Christmas. Apparently...

Well now, it would appear that Christmas has once again snuck up on us... Where has the year gone?
I have to admit, I've felt rather detached from the whole Christmas scene this year, for a variety of reasons that I'd rather not go into, but the long and short of it is that even despite my alienated morosity, it's still Christmas, and still an incredible time of year!

Christmas.
New year.
December.
One month.
This time we must remember.

I see no reason
To dwindle the season
With thoughts of commercial gain.
Though sad to say,
The same is said
For most major holidays.

Christmas.
Reflection.
Past.
Present.
A look back at the lost and last?

Thinking back upon the year
Just spent, this twenty ten.
I think that I can stand among
The strongest of noble men.
Though here I sit, a weakened cