“The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors”

I revel in the dark. It’s when I feel most alive.
Simply myself and the shadows, dancing from one pool of orange sodium vapour glow to another.
So dark.
Yet I feel like that’s who I am. Perhaps just a piece.
So many pieces that nobody knows.
Do those secrets belong anywhere but inside me?
Do I?

There’s a beauty in it all. A twisted sort of magic. A haunting tale. And one day it will be. Little bits of eldritch lore woven into a tapestry so finely that none will ever know. Because nobody knows that story. So they must be spun into their own tales.
To exhale.
Breathing in the darkness is such a different dance than walking in the sun.

But I suppose, in the end, we all have our secrets. We all have our darkness.
And our light. Right?


While the City Sleeps

An old poem I found that I enjoyed.



Outside and alone at 2am.
It was then I felt like a shade.
At that moment there was only me.
I had no friends then.
No family.
Just me and a sea of street lights and empty roads.
Darkened windows as the city slept.
Slept like I couldn’t.
Slept like I wouldn’t.

I could dance in the orange glow.
I could bask in the ever shifting green-yellow-red as the cars never came.
But I was just a phantom.

The kiss of drizzle was cool against my skin.
Yet I’d never felt more transient.
Ageless yet instantaneous.
Wandering. Watching. Waiting.
But for what?

At 3am the streets wouldn’t tell me.
The wind only whispered empty promises.
The trees rustled autumn longings
echoing across the empty yards.
And I echoed, too.
Empty just the same?

Yet I was full of the night. Full of its magic.
Its pregnant promises calling.
Full of whimsy and curiosity.
Shadows dancing.
Stories gathering.

How could I be so empty and full together?

At 4am, the sky gave up.
The rain tried to wash everything away,
but it couldn’t wipe me clean.
Did it think me a stain?
A blot on its beautiful brilliant canvas below?

I didn’t ask.
It didn’t tell.
We just watched one another.

At 5am, I broke.
My own rain couldn’t do any better.
Still empty. Still so full.
I found that place.
Doors and windows dark and closed.
I could peer at the lives inside.
I could wonder which I belonged to.
I could wait.

But it’s 6am.
I’m sick of waiting.
I don’t want to watch anymore.
I’m tired of this sickening feeling of being empty-full.

So I’ll light up those windows.
I’ll stir the lives inside.
I’ll find which ones are mine.
Next time.

What is it about Autumn?

What is it about autumn?   The brisk chill as the world cools over.  The vibrant colors as the trees lose their plumage.  The crisp crunch of leaves underfoot.  But there’s more to it.  A feeling that creeps into you.  No.  It was always there, dormant, waiting to be called out.  That part that revels in shadows and twilight.  Dark, almost sinister, but with the mirth and tricks of a child.  It’s difficult to explain, and the words never seem to match that feeling growing, surging, welling up, and peaking at Halloween.  Maybe it’s the child in me, crying out for release to revel in the joy of autumn…

Twilit ramblings…

Night wakens the soul. Yes?

As the night drips into the evening sky I find myself here, dictating incoherent streams once more; I’m embroiled in a maelstrom of thoughtspeech. Firing impulses draw me backward and forward throughout a timeline I scarcely remember.

Coursing through hollow veins once again spurts a fluid I once called home. Trembling he fell to the sky in a wracking fit of creativity. He’d forgotten how to write. Not the scratching of quill on paper or the dull clacking of depressed keys, but the deep waves of meaning searing forth and flooding the mind, grasping everything until the hunger was sated.

How many of these has he had? How many rivers has he depeleted? How many oceans dried? How many canvases frozen? I can’t rightly say. It’s been awhile … since I could … leak … anything.

I realize why he swims. Here he swims, drinking in the fluids (breathing) as they coalesce about his entire being. Without them, he drowns in its viscosity that even now threatens to bury him. I could let him; yet I would never breathe again! And the echoes of long forgotten memories of worlds never born and worlds born thrice over collide with faces/voices/fragrance/sensation we’ve always had but never embraced.

He soars and whirls and dives and rolls about the wisps of everything. I smiled at them today. And I know. I know something. That thing that I know is that I am alive. What I had not known since I could breathe; I’d forgotten the feel of it all.

Liquid ecstasy flows over me(us, he says), and we bask in the polychromatic singularity of the entropy that is our law. And we feel [OH how it feels] to live again.

We sigh and take in the breathtaking reality of all that isn’t real. But it is, I say. And he laughs. He laughs at me. For it cannot be, he scoffs. Now it is my turn to chuckle. I point to him. You are real. Even though you know you aren’t what everybody knows. You still retain your realness. He sighs. I’m right, he knows. Of course we are.

You can’t stop now. It’s already begun.

I want to dance. Soak up the sunlight. Swim in the wind. Fly across the warmth of summer. Embrace the creatures I call companions and smile; we’ve only just begun the journey. And we laugh. All of us.

“Desperate and ravenous … I’m so weak and powerless over you.” I wouldn’t dream for any other stars to shine like you do.

We smile. And return to that lovely place just beyond where we lie in bliss. Time to rejoin the world.

Time to live.


I’d left this for awhile, working on longer projects. It’s been a season of change. I’ve completed a first draft for my fantasy novel. Started a couple new projects. I am collaborating with an artist for a project somewhere between graphic novel and web series. Began an urban fantasy that is going strong. And many tinier projects here and there. Freelance editing has helped me hone my craft along with reading. Always reading. Donald Maass has several excellent books on craft, as well as Stephen King, Orson Scott Card, and a handful of others. And I’m trying to read outside my comfort zone. Broadening my horizons. There’s so much out there, it is staggering. Teaching and helping others with their writing has offered me different insights into my own. It has certainly been an interesting ride.

Editing and the second draft for the fantasy novel is underway, while working on the urban fantasy. I’m never sure if it’s a terrible idea or not to be working on multiple projects all at once, but I learn something from each of them and it helps to get away from one project or another at times to get a fresh perspective.

I may post some old things and perhaps a teaser chapter from my latest project.

So much in the works. I’m going to attempt to become a more regular blogger, though that has always been a challenge for me.

Until next time…



A Little Bit of Magic

I sat outside and disconnected. Then reconnected to another world. The world around me. Being outside changes everything. I never realized this before. Like a muscle that has atrophied and then suddenly regains its strength. Like a part of me was dead – a limb hacked away and regrown by the kiss of the sun and the breath of the wind. Something stirs in me.

Too often I feel hollow, living a life I don’t want. Lost in a lie. Glimmers of the truth surface, glinting when the light hits just right, but mostly, a glamer. Beneath it there is something else. Primal, raw, passionate, beautiful, but caged. I find it in incredible, visceral moments. In those moments I feel so alive. I never thought that I felt dead – disconnected, until I feel these moments and realize what I’m missing. Almost like a hypersensitive state, a heightened state where I feel more in tune with the world around me. Such an odd sensation, but I find myself craving it more and more. It’s as if I get drained by the things going on around me, and then when I have these moments of connection I get recharged. As if I am tapping into some incredible reserve of power. Energy. Life.

Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by those sensations. What an incredible feeling. I want to write it all – to jot down every sound, sight, scent, feeling, and sensation. The colors, the textures, the emotions they bring to life. The strings they pull within. I want to be lost within it.

I want to be caught up in the wind, soaring everywhere it goes. To hear the windchime symphonies at every home, the music of the wind in every nation. To feel how it stirs the people, the places, the life across this vast and beautiful place.

I know that I’m feeling it, but I know at some point, you’ve felt it too, or something similar somewhere. It’s like magic for me. I can almost feel it eddying in places, pooling about here or there waiting to be seen. To be felt. To be inhaled. In those moments I want nothing more than to breathe it in. To revel in it. Washing over me and getting lost in that experience.

It’s everywhere. Literally almost everywhere, and to me that’s just mind-boggling. Sometimes I feel like that’s where the magic really comes from. Where stories are born. Where ideas take shape. These little pockets of magic and power dance about us, if we only open our eyes. In the wilderness, in the city, in a car, in a school. It’s always there, it just feels a little different. I think that magic…is life. A gift from God.

The feeling of the wind rushing by, rustling the limbs and leaves on the trees. The haphazard music of the collection of wooden chimes about me, the ringing of the solitary metal chime in their midst. Cars whir by in the distance. The impossibly loud sounds of insects so small, so close, and yet so far away.

The rush of excitement, laughter, and shouting of a playground full of kids at recess. Rubber chips flying, a jumbled mess of arms and legs and bodies weaving through the bars and metal and plastic and grass.

The throng of faces, fashion, gossip, chattering and footsteps wandering about the shopping mall. Watch, you’ll see it. That excitement when the perfect item is found. The slow, relaxed flow of meandering browsers, not on a hunt, content just to look, but with that muted undercurrent of longing. The buzz of the food court, blazing with scents, and sounds, and all manner of folks conglomerating in one place. So many conversations murmuring at once. So many tastes. All tangled up in one massive breath of energy.

A huddle of folks sitting around a campfire. Storytelling engrossing them all. Bursts of laughter fire off in spurts. Eyes caught up in the flickering flames and the glow of the coals. That smoky smell that lingers on your sweatshirt after you leave, triggering those memories once more.

The bustle of the city streets. People intent on finding their destination. They’re all busy. Each has somewhere to go, something to do. Eyes focused, gait determined – they’re on their way. Cars rush by in flashes of color and exhaust and headlights. They weave this way and that across broken yellow lines. Images played in the eyes, mirrors, and windows all around.

Torrents of experience.
A beautiful magic.

A Riot of Color

And suddenly out from the dark I came – a riot of color and sensation. At first deep blue, writhing about, then growing higher, higher, higher. The blue gave way to white, orange, and the dancing tails of flame soared higher. I could feel the hiss and crackle, the energy pouring out in all its forms. Light. Heat. Sound. And always the dancing maelstrom itself. It was brilliant. Jubilant. Exciting and wonderful. In that moment I was free.

I was the fire, leaping about, licking at whatever I could to catch this feverish heat. To spread it. A contagion that needed to be caught. I realized then that I needed to infect them. All of them. But that it started with myself. In my own grey days I felt so lost. Drab, frozen, and mucking about in my own fears. I needed a catalyst. It took only a moment. The fire was lit and I exploded. How such a radical change could come about I never knew. Maybe I still don’t. All I know was that it did. In that instant I saw the colors. It was a fit of creativity. A burst of inspiration. A torrent of incredible…power. Freedom.

Gasping, I breathed it in. The fresh air stoking the flames even further. I wanted more. I wanted to live in that moment forever. I felt invincible. Is this what it feels like to be alive? To live? I wanted to dance. To throw that riot of color to you. To all of you. In that instant, in that fit of color I was connected to something brilliant. The fervent yellows and blues of the sky. Green and brown like the woods behind me. The orange, blue, and white of the fire within. Connected with the world, with you, there is color. Alone and locked within myself, there are only shades of grey.

I want to infect the world. To share that color with it. With you. You never know where you’ll find that spark. The one that ignites the fire within. Find that fresh air, find that spark. Find that moment to stoke the flame until it explodes in a riot of expression.