Summer Daze

The night before a summer tennis camp I pulled out my four remaining milk teeth. All molars. I sat on the dark navy, flower patterned futon upstairs in the end room where we kept our old TVs. I thought of it as in home recycling as the former living room tv would retire upstairs.

It was a stale air, muggy kind of night. The one where sweat stuck to your soul. After pulling the first loose tooth, I pushed at another one. I kept wiggling it back and forth until it gave. My hand covered in small droplets of blood and my shirt slick with the relentless heat. Next I moved to the more stubborn molars that barely budged. I pushed like I’d stem back the tide of demons if I could knock that tooth over. I did. Although I don’t know about the demons.

The fourth and final tooth sat next to new bloody craters— it must have looked like the rock of Gibraltar. Defiant in its existence as I tried to willfully pass from child to adolescent. I’d alternate sitting and standing as I worked at the last piece in a tooth fairy offering the likes of which isn’t seen outside of bicycle accidents or bar brawls.

Eventually it pulled free— and with it the nauseous of too much swallowed blood and an irresistible urge to prod each empty spot with my tongue in some sort of macabre dental musical chairs.

Eventually I went downstairs to show my parents my unauthorized archaeological findings— they were taken aback, but accepted this wackadoodle behavior in stride. Hard to get too upset when it isn’t something permanent.

That summer you could catch glimpses of an extra toothy side smile—

For others it could serve as a reminder to just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

For myself, I’m reminded that when I’m caught by an idea— when it digs its pernicious claws in— I don’t let go. Thankfully you only lose your baby teeth once.

Treehouse

Teary eyed acid dropped recollections of isometric apologies. Whip silenced cries and a half-filled can of particle accelerator. A rough idling Audi A4 leaked oil on the gravel driveway. A svelte woman stared at the unfolding scene from a treehouse that doubled as an Airbnb.

A ship began sinking off the coast of Durban. The companies would be assembled soon along with the press. Amelia didn’t have much time.

Nightmare— Invisible Spirit

Standing in a farm style kitchen. Brown wood on the walls. A box in the mail that I open. It has a series of pictures. One of them is of an oblong smiley face that’s scrawled on the basement wall.

At that— I rush to the door to the basement to start doing the chain locks. But there’s an open window at the top of the door where a hand could snake out.

Didn’t see anyone but I hyperventilated into waking up.

Chalky

“I made a mess of my hand,” a slicked hair besuited man said shaking flakes of plaster off it. Blood ran between his knuckles making a chalky mess on the floor. A frantic mummering broke his focus as the duct taped man in the chair thrashed around. “Oh, pipe down, wouldn’t you? It’s not like I’ve taken an axe to your ankles.”

At least not yet, he thought.

Bledden

“Keep your back to the walls, boy,” the old man didn’t look up as he honed his blade. “I don’t need another dead apprentice. Not at this age.” Rowan nodded and returned to his own blunt length of steel.

Wellsy brushed Rowan off when he’d asked about the magistrate. He told Rowan not to ask about silly things like a “magistrate of shadows,” although the old man checked behind him before saying so. Wellsy thought any gutter punk lucky enough to avoid the guards lash shouldn’t dream of a better life. Of glory. Rowan knew the bitter old man was wrong. He’d prove it by finding the magistrate.

It took him three months, his pride, and all of his meager coin, but Rowan found a legend. And just as quickly found him wanting. He’d dreamed of an clever, elegant operator. A powerful man who could move behind the scenes, but possess the courage and ability to fight at the front. Instead, he found a half-crippled drunk.

Rowan did his best to swallow the insults and bile the supposed “legend” launched his way. Each sufficient hit knocked the former Tarnahill scion lower and lower, until even a disgraced son couldn’t stand it.

He pushed back against the venomous cripple, but found him gone. In his place. transformed, stood a steady instructor. Rowan, a long way from Tarnahill keep, found the man he’d been looking for. Or so he thought.

Tithe

Upturned coffee cans serving as roadside markers. No white crosses, but the same flower bouquets.

A storm rolling in. Strong winds and heavy clouds. They look like sentient sour milk batter as they lumber across the sky.

Waiting to hear if a ferry is cancelled.

Filed taxes and now I wait for the IRS to wave their copper hand forward.

The evolution from Wayne to Fergal. Watching an extended movie in the form of a series. Next Monday I’ll put in a two week holiday request and that’ll be the wrap on my current Japan adventure.

The Neighborhood Gazette Read “Karma”

“It’s a classic case of mistaken identity,” the policeman said to the family. He gave a small pat to the little girl before readjusting his holster.

“This sort of thing has happened before?” The mom asked, peering at the commotion down the street.

“It used to happen just about once a month before Lenny sorted his entrapment business. Looks like his replacement couldn’t quite hack it.”

“Do you know when Lenny will be back?”

“Tough to say. Those eldritch conferences run on a strange time schedule. Last time, Lenny said he’d spent five months away, but I reckon it was a good five minutes. Anyway,” he drew his firearm, “I should probably go and help the poor sucker Lenny drafted in. Hopefully the silver rounds work this time,” he said with good cheer.

The family watched the officer settle himself into a shooting stance and empty his weapon at the tentacled horror bushwhacking the Stevens house. The father watched the proceedings with a quiet delight. He’d never gotten over the Stevens family cheating at the summer field games. Must be karma come back around for tying a false leg during the three-legged race.

World Weaver

“Maybe those gods weren’t lost and you were right to be wary. Just as you’re right to question your conversations with the dead and whether they’ve left the mortal plane. I worry for you,” the man said adding another log to the fire, “I’ve seen revenants form out of mists in your wake. Gliding close as if to taste your essence. There’s something in you that drives the hunger of those left beyond the pale.”

The frozen reaches of Malton stretched out before the pair. The man had pushed the boy as hard as the road allowed. Getting out of Invelkin had been a mistake. Nearly as much as taking the boy along with him had been. The man’s gnarled hands ached something fierce in the winter night. They hadn’t been right since the Ranian campaign against Karcan.

“Others have called them omens. These dreams you’ve had. The soft steps of that which trails you. But those are no omens, boy. They are there in truth. Waiting. Hoping. They have a desperate need of you. To tear the space between worlds open. Yours is a potent force— one not seen since the last weaver. I pray you find no need of your gifts— only to realize they are a curse.”

Tapestry

Clouds like the letters— it looks like a divine message overhead

A perfect spring day— one where the unusual has become the norm. Where the pad of steps has sunk into the streets and now you follow along the memory of previous versions of yourself.

It’s the fresh breath of learning in finding and making many kinds of homes.

The sky was glorious— I stood and saluted with my presence. Giving it all the attention I had to bear

Flecks of black winging into distant clouds overhead.

Such a tapestry this world weaves.

Arches

I spoke into the arches— half the church behind me, flanked by my men with their torches and fears, “release the child.”

There we stood, at the behest of men with ash hearts. Staring into silence, hoping for words, not further war. But we didn’t bring the right gifts for that.

A series of thrums and punctures filled the air. Light dwindled as half my force lay dead or dying from crossbow bolts. I pressed against a low wall.

“You don’t have to do this! If you come quietly we can work out a deal!”

A soft laugh floated through the darkness.

“I’ll take that as a ‘No’ you creepy fuck!”

Ravensblood

“Munnin, enough! Let the boy go. He’s not the one you seek,” A cloaked man said as he stepped in front of a shadow of a man.

“And you would know?” A dangerous glint in Munnin’s eye. A hulking man, the fury rolling off him in waves. He swirled his sword in a tight circle as he warmed up his wrist.

“I would know whoever fool enough to steal from you has not been in this realm for the age of three kings.”

“You, the great wanderer, the king beneath the waves. You would tell me this now? And NOT WHEN I BEGGED FOR YOUR MERCY? I came to you on bender knee! Me! A lord of Ravensblood and leader of men.” The old man watched on as Munnin kicked a helmet out of his path as he paced. “But now?” his breath hitched, “Why now?”

“Because the worlds are soon to come together again. I believe what you seek will be within grasp. I cannot tell you more. You know the rules of prophecy. I am bound, as you are, to follow this path.”

“Bound, ha!” The heat leaked from his words. Centuries of anguish caught the warlord as a God and friend watched on. “I wish to be free of this.”

“You wish to be free of the grey— the slow freeze across the brightness of the mind. You must discover again the joy and trials of living. Otherwise you will fade from the world. Others more powerful are now but the rustle between pages. Is that what you wish to be for the last of your house? Will the Lord of Dogs lay down to die before death has stepped forth to call him?”

“Those with a right to use that title are long dead. I will not have you mocking their honor,” he took a step towards the old man. But moved further than expected as a gust of snow and wind flashed around them. When it settled Munnin saw familiar jagged edges and worn steps.

“I’ve not come to mock you or the fallen. I’ve come instead with a gift,” he slashed at a stream beside them which showed the profile of a young man. “Another that could use reminding on how to live. He might yet have what you seek.“

“His name?”

“That will come in time. He’s another son of a fallen giant. Be gentle, he’s got promise.

Green

I read of the Crimson Guard and thought about the nature of goodbyes. I sat in a freezing gym and watched my third grade junior high students bid farewell as they head off to high school. I thought of all the goodbyes I’ve said— of how many fleeting and of how many permanent.

Soon it’ll be closer to three months than four that I leave this island. But as the time winds down, the rough edges of the island are smoothed. I find myself appreciating the sunshine. The edges of the land sticking out into the ocean.

It is now that we are here. I think of second lives and third and fourths. These two years have been a life unto themself.

In time, this will be something that guides rather than what is.

I think of today— with the merriment, tears, nerves, laughter. I think of the sleepy hours in the office following the ceremony. I think of the run through Green Park and the drive back. The window down as Marty O’Reilly sang, “sipping something stiff and trying to hum the dial tone.,” the lyrics following better with his cracked hound dog yowl.

I think of the ache in my shoulder and tightness in my feet. I think of my final class at Kanda elementary tomorrow and what the last semester will bring.

There is no storyline plot— just a collection of lyric essays bound together by the ship that is my body that holds my mind. The vehicle for the soul— of where it hails or heads we don’t know.

In Step

“Trying to hum the dial tone.”

I looked into the sky and amongst the stars saw a question marked cloud.

Spring struggled against the final embraces of Winter. Eager to shake loose of the malaise and shiver fits.

A Dumpling in the Desert Waits for Rain

Zharna was one of the few favorites of the “Gutter Gods,” as they were called. They were a minor pantheon for the downtrodden, untoward, capricious, and daring. Even dark deeds need a guiding hand.

Not a popular god with followers or opponents, Zharna did grant blessings and boons from time to time. Though the ages have stretched since a champion stood in their name, it was mostly due to Charms wriggling out of it again. There’s a reason why the nickname “Ninetails” stuck in the city of Yiz for the apostate of the Caracal-faced god.

***

The rooftops around him rustled with the wind and lines of clothes. Charms recalled a pleasant memory from his youth: a young maiden rode him gently as she tried a milk-soft hand at poetry. The verses were muddled through the years, but he remembered a line, “and he shined like the sun, and I the moon. But he belongs to all where I only belong to him— and no one at all.”

Neither the courtship nor her career in poetry lasted long. Charms fiddled with his talisman before returning his attention to the crowd. The suzerain had called the public to hear his latest decree, and Charms kept a careful eye on the skies over the balcony from which he spoke.

A short, white-robed man with the physique of a dumpling, Charms always found the city’s leader wanting. In truth, the suzerain was closer to a date: small, brown, and shriveled. But beware to those who bite, unaware of the pit in the middle. Cloying sweet, and full of pomp as he was, the suzerain hadn’t been the leader of Yiz for forty years for nothing.

“Can’t all be melon tits and rose water,” he muttered as he drew back on the crank. His ballista made a slight whine as he readied it. He waited for the brothers to make their move.

Down a different street, the three Ouali brothers finished shoveling in a dark basement. Moisture stained the dirt, and mud stuck to their shovels as they dug closer to the city's bedrock. Their grunts were muffled by the scarfs they kept wrapped around their heads. It wouldn’t do to be caught now. Not with Charms waiting on them. A sharp clang sounded. They’d done it.

“What do we do now?” the tallest brother asked. A lean figure hunched over in the pit looked at the middle brother expectantly.

“We drop the package in, light the fuse, and get out of here before anyone sees us. I don’t want to leave Yiz if I can help it.” Both the shortest and tallest brothers nodded along. The middle one scrambled out of the pit and grabbed a rough canvas bag. He checked the contents inside before gesturing at the other two to get out of the pit.

The shortest dithered with his shovel— looking up at the middle one, “Am I just supposed to leave this?”

“I’m about to light this, but you’re asking me about your shovel?” The middle one hissed as he hoisted the bag up at his brother. The taller one had already clambered out of the pit, shaking his head at the shortest one.

“But-”

“Leave the damn thing. We can get more shovels,” the middle brother lit the fuse that led to the bundle in the bag. The shortest one let out a yelp and scurried up the side and over to the taller brother. The bag landed in the pit with a squelch, and all three hurried out of the room and onto the busy streets of Yiz. Silent prayers moved on the lips of all three as they begged Zharna to cast a friendly eye on them.

Elsewhere in the city, a weaver moved rainclouds across the desert. A spearpoint sat cherry red at a forge for three days. The echoes of lullabies crept in the shadows of pomegranate trees. The cataclysm swirled through the air along with the spices, smoke, shit, and slurry as life kept on moving.

Charms felt a yellow buzz fly up his spine. He stood motionless, hands still on the ballista, waiting. “I didn’t realize you’d visit before it finished.”

“I’ve always enjoyed watching you work,” Zharna said, her voice a soft purr. Charms tried not to shiver. His god had never directly watched him before. He wondered what else she’d seen. “Will it be quick?”

“It’s up to the brothers work,” Charms frowned. “I hope so.” An enormous boom suddenly hit the air. Charms struggled to keep his footing as the air filled with dust and smoke. Confused screams cut through the crowd as the sound of shifting earth brought Charm’s ballista back up. He took a deep breath as he spied the suzerain crouched behind two bodyguards. He pulled the trigger and saw the suzerain jerk once before collapsing onto the guard in front of him. His robe darkened like spilled wine. Another purr filled the air, but Charms was already dropping into the small courtyard. He checked for errant eyes and found none before continuing through the garden and into the street. It looked like he owed a couple of brothers some money.

Long from Dreams

“You’ve forgotten where dreams come from,” said the voice from the open closet. Reggie sat frozen in bed. Unable to move. When the shadow moved towards him he screamed. He screamed like a banshee being born back into the world.

It’s too bad Reggie lived in a home where it didn’t matter. No one came running. Only the slow, plodding steps. Only the creaking wood under heavy weight and the thunder of his heartbeat.

“I have a very important job for you, Reginald.”

***

Twenty-five years old and making ends meet as a postman, Reggie Klein hadn’t dreamed in seven years. He made sure of that.

Rhythmic bass bumped in his ears as he walked down the street. His fingers tapping away on the bundle of parcels in his hand. Reggie didn’t let his mind wander like his feet did. He’d already learned where that could take you.

Step, electric slide, deliver, step, skip deliver, a varying beat played out through the day. Each movement dictated by the changing tunes in his ears.

Reggie smiled at anyone who sat on their porches enjoying the start to their days. The dogs rarely barked at him and cats always sprawled in his path for a pet.

His mood stayed as high as the sun— until night fell with it. Reggie followed a consistent routine as he returned home. He’d triple lock the front door, closet, and his own bedroom. A dab rig sat on his table like an alien artifact, not fitting with the mess of grimoires and encyclopedic texts more often found in abbey cellars than millennial bedrooms.

Before the sun fully set, Reggie would torch the wax in his rig and catapult into a dreamless state. He’d consulted intuitives, psychics, witches, palm readers, and all manner of lay people who flirted with the what lay beyond. Reggie thought of them as deep sea divers or astronauts into the ether.

Either way, he found little in the way of answers. He’d experimented with most vices attempting to blot out the rush of fear. His dab rig was the only thing that had held it back.

Whatever knocked at the door— the orange, yellowish wax made sure Reggie couldn’t answer.

Springfare

It’s a critical case of “are you fucking kidding me?”

That’s how I imagine a younger me reacting to the past two years' events. Earlier today, as I sat in the back of a cologne-filled taxi, I looked at the sun cascading down from the cloudless sky. The first day of March brought my first allergy attack and a poignant reflection on how life deviates without warning.

Much of my lunch hour was spent going back and forth in English and Japanese with my sixth-grade elementary students as they tried to trash talk about the staff vs. students game at recess. I told them they’d better prepare for both dunks and nightmares, but in reality, I only got one or two off, instead deciding to go for layups and kick outs. The game ended forty-two to nine, and I had to console a very competitive kid (reminiscent of another similarly aged club player of mine) after the game.

I’d started the day trying to figure out how much time had passed since I’d left the States. How things have altered the way I view my own life. There’s been a definite shift, but it’s hard without the original reference point.

I know the changes live within me— as the phantom scents and tastes pop up unexpectedly in my reveries. I’ll find myself in the echo of a cinnamon-scented marker and the first-grade show and tell where I brought my calf skin “Buckaroo” wallet filled with spare change. I’d later give the wallet to Orion, holding onto tears, as I passed the baton from the favored nephew to the favored grandson.

Looking at all the changes doesn’t prompt an outrage or even a morose mindset. It’s more of a curious feeling— a wave of sorts— the one you’d roll over if you sat on a surfboard in the bay and didn’t want to catch it.

In a different world, I’d have been a father for an entire year by now. That’s where my mind has been. Something I didn’t know about until it was long past the point— but not the impact. I remember consoling myself that it was the right decision. That I wasn’t around and In fact had gone all the way across the world. I’d say all this to myself as I drove down the island after learning it on a video call where I sat on the forgotten steps of a torn-down school in the middle of a forest. I’d make it home and finally give in to the crush of tears that had built with every mile I passed. I couldn’t understand why something so outwardly reasonable stabbed down like a dagger.

We all have reminders that for all the efficiency hacks and grind culture propaganda, people are still living their lives with this inherent knowledge that no one (truly, no one) has been in the space they’ve been in. Even with the enormous backlog of history and fiction, you can find collected compassion and empathy through connection and reading.

So, I, as someone who always had this nebulous goal of being a father, learned that I had once been on a concrete path to being one without my knowledge. And that now I wasn’t. It was devastating in a way that feels like finding winning lottery ticket in a hurricane. You get pulled from the hurricane, but lose the ticket. You wonder what would have happened— but it’s impossible to know. It’s not even that great of a comparison, but I can’t fin one that fits what I’m trying to stay.

It was horrendous. I laid down in my bed and cried. I cried for a child that would not be. That for all practical, reasonable reasons, would not be. Wasn’t. And I couldn’t stop until the tears ran out. I, who had always believed they’d wanted to be a father, had gotten as close as you can get, and had it go away. All without knowing. That’s the whirling dervish skullfuckery of this all. It’s that I didn’t know until long after. It’s arriving at the funeral a year late. It doesn’t stop your own grief, but the impact is different.

Fond Farewells

Today I said goodbye to two of my favorite coworkers. Both teachers were at the elementary school I visited today— and both are heading off the island as their three year contracts are up.

I find myself wondering if the next teachers will be as energetic and easy to work with. I also wonder about the abrupt nature of relationships— how at the end of this day marked a definite finality to our shared experience. I walked out the door to the taxi and two people I’ve spent nearly two years teaching with will (most likely) never enter my life again.

I wish them well and imagine livelier existences for them off the island (if not as fruitful fishing wise).

I myself said goodbye for the year and had a bashful send off as all the teachers exited the staff room to wave me off from the entrance. It felt unnecessary considering all be back in April, but understandable for those moving onto new schools.

The week continued on as usual. Wednesday night means badminton— so I found myself in the Kuta Junior High gym flinging myself across the hardwood, trying to stop the onslaught of trick shots, deft touches, and lasers from friendly opponents.

I hover near the net— continually hitting downward strikes off their serves. It’s honestly one of the best parts of the night. However, I did pay for my over enthusiasm both at recess earlier in the day and in the first game. My hamstrings said no more “sky eagle” attacks and I was duty bound to listen as my posture morphed from Boy Scout into cantankerous grandpa. Bent, but at the ready, I continued on in a more muted fashion.

Now I sit in my floor chair, having showered and used my massage gun. I’ve stretched, but don’t believe the lack of twinge for recovery. We’ll see if I rise unassisted by groans tomorrow.

Tarnahill House

A group of guards shuffled into a worn tavern. The straw roof sagged in the middle, but a steady fire burned, and stew only cost a copper bit. The men had just been relieved by The sergeant of the night crew and his men. They ordered a round and settled into their table.

Someone leaned into the middle of the table and asked, “Did any of you hear about Tarnahill?” Most everyone shook their head while waiting for their brews to be delivered. An overworked boy scampered from table to table, sloshing ale as he went. “Graneling’s church fell. A mob murdered the guard and tore it apart.”

“Why would anyone do that? Everyone knows Graneling is a peaceful god. Not one to trouble the masses,” Captain Hamish said as he accepted a mug of ale. The other men nodded along, usual business for anything he said.

The man who asked, Twill, shook his head. “Wasn’t a mob from the city. It was that nest cult,” he paused to shiver. “They tore Graneling’s church apart to make it into some enormous nest for that birdman they follow.”

“Enough of this, Twill. I won’t have you scaring the rest of the men about fake bird cultists and giant nests. Finish your drink and head home. I’m sure Leila and the kids are missing you.” Twill pursed his lips before nodding. Arguing with Captain Hamish led to nothing but extra shifts and less pay.

“Wait, someone say something about a cult following a Coric?” someone said from the next table. Captain Hamish turned to look at a road-worn merchant. The bright colors of his silks were dampened by dust, permanent red tinting his fair complexion. He didn’t have the same bronze as the other Rania citizens. Hamish gave a slow nod at the man to continue. “Your man’s right. That Nestisim is spreading— can’t believe it’s made it to Tarnahill already. They tore through Temari, coming from the West. I don’t know the bird’s name, but the man leading them is named ‘Scabbs Six-Fingers,’ I pray you never meet him.”

“Pah, fanatics, Corics, and some named cripple? Sounds like you need to lay off the ale as well,” Hamish waved to dismiss the man.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Twill said, ignoring the captain. Lorn and Price inched away from Twill. “You were at Tarnahill!”

“Not Tarnahill, at Bledden. I hope I never see anything like it again. Those animals murdered the children first. It’s madness.”

“Someone will stop them,” Callum said, a young guard who had pulled a double with Dunny earlier in the week. He cast hopeful eyes around the battered group. Hope didn’t live in the hearts of poor merchants or guardsman, whatever did could be called grey pragmatism at best, “They have to, right"?”

A pregnant silence filled the air. Hamish filled the clay cups on the table with strong spirits from a slim flask in his overcoat, “Long live House Tarnahill,” he said pushing the cups towards the men. After a second, he filled one more and passed it to the merchant.

“Long live House Tarnahill,” the rest of the men mumbled as they choked down the brown vapors. The merchant joined them before making for the door. Twill followed after, Hamish making no move to follow. Callum and the rest of the men stared into their cups as a thinly plucked lute filled the tavern. In the smokey haze of a bottom-rung establishment, the last sparks of hope gutted out as men imagined deranged fanatics bursting through the gates.

Alesian

“There’s a star that shone over the vast city of Alesian that went dark the day the city burned. That’s what the legends say. It’s hard to know when looking up and trying to find a blank patch of sky. Its story wasn’t doubted in the early days. That’s what led to the cult’s uprising. They named themselves “Ebon Star” after the remains of the stolen light. Whatever struck down the city of Alesian didn’t play with the powers of mortals. Remember that, boy. When gods are angered, the earth shakes. Even the stars overhead aren’t safe. So we must tread carefully— lest we reawaken that which should stay sleeping.”

The man stirred the coals of the fire as the boy stared into the low burning flames. The other men had turned in for the night, leaving Finn to listen again to Rollo’s quiet prophecies.

Processes

Creatively there are many ways to attack a project. You can sit in silence and let ideas form, you can walk around, you can talk to friends, you can read a book, you can listen to music, etc. For me, it’s been walking and talking with friends that generates most of my ideas. There’s also the moments, where in the quiet between music and receiving any other sort of stimulus, I am gifted a short section of an idea or lines of dialogue.

Today I worked on parsing through a new anthology, or possibly longer form story. I have posted probably 20+ snippets of it in the past year or so. Let’s set an a not evil fantasy world and we’re trying to find out why an entire kingdom has disappeared.

I have been struggling to finish longer projects for a long time now. That’s easier to read short stories, and easier than that, to not finish anything at all. But I’ve been wondering if a lot of the stories have created are interconnected. I’ve been wondering if many of them are actually sit in the same world, and given the chance have noticeable connections between them.

All of this is in the midst of thinking about the changes in personal habits and creative processes. I’ve been productive enough on a daily level that I can consider myself a writer without feeling ridiculous. Truly, if you write at all, I think you have a claim to being a writer.

The funny thing too is learning habits of other famous writers. Mark Twain was really big on dictation. Which makes me feel better because I use dictation on my phone for a lot of my stories. It’s easier for me to get the ideas out from voice to text and then it can be to write everything. Of course, this isn’t exactly ideal if I’m in crowded environment. So I also have my fair share of traditional writing.

Further still, I’ve been figuring out the types of stories that draw the most persistent work ethic out of me. I think there is a large amount of glee that I have in mining the absurd. I love antiheroes and mysteries and general flippancy. I think beauty, magic, and tragedy are all evocative subjects. Just as horror and thrillers are. I’m a big scaredy-cat.

I can also be extremely skeptical which comes from a stubborn irreverence. I have studied a lot of history and I’ve always loved stories. The thing that has remained clear for me is how much of history and personal narratives are an expansive gray area. So many events have multiple viewpoints that are valid and emotionally resonant, but it’s common for the most direct or easy to push narrative to be the one that’s propagated.

If you’re wondering how this ties in the storytelling and isn’t just some tangential rant about the complexities of human existence, and cultural perspectives, it would be that it’s exactly those things that make stories worth telling.

So often we forget that we’re on this miracle of a planet, in the middle of love, and ever expanding universe, in which we truly don’t know too much. To combat that immense sense of overwhelming insignificance we can concoct stories for ourselves. They grow in the stories that are then later taken as immutable fact.

The great gift of not knowing. The great gift in no one being able to tell you for certain what is or what will be— is that the universe remains vast. Our curiosity is able to run riot— and that it certainly does.

The way we see the world, our perspective, our education, our cultural, upbringing, all the ways that our existence is framed for our personal experience is unique. We can be similar to other people. It’s often the case. But what happens within the deep recesses of your mind is something for you alone.

This inability to know for certain is one of my greatest joys. It doesn’t matter your wealth or status or school you went to or didn’t. It doesn’t matter your gender, or race or social economic class. Nobody knows. And a lot of us like to pretend that they do. Countless people make a lot of money out of spreading hope or fear based off of this unattainable thing.

We stand each moment at the precipice of existence. Nobody knows what’s on the other side.

What a beautiful thing.