H.P. Lovecraft. i love the classic and expansive use of the english language. no writer that i have read uses that big of a vocabulary in their works. he uses words that really encapsulate the situation that the book is describing. the vastness of monsters and the horror of what the characters are seeing. i dont try to imitate or avoid any writing styles i just write however feels right to me.

4 my best memory associated with reading is the one summer that my dad handed me a huge book. it was the amazing adventures of kavalier and clay. it was the biggest book i had ever seen and he said if i read it all before the summer ended he would give me $100. it was an interesting book about two jewish cousins in america trying to make fortunes in the comic book industry. i had read it in the short time i had to do it and my dad handed me $100

9  when i finished days of blood and starlight i was sad because it was one of my favorite books and the story is just over. i hate finishing books i love because ill never read it for the first time again. its such a disappointment. like any book that i loved i hate getting to the last pages because ill never feel like that about it again. the next times i read it arent as good so i just have to find a better book. readings just sad.

13 i dont think ill ever write a serious book. if i did it would be horror or nonfiction. my about the outhor would just say hes a pretty cool dude

dont quote me on that

famous first and last lines

For a long time, i went to bed early. I don't know why i did. For the life of me i couldn't explain it. Maybe i was just tired, i don't know. Its hard, running things without you. The shop isn't a one person deal, you know? when we were running it together it was twice as easy. Now that you left for some reason i feel twice the stress. As if we were sharing it. the customers are impatient and the oven just cant handle the bread output anymore. we've gotten bigger since you left, people know about us now. ever since the little issue word got out about it and people just eat that up. people blogging left and right about the so called murder restaurant. murder, what do they know. you just left is all. if it was murder i would have been locked up, right? The police didnt think it was murder, they do but they cant prove it. it was eventually filed as a work related accident. Mom and dad were upset, they seemed to think something was going on too but what did they know? they don't know me, and they stopped answering my calls so they probably never will. They always loved you more anyways, that's all. They thought you were so special, and treated me like trash. and i was born first anyways. Only a few minutes but still first. I'm supposed to be special right? i was special up until the incident with the neighbors kid. it wasn't my fault he got in front of the car. and it was you who sent him down the hill anyways, not me. you just talked to mom first, and they never treated me the same. so yes i was angry, that's why we always fought. we could hardly handle one day at the shop without fighting, that's what led up to..you know. it was your fault it happened, you always thought you were better than me. always trying to boss me around, always making me feel stupid when i forgot things. i still love you you know? i loved you more than they ever could. more than Christi ever could, that bitch. i'm sorry i never told you that i'm the one who left her there at the bottom of the river. they never found her body, i meant it that way. I didn't want you to see what i had done. You wouldn't have understood that i was doing it for you. she wasn't good enough. nobody is good enough. i suppose that's why i did what i did. that apartment wasn't good enough. neither was the casket mom and dad put you in. you wouldn't be able to move around down there you know. my basement is a better place. it has a fridge full of fresh food and a couch and a TV. aren't you glad? makes up for the little spat at the restaurant right? i still feel bad. i shouldn't have yelled. i'm sorry about the knife. and for making it look like an accident. but if i were locked up i wouldn't be able to take care of you now. aren't i the best brother? i've done so much for you. love you bro.
                                                                                                    sincerely,
                                                                                                    your best bud
P.S. sorry i forgot to give you the mayonnaise

if i were in charge of the world

if i were in charge of the world
id cancel homework
writing assignments,
chili night and also
veganism

if i were in charge of the world
thered be better food
bigger dogs
and fresher seafood

if i were in charge of the world
you wouldnt have tumblr
you wouldnt have gluten free options
you wouldnt have low carb ice cream
or"just a salad for me"
you wouldnt even have salads

if i were in charge of the worle
bacon wrapped bbq brisket
would be a vegtable
netflix would be free
and a person who sometimes forgot their keeys
and sometimes forgot to call
would still be allowed to be
in charge of the world

caged bird inspired

being caged by growing up.
the illusion of freedom
is flashed in the faces
of young minds feeling trapped
when the freedom adulthood brings
is the burden of crushing responsibilities
youth thrust into adulthood
full of vim and vigor
soon realize that they were happier
when their mothers sang them to sleep

Color story

red filled my vision almost entirely. It encompassed my view. the crimson color soaked the deep snow, creating the illusion of bottomless pools. Blood and scraps of flesh stuck to the teeth of our pursuers causing a miasma of terror to flow in our veins. we were trapped and we knew it. and god! poop oliver laying face down, half buried in the snow. blood oozed from the hole in his neck. and we knew we would soon share his fate. any color that had been in us had left entirely, leaving us the same color as the snow that would soon freeze over our bodies.

So white was the snow that surrounded us.never had we seen such a beautiful absence of hue or color. it was perfect, a calm sea of bright nothing, seeming solid as glass yet as flowing as water. only hours ago we could have looked apon this in awe, admiring the beauty of nature before us. we would have praised god for creating such a beautiful sight just for us.now its all turned sour. the bright reflection of the snow seemed blinding now.and the once unbroken surface was not scarred with 5 pairs of snowshoe prints, and uncountable smaller paw prints following them. and the pure blank mass was now soaked with large sprays and mists and pools of the darkest red we have ever seen.

