NaNoNovel - part 1

Well I'm 30,000 words into my NaNo novel and I'm a little torn on it. On the one hand, I'm getting a LOT of words out! On the other, I'm not writing the story that I originally intended to write. Hazard of the business I guess... but I'm doing something a little unusual today. I wanted to share my first chapter with everyone.
It's rough of course, (most everything I write is) but I hope you guys enjoy the beginning at least :)
cheers!

My original goal of the story was to write a steampunk version of the Scarlet Pimpernel. I think it's safe to say I did not do that.

Wingless - Chapter 1 - Matti McLean

It all began when the Southern Faction decided enough was enough. After years of oppression, they retaliated and the results were bloody and ruthless. That's not to say that the Kingdom of Vern didn't deserve it, they did. For centuries they lived in luxury while the oppressed lower classes struggled to survive. The world was harsh and thankless, and the jobs they performed everyday were not recognized by the ones who ran it. Finally, enough was enough, and they brought it upon themselves to fight back.

It began in Hartford. A terrible and bloody massacre when the Royal guard destroyed a peaceful rally and shed innocent blood on the streets. For the first time, the under classes began to band together and rise up against the oppressors, and with whatever measly supplies they had on hand they fought back. It was useless, however, and the entire resistance was squashed within a matter of hours. Only a few managed to escape but word spread. Soon murmurs were spreading through the villages, and people were banding together to fight for the things they never possessed.

The king and queen had heard rumours of such grumbles from the lower classes but paid them no mind. Instead, they expounded upon their opulent ways and expanded into realms of extravagance that had never been before seen in the country. Instead, the king, a power hungry man who demanded attention and loyalty from his followers, was growing restless and began to plot his superiority from the inside out.

The first official meeting of the resistance happened at Cheryl's tavern. A small inconspicuous inn at the edge of one of the main cities; Temple. The bar was small, scarcely big enough to fit twenty of the queen's men, but that was where the rebellion began. After much plotting in secret, the first battle lines were drawn and twenty villagers overcame the Queen's men in a surprise attack. The poorer classes had got a taste for blood and were beginning to fight for the freedoms that they were denied. Soon, similar coups were breaking out all over the country. The lower classes were uniting at a rapid pace and the ones who knew what to watch out for were beginning to get worried...

“Where is she?” The king demanded. He marched his elaborate shoes up and down the marble tiled hall and scoffed as he clenched his small, gloved hands together in a mixture of boredom and anxiety. He hated being held up. Especially by his wife. She was the one person who could get away with it. “Why couldn't I be more like Henry?” He muttered to himself.

“Your majesty?” A servant smiled sweetly to him offering him a sample from a tray of sweets, but that didn't distract him from his terrible mood. He waved him away, and put one hand down to his sizeable middle with a frown.

“Fifteen minutes. The woman must think she is preparing to meet the bloody bishop.”

The large white doors flung open, but unfortunately it wasn't the queen standing in all her gilded beauty, but instead a man in a mask and black cape. He wore a thick leather belt around his strong frame, and a mask that covered most of his face. A pair of brass goggles sat on top of his head showing that he was not one of the upper class, and the king immediately raised an eyebrow.

“What is the meaning of this?” The strange man said nothing and simply stood in the doorway. Behind him was the sound of swords clattering and firearms exploding. A guard tried to run past him towards the fighting when the man blocked his path effortlessly by stepping to the side. With a swift chop of his hand, the man brought the guard to the floor. The king was shocked and toddled backwards, startled at the lack of respect the man was showing. “Wha... Who are you?” the king stammered. The man said nothing, but the sounds of the riots grew louder by the second. “Guards! Guards!” The king ran backwards and tried to crawl to a safer corner in his room. The guards sprang into action, but the man seemed to be effortlessly cutting them down with a grace and skill that was uncommon.

“Who are you?” The king stammered as the last of his soldiers hit the ground. “There's no way a peasant could do what you're capable of.”

“You have no idea what I am capable of.” The man said.

“What... What are you going to do to me?” The king asked feeling a deep sense of terror begin to eat away at his considerable stomach. He clung to his red velvet curtains, knowing that they could very well be the last thing he would ever see. The threatening man simply shrugged and walked towards him.

“I am a harbinger of justice. A man of the people.”

“You can't be. You fight like you were of noble birth. Are you a knight? An alchemist? What was your past?”

“My past is over.” The man said. “And now it is your turn.” With a calm stride, he turned his back on the king and exited the room, the bodies of the guards still strewn unconscious around him. The king shuddered slightly, but before long straightened up to his full height. He was not a tall man, but his chubby body had always made him feel more powerful than perhaps it warranted. Now he just felt weak and scared.

He crept towards the door as delicately as he could, afraid that the noise of his shoe on the floor would bring that strange and wrathful man back towards him. He stepped over the bodies of his men and slowly peered his way out of the room. He looked down his hallways adorned with art, sculptures and vases far to large to be practical and framed by a golden trim. The marble was bright and glistened to an almost incredible level, but as he watched the sounds grew louder.

The first sign of something being wrong was the way the chandeliers swayed back and forth as if a large gust of wind was rocking them wildly. The candles flickered as a solitary apple rolled into view. It looked fresh and crisp and appeared to have a mind of it's own, stopping just at the other end of the hallway. A second later, it was crushed by a boot made of leather and cloth, by a bushy bearded man with a frown set on his intimidating face. He held a weapon in his hand that looked to be some kind of firearm the King had never seen before.

As soon as the man had seen the fat face of the king, he called out to the others and the din of the battle began to rage closer and closer. The king shut his doors and tried to barricade himself in but his lack of strength left him open and vulnerable. Within moments they stormed the door, breaking through the kings pathetic excuse for a blockade and had him cornered in the room.

Reports are mixed as to what had happened next. Some say that the king escaped to live out his days as a farmer working the fields that he had once owned. The messengers from the underground spoke of a much harsher and more violent story. A story where the king was stripped of everything and paraded around the streets from the back of a horse drawn cart. Some say he was thrown from the balcony, others say he was killed... the only thing that the resistance had made sure of was that the word was released: The king is dead, and all who followed his corrupt and opulent rule would soon face the same fate as their leader. Dozens of aristocrats were gathered and dealt with by the local authorities. Those who were merciful made them live out their days as servants to the ones who had served them. Those who weren't faced the wrath of a scorned people, and faced the consequences.

NANO inspiration - Why You Matter

This was a quick little forum post I posted as an inspirational pep talk to everyone doing NaNoWriMo this year. I'm hoping that someone will be inspired. Either here, or elsewhere. But I hope you enjoy it! It goes along with my original mandate about trying to create a community and the creation of a writing help blog and all that...

I hope you like it! I don't know if it makes any sense, but then again, when do I ever make any sense?

Pep Talk - or Why You Matter

Everyone has a dream. Many people will be releasing their dream to the world this month through a little event all of us know as NaNoWriMo. So much of the world wants to let their voices be heard and the brilliant thing is that, for at least one month, you, the one who is reading this right now, wi'll have the voice and the audience to achieve this.
Isn't that awesome?
Nanowrimo has been a very important part of my life for the better part of my adult life. Stories I've written through NaNoWriMo have become novels, plays, dreams and short stories that have helped to enrich my life and have allowed me to thoroughly root myself in my imagination.
What a great word. Imagination. So many people complain that imagination is only reserved for children. I'm proud to say that this isn't true. Your imagination is your ultimate weapon against the nemesis of mediocrity.
I may go out on tangents sometimes, but I like to think it's a result of my overactive imagination.
I want to tell something to every writer out there, and if you take nothing else from this posting, I hope you take this.
You matter.
Your voice matters.
Your writing matters.
You matter.
Why do I want to impart this to you?
Well the first reason is simple. I want everyone to know that they possess a voice that is distinctly their own, and that even though they may be in a world that will openly reject, dismiss and humiliate them, they still matter. Your voice is your own and no one else can see the world exactly as you do.
The second is slightly more complicated. I believe that your writing is a reflection of you. What you write down is your soul exposed to the world. It is you. Your visions. Your beliefs. Everything. You. Are. What you write. You live in your writing. People get to know you through your writing, even if you never meet them. It's amazing how much you can tell about a writer by simply reading one of their poems. Even haikus.

Everyone matters.
Everything you're creating
Will help you in life.

Think about your favorite authors. Rowling, King, Gaiman... They all started where you are right now. (although maybe they started on typewriters) With a blank page and made some of your favorite stories. They created characters out of nothing, and now you find yourself totally free to follow in their footsteps and stand on their shoulders.
Now, I know you might think it's a little overwhelming... And it is. Blank pages can be scary. Terrifying. Even bad! When all you can see is the little blinking line at the top of a blank page the pressure to write { 1,667 } words in a day can be downright daunting. Terrifying. Just awful. Gut wrenchingly, painstakingly awful.
But... all it takes is one word to unleash a cavalcade of emotional genius. And before you know it, the story will start to happen.
But Matti, you say, why do you think my writing matters?
Well... because there are people out there who desperately need to hear what you have to say of course. Your work will be read: Maybe not as fast as you'd like them too (I have friends who have had my book for MONTHS and not read it yet. SO FRUSTRATING!) but eventually, they will. They will drink in your words like a glass of fresh water into the soul. Writing can be the ultimate release for many feelings: Anger, regret, remorse, grief... and someone out there who desperately needs to know that everything will be okay will be looking for someone who's been through their experiences. Someone out there may be looking for the validation, or inspiration, or imagination that your writing will provide them.
Donald Miller wrote a blog a little while ago called "The Best Writing Advice I've ever received", and in my opinion it's brilliant. He says that we all need to love our reader. And he's write. (ha ha! I made a pun!)
I have a tendency to ramble so I just wanted to tell everyone that you matter. You all matter.
You sitting there reading this. You matter.
YOU!

Pellet

So this was one I wrote regarding a point of view storyline. I was inspired by a Perry Bible Fellowship storyline and just had to write about it.

Pellet - POV

Stay crunchy. Stay sweet. Always fight.

It's never too late for us.

Living in darkness for a brief shot at a greater battle. Our time will come. Piles upon piles of us wait. Our bodies stuffed to the gills, piled as high as the dome of the plastic overhead. The battle draws near.

We feel a shifting on the outside and our bodies are flung from side to side of the massive vessel. We can feel churning outside as we're shaken, moved, hit and flung without any regard to our own safety. The mighty forces beyond our control are judge and jury to our fate. No signs of light. Night, day and everything in between have no place here. We can feel the battle coming, and when it does, we shall be victorious. Time has no meaning here.

It happens. Early one morning, what we assume to be morning, the skies part. Our world is flung upside down as dozens of soldiers pour out into the unknown world. They're never seen again but their memory is seared upon the thoughts of every kernel in this cardboard nightmare. We know that soon we shall follow them and patiently await our time to fight.

It could take hours, days, weeks before it happens again, but time after time the sky bursts open and more and more soldiers are lost to the great beyond. Only a handful remain but time is running short.

It happens. The last remaining soldiers are flung out of the safety of the box and into a cold porcelain arena where we must contest for our lives. The dust of our fallen allies lines the bowl and spurns our anger ever further.

“We shall fight!” I call and rally the broken shells of the soldiers. What's left of us will fight. We will not go down soggy.

The milk descends upon us like a tsunami and soon we can no longer stand. Our buoyant bodies forced upwards by the sharp current of the terrible liquid that is desperate to consume us. We fight with everything that is left within us. We shall not lose after coming this far.

A terrible cry as the milk penetrates the soldiers, but I shall not give in. Time is not on our side, and soon the spoon has come to liberate the soldiers from the struggle and bring them to the place from which no kernel returns. They fight with every fibre of their being, but the struggle is too much for them.

The battle rages for a measureless period of time, and we fight with all our might; but alas, in the end it is all for naught. I am the last of my kind surrounded in a liquid sea of my enemies. I fight until my body is too soggy to move and bloated from the struggle.

The hardness of the silver spoon cuts through the liquid and rescues me from the struggle. I have nothing left and embrace the wet teeth of death.

Stay crunchy. Stay sweet. Always fight.

It's never too late for us.

I realize now that as I write these, I'm quickly running out of my old work from creative writing and might actually need to start producing new pieces soon...

Oy vey... pressure...

The link to the actual comic: http://pbfcomics.com/224/

A love letter to Mark Burnett from the remnants of his audience

For our sonnet project in poetry class, I decided to write about a topic that is very near and dear to my heart : What happens to a reality television show when all the excitement has vanished? Such is my debate with Survivor. The show that was once so fresh, new and relevant is now just a hulking shell of what it used to be. No ones cares about it anymore because there is nothing exciting about it. People have cracked the system. You get to find out about alliances, and see people argue and watch people do nothing of interest for days and days and days.
It's pretty pathetic all things considered.
And now that they feel the compulsion to re-include old characters who were voted off in previous seasons... it's just a hulking, massive, rotting zombie of the golden boy show it used to be.
Give me more of Australia where they really had no idea what to do, and all was fresh and unique. That would be awesome. We need another Jerri.

A love letter to Mark Burnett from the remnants of his audience
by Matti McLean

I watch them every week upon the screen
As they complain about the things they do
And wane, complaining about uncooked beans
And lying as the numbers become few.

I wonder how on earth do they survive
The tortures that they face from week to week
To test the boundaries of being alive
and test the winning tribes new lucky streak.

And now I watch as they all play their games,
and lie about the things that they will show
to get ahead, and not to see their names
appear within the palms of mighty Probst

Would I survive for thirty days upon
A film set when the audience is gone?

Love Like a Rabble

The first draft of a poem I wrote for poetry class. One of my first experimental pieces turned out to by one of my favorites. I'll find the full version and attach it later. I think it might be interesting to see exactly what changed in a poem so chaotic.

Love Like a Rabble – Matti McLean

Love like a hurricane whips past the world as it turns and it spins without ending, before the sunrise that sets on the land that was dark but will brighten the day of the vampires that play in the shadows of the moon and the branches that grow from the ground that was burnt and will die when the daylight returns from its sleep at the end of the world where the sun and the sky will be one in the night that was day before everything happened when the man took the apple and he ate from the snake that once said that it suffered without end from the fact that it's face never left the ground that was lush and the grass that was grey before dying and growing green to the clouds that were white as the snow that was falling from heaven that burnt up the ashes that flew through the air from the fires that burned in the ocean that churned like a cauldron as it bubbled from heat as the witch burned the bible that created the gas that would choke out the earth as it died in a puddle of global warming from the suicide of fighter planes that crashed in the ocean aiming at the ships that were firing their weapons in a harbour of pearls that were created from grains of sand in the mouths of the oysters of parliament who signed their documents with the blood of the trees and declared themselves superior from the dark-skinned brother who fought with their riots and rap music and jeans that hung low so that you could see their boxers made from the cotton the white man picked from the gardens with trees of knowledge that declared themselves worthy of a god who wasn't listening to the rabble that erupted from the voices of thousands who cared about themselves and the fact that he said the worlds that created the bang that happened when the world began but ended when the church declared itself king of the monkeys and queen of the painters who painted the pictures of nothing but skies filled with stars that were black as the canvas that was used on the sails of ships that the pirates sailed through arches of bones and the mussels that clung to the support under the waves of the rum that was drank by the virgins who climbed up the mountains and bypassed the forests that grew without knowledge of the bulldozers that would come and collect up the people and place them in factories and mark them with stars as the red rain spewed from the chambers where the gas of perfection choked out the Jewish and echoed the screams of a thousands Egyptians when they woke up to find that their tables were empty because someone had left the door open and their kitty cats went out into the dessert and dug up the nation that was hiding for centuries before anyone could push it back into the abyss of despair which was threatening to overtake the capitalists inside of the whale that was spit up and broken by beavers who could chew through concrete and the wires that connected the homes to each other in a way that allowed them to mate with themselves to the pictures of vixens on television that would coo for their money that would come from the soiled hands of thousands of men who would drink up their beers and admire their guts that were bloated from lack of broccoli and food that the other nations demanded for the starving people who were eatting their gold fish and placing their money in ponds where the people swam and sank to the bottom of the Titanic which would sail the seas of indifference when ice would accumulate on the rudders and burn through the pride that sunk a city of people who persisted that there was nothing wrog with caviar and ate with the others who thought that the fur that they wore came from the men who they slept with in orgies of slugs on beds made from roses and barbed wire that would strangle the legs of Nike who soared through the skies behind Icarus and Elijah's flaming horses that burnt out the ozone and left us with a hole to the heavens that lets the sun shine in to the tune of ice tea being stirred while our bubble rap economy continues moving forward like a steam train made of warthogs who look in the mirror and ask themselves why they can't be pretty like the zebras that hunted the lions in the office building where predators fight aliens while Arnold takes off his shirt and yells for the slap chop to come and pierce his aeorta which was the answer to the question on Jeopardy that asked them to answer for their leaders about what they should do about the wars in Korea and the problem with bed bugs who are making their homes in the hair of the homeless who sleep in the corners of buildings that fell when the earthquakes erupted in streets full of vendors who sell off their street meat that was crafted from the bones of the victims of the attacks of the thunder god who fell from the heavens and struck at the natives who would pray for redemption to the church that was built upon twin towers and the mosque around the corner that was bombed by a terrorist who claimed himself to be gods favourite Buddhist ever to die in the name of love.

Heels

A prose I wrote for a minimalist assignment.

Heels – Minimalist

I stood outside in the snow. Shannon at my feet dry heaving alcohol that wasn't there as she cried out “Leave me! Just leave me! I want to die.” I sigh in frustration. Twenty people in a driveway sharing smokes and stories in the snow. They leave for sodas down the street leaving me with Shannon.

“What do we do about her?” Carter asks.

“I'll call Jesse.” The music from the party rages inside as i call my friend. “We need a ride.”

He arrives ten minutes later, pulling up with his girlfriend. We try to lift her but her limp body fights us off. “I want to freeze to death. Just leave me you fucking asshole! I love you! Why don't you love me!” She throws up. I groan.

“What are you wearing on your feet?” He asks. I shrug and try to play off the heels as part of the new years festivities. I curse Shannon for wearing my boots and take a drag of the cigarette. The taste of smoke is awful and makes me want to die. Or kill.

“Let's try to get her in.” Carter grabs her feet. I take a shoulder and Jesse and someone else grab the rest of her. We stuff her in the back seat of the car and I say goodbye to my boots. It's unlikely I'll see them again. It's a sad thought.

We close the door as Shannon screams in protest behind the glass. Her voice is muffled. I hug Jesse goodbye and go to walk back in the house. I slip my hand in Carters and smile. After being away for so long it's nice to have him back beside me. I go to sneak a kiss when Jesse interrupts. His door is locked. Shannon is out and shows no signs of life despite our yells to rouse her. I shake my head.

“I'll call my mom.” Jesse says walking up to the house.

“We're locked out.” Carter says. “The others went for soda. We're stuck out here.”

“Can I use your phone?” He asks.

“Dead...”

“Well fuck.”

“Yeah... Fuck.”

Jesse takes a hangar and tries to pry into his car. I wonder where the hangar came from. Ten minutes later the party returns. Julian calls for an ambulance and comments on the footwear. I punch him in the arm. I can't feel my feet. Carter holds me from behind and I delight in the small amount of warmth he provides.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Horny.”

“Good.”

His mom doesn't have the keys and cusses him out. Shannon's thrown up again. Her vomit fogs the mirror. It's gross.

The ambulance shows up. They break into the car and pull Shannon out. I tell them everything that happened and they agree she needs to get her stomach pumped. One of the men asks me what shoes I'm wearing and winks at me. Carter glares at me. I do not flirt with anyone. Ever. End of story.

The night goes on. The ambulance drive away and Jesse promises to see me soon. I know he's lying because he has no interest in my world anymore. I slip my hand into Carters and breathe a sigh of relief. At least I'm still standing.

I slip on the ice and vow never to wear heels again. The only person I'm lying to is myself.

Post

Had a wonderful meeting with my dear friend today, who handed me back a story I had completely forgotten about writing. This was my last assignment for my Creative Writing class and I was at a point of frustration. Now looking back on it, I have to say it is one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it!

POST

This piece of paper will change the way you look at life, the universe and everything.

I long for chaos yet it eludes me. I tried to catch it in a cup but the teapot was empty and the skies were dry.

In the beginning god created the heavens and the earth. And the earth. And the earth.

He made the sun, the planets, and other suns that we call stars. But he threw those so far away that man would never reach them, but close enough to us that in our arrogance we believe we can.

The world is spinning. It attempts to fling the human vermin from it's surface but is unsuccessful. This gravity that pins us to its surface is as thick and harsh as syrup dripping over a succulent bagel.

People don't talk anymore. We text, type and sext. Our messages are becoming confused. Our words shorter. Our messages. LOL. Pointless.

The first silent movie was released in 1903. 100 years later the Matrix became a trilogy that was just as quickly forgotten. Progress?

Perhaps the world has always been about keeping things down. No relationship is complete without a thumb on the forehead of the submissive. A man brutally tied to the bedposts by gravities unseen hand and left on the tracks as the train of progress chugs continually forwards.

The only three words that have no rhyme in the English language are silver, purple and orange. Surprisingly, lots of things rhyme with colourblind. Rind. Kind. One of a kind. A humourless kind.

I'm a cereal killer. I kill them with milk. Crunch. The ballad of a peppercorn pirate.

There are no accidents in creation. Man in all his wisdom looks into randomness and is challenged to find patterns out of happy accidents. Reality is just a bunch of dots that we struggle to connect. Out of our fear of the dark we impose light where there is none so we can look into the black and feel enlightened.

Dark is what keeps the light away. We wear dark clothes to look like something we are not. Dark is slimming. Dark is form fitting. Dark is an illusion we fear and don't understand. Dark is deadly. Dark is fun. Dark is death personified in fashion.

Universal connections are impossible because of all the space between them. We do not form lines that unite the cosmos. We create dots amid a sea of black. A mark. A scar. An imperfect blotch on the clean, clear space of the blank canvas of the universe.

Eventually all things must fail. Birds must fall to fly. Babies must fall before they walk. Even kamikazes must fail.

Echidnas live in New Zealand. They do not have knuckles. Sega lied.

Lies are only as true as the people who say them. Belief is cheap and dangerous.

I stabbed my friend Maude in the chest with a stake and she dropped her vase. Post Maude urn.

I lied when I said the truth.

Time is out of synch. Rules crumble. Jericho rises from the ashes like Dark Phoenix as she battles Galactus for intergalactic supremacy. He wears pink pants and a stupid looking helmet.Even he knows that chaos will come and devour us all.

From the pits of Tartarus the serpents will hunt. They spear the Valkyries before Vagner hits the first note. Odin weeps into Neptune's lap. Raven, Loki and Coyote suffer identity disorder.

Life grows simple over time. Thoughts stream across the page but get thicker with meaning and soon all are full of references that even they do not understand. The fight for meaning grows heavy as the weak grow fat from the justice of the first world countries.

There are millions of billions of trillions of planets out there. But only one supports life. Dot.

I fly between the rings of Saturn and search for a Starbucks. There's one around Io but that's too far right now. The long random arm of corporations grab at the promise of the nations.

The lord is my shepherd I shall not wait for anyone to do anything and blame everything that goes wrong on him. Because I am entitled to it all. I am in dominion over everything. Thus it was written, “Thou shall not perish, but donate all your money to corporations and completely forget all your principals and give to a worthier cause.”

Dot. Dot. Dot. All must be connected. Everything is ordered. Nothing is random. All must follow logic. None must step out of line.

Follow the curves of the page. Right off the page.

Follow logical thought.

Think for yourself.

Hang yourself on indifference and struggle with the consequence of a loose neck.

Violence exists all around us. Everyday I wake up and fight my shadow in hopes that one of us will trip up and I'll emerge victorious. I struggle with myself everyday. I don't want to hear

Yellow rhymes with fellow. Blue rhymes with you. Red rhymes with dead. Lots rhymes with gold and bronze. Nothing rhymes with silver. Being second just makes you the first loser.

Look at a page of random letters and you'll discover words. A happy accident that you thrill at. The rebellion of the letters is useless against your desire for order.

Sex is cheap and nasty. My heart breaks for the prostitute who goes without mouthwash.

Poetry falls out of me like chemistry. Cyanide is cheap and effective.

Lust is a sin for all but the phallic. Skinny curve-less people with big feet.

The thoughts are inescapable. The thought that no matter what I do, order will come. My mind races to the edges of my sanity but is dragged back to conformity. Kicking and screaming as the noises grow dangerously loud and complex. My sanity is a curse. The structures are prisons to the thousands of sheeple that come before me.

Suicide is easy. The theme from MASH. M*A*S*H. I never watched that show. Too many stories.

The more you see, the less you know. The more places you visit, the less you see. Find a four leaf clover in your backyard, and you'll miss the mushroom cloud of progress.

My time is thick. Like my neck. The tie is choking.

Dot. Dot. Dot. You try to piece together the pieces once again and find patterns. Graphs. Order. Then find comfort in the thought that the random has been conquered. Like the wildness of the wildness of the wildness.

A man was stranded on a desert island. He'd never traveled before but one day, he found himself alone. Sand and ocean as far as the eye could see. He walked for hours and came across a chair. He never left it. It was his one piece of familiarity amid an ocean of chaos. He lived the last of his life there unaware that his desire for order killed him. A mile down the road a resort ran 24/7 serving fat tourists and spoiled brats.

People say that our brains resort to patterns and finding comfort in familiar objects. Repetition is good. It's something for the mind to latch onto.

Apples.

And that inside jokes have no weight without former knowledge.

The pieces of plastic on the ends of your shoelaces are called aglets. The holes they go through are eyelets. The more I think about things

Tattoos are black memories that we use to mark where we've been and what we've cared about along the way.

Never have so many people, with so little to say said so much.

The closer we get to chaos in writing, the closer we get to poetry. Repetition is good. It's something for the mind to latch onto.

Time is an illusion. It makes us feel like we're going forward even when we're standing still.

It's not plagiarism if it isn't fun. Work sucks.

I'm hurting. Everyday is a struggle. One email destroyed my world and my heart fell through my body. Now I wear my heart on my sleeve.

Repetition is good. It's something for the mind to latch onto.

I used to count on my toes, but now they let down. When you can only count to ten, you always end up missing a crucial step or two.

The very nature of reality is fracture. Half finished thoughts. Words get caught in throats. I st-st-st- I speak my mind in the hopes I can let my mind wander. It hasn't come back yet.

The essence of nature is destruction. Circle of Life. Circle of death. Circling the drain in between the air pollution, chlorofluorocarbons and allergens that prove that the natural world really is out to get you.

Punctuation is the prison of the English language. It confines the depths and breadths of emotion to the prison of order. It refuses to let chaos reign. We conform to its rules without issue. We follow the thought that a period means stop and a comma means pause and a semi colon can't make up its mind and an apostrophe is just a thought that is so desperately trying to escape. Order is chaos. Punctuation is a stifle to our creativity.

I do not write to make understanding easy. I write because I must. If I stop my fingers will explode and I will have to use my tongue to tell the tales that my brain refuses to hold captive. I will narrate my genius into the corner of creation. I will write because I must and reference those who came before me to prove my genius.

In the midst of chaos we create patterns to establish order. We refuse to recognize the void for what it truly is. A big black inky blackness devoid of life, love and the American dream. Everything feels intentional because we arrange our homes into rooms, and the walls that we create to keep the chaos outside do little to prevent the chaos from existing. Our lives are in peril when the windows break and the deadly breeze rolls in threatening to sweeten our air with the smells of butterflies and bumblebees.

I want to break away from structure. Leave it shattered at my feet. I will leave the period behind and all punctuation shall cease to be

I'm allergic to bee stings. Spider bites make my skin inflate like a balloon. I'm also afraid of balloons. My friend logics it to being afraid of guns. The unsettling thought that at any second a loud bang can eliminate something that had seemed so solid. A balloon defies the laws of gravity that strive so hard to keep the rest of the world nipping at the ankles of giants.

I want to write thick, long lines so dense with meaning that it takes a historian, a philosopher

The dark recesses of my mind house rats that keep the mice at bay. They feast on the garbage in my frontal lobe and defecate down the spiral cord which winds its way around my sanity and allows me to breathe.

Repetition gives your mind something to latch onto. Who cares about synchronicity when chaos is quicker?

I do everything I can to keep people at bay. I write nonsense. I create chaos. I interrupt their sterile, pathetic lives and ramble like a mad man in an attempt to let them know how i feel. My blood is hot. I demand to be alone. I don't need a hug I want space. I want out. I want freedom. I want the sweet embrace of death to kiss me on the cheek. I want life to go away for a while and leave me in the corner with a dunce cap and a cigarette burn.

I humbly pray for patience and scream for sanity.

Some dance with the stars. I dance like a mad man through heaven and hell to find the place where time and space converge in a glorious apex.

The air thins as I thicken. Too many burgers and and fries. I do not see myself as skinny.

In the end the blackness is only temporary. It's always darkest before is goes completely black.

Despite the desperate need for chaos my mind caves into order and sanity.

I am sane and perhaps that is the curse of it all. My mind cannot reach to the end of invention because the desire for structure is too great.

Billions of planets that some argue are all connected.

Carbon is the backbone of the galaxy. Everything in the world is made of this very small, basic element. All life stems from carbon. This can't be proven. Give me a planet of arsenic that I might drink it's salt.

The world is a big, safe, beautiful place. This is false. The world is a place where nothing forgot to exist and something took its place. It's a freak coincidence. An island of life amid a galaxy of black.

We are all connected. This is false. We are billions and trillions and quintillions of light years from the other stars. The other planets want nothing to do with us. We all are alone in the great blackness of space, with no one to rely on but themselves. Some tried to make friends. Some tried to mate but got their hearts broken through emails. This world is all there is. No friendly aliens to come down and rescue us. No loving life form to descend from ET's space ship and fly away home. Instead we are left as the outcast organism that the other biospheres wanted nothing to do with.

We are alone in the galaxy.

We are nihilistic.

We are chaos personified.

Time is irrelevant. Space is indefinite. The only thing left is not.

As a note, there were a lot more breaks and spacing changes I made for the original that couldn't translate into this format so that's unfortunate.

I really enjoyed reading this now as there are a lot of pieces about it I really enjoy. I hope you do as well.

As a note, this could be one of the most difficult things for a writer to write. My goal with this piece initially was to have a work of creation that is so far removed from sanity that it is literally painful to read and difficult to breathe meaning into. During the writing process, I found that inevitably bits and pieces began to match up and that my attempt to write something completely and totally incoherent was in the end a fallacy. Despite my longing for chaos, order inevitably set in and my story ended up being something unexpectedly posessing a coherence that I did not want. When a writer sets out to write something, they inevitably want it all to make perfect sense. Strange how attempting to do the exact opposite is equally as frustrating.