And the sky was such a beautiful blue this morning. vast and cloudless, it seemed like a perfect canvas to draw in the moon, stars and universe that would be soon visible in the night sky. the horison showed the snow covered desert meeting the light sky, a perfect line, uninterrupted and perfect, as if god himself had pulled out his strait edge to craft this small pocket of the world. now ugly and clouded the sight of the sky filled us with dread. the dread that we would not be here to see the sun set or rise again. this ugly blotched dark cloudy sky was the last we will ever see.

and finally my eyes rest on black. the large dark shapes moving in the snow. i can hear their footsteps crunching the ground where they landed. when one gets too close to our torches i can see the blood on their teeth and their dark eyes so focused on us. focused on prey.

paint chip pieces

romantic rose
a cold breeze flows through
pink petals follow the wind
it is cool on my face

deep desire
her lips a deep pink
her dress flowing around her
her eyes beckon me

wild plum
im in the garden
searching hard for something to eat
my eyes catch violet


bisque
Beginning the day
In a state of
Semi-consciousness
Questioning my surroundings
Under the suspicion that my dream hasnt
Ended yet

6 word memoirs

can i still fix this now

ill leave everything and everyone behind

im sailing away, anchored by her

Quoted from H. P. Lovecraft's Call of Cthulhu

Poor Johansen’s handwriting almost gave out when he wrote of this. Of the six men who never reached the ship, he thinks two perished of pure fright in that accursed instant. The Thing cannot be described—there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went mad, and poor Wilcox raved with fever in that telepathic instant? The Thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own. The stars were right again, and what an age-old cult had failed to do by design, a band of innocent sailors had done by accident. After vigintillions of years great Cthulhu was loose again, and ravening for delight.
Three men were swept up by the flabby claws before anybody turned. God rest them, if there be any rest in the universe. They were Donovan, Guerrera, and Ångstrom. Parker slipped as the other three were plunging frenziedly over endless vistas of green-crusted rock to the boat, and Johansen swears he was swallowed up by an angle of masonry which shouldn’t have been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse. So only Briden and Johansen reached the boat, and pulled desperately for the Alert as the mountainous monstrosity flopped down the slimy stones and hesitated floundering at the edge of the water.
Steam had not been suffered to go down entirely, despite the departure of all hands for the shore; and it was the work of only a few moments of feverish rushing up and down between wheel and engines to get the Alert under way. Slowly, amidst the distorted horrors of that indescribable scene, she began to churn the lethal waters; whilst on the masonry of that charnel shore that was not of earth the titan Thing from the stars slavered and gibbered like Polypheme cursing the fleeing ship of Odysseus. Then, bolder than the storied Cyclops, great Cthulhu slid greasily into the water and began to pursue with vast wave-raising strokes of cosmic potency. Briden looked back and went mad, laughing shrilly as he kept on laughing at intervals till death found him one night in the cabin whilst Johansen was wandering deliriously.
But Johansen had not given out yet. Knowing that the Thing could surely overtake the Alert until steam was fully up, he resolved on a desperate chance; and, setting the engine for full speed, ran lightning-like on deck and reversed the wheel. There was a mighty eddying and foaming in the noisome brine, and as the steam mounted higher and higher the brave Norwegian drove his vessel head on against the pursuing jelly which rose above the unclean froth like the stern of a daemon galleon. The awful squid-head with writhing feelers came nearly up to the bowsprit of the sturdy yacht, but Johansen drove on relentlessly. There was a bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of a thousand opened graves, and a sound that the chronicler would not put on paper. For an instant the ship was befouled by an acrid and blinding green cloud, and then there was only a venomous seething astern; where—God in heaven!—the scattered plasticity of that nameless sky-spawn was nebulously recombining in its hateful original form, whilst its distance widened every second as the Alert gained impetus from its mounting steam.

this passage was written in a way that, to me, is pure genius. H. P. Lovecraft's description, or lack thereof of this Cthulhu was done so well under the pretense that the thing couldn't be described. he only vaguely hinted at the horror that this creature was and he hinted beautifully with as much detail as possible without actually describing it, leaving it up to the readers imagination. later on in the passage he describes johansens attempt to escape. By smashing the steamboat into Cthulhu's head, the reader then believes that Johansens, and humanity has won. then takes that feeling away and replacing it with utter hopelessness as Cthulhu reforms. The creature cannot be beaten or stopped by the likes of man, this passage says, we are the utterly small hopeless prey of forces far beyond our control.

Dream Threads

As i fall, I thought nothing would catch me. Wind is in my face, pressure forcing oxygen from my
lungs. I cant breath. I know why i cant breath but all I could think was that I, I cant breath. The feeling of lightheadedness and panic consume me. i'm falling. Falling to my death. I cant see the ground. Its too dark and clouds are in the way. I'm too high up. I know that. I know it in my mind. somewhere way deep back there i know i'm dreaming it all up. Its all too obvious that its not real. But, I feel it. i feel the certainty of death. I feel it all in such exquisite detail. i feel the cool air harshly biting into my bone. It has to be a dream, right? It needs to be a dream. i force myself to believe that. Because if its not, then i'm going to die here. Not just that, i'm going to die because i made the decision to jump. I thought i could fly. i cant. i thought i could survive this fall. I'm invincible, right? But i know i'm not now. No, this is a dream. just a dream. just a dream. I convince myself that if i dream long and hard enough, it will come true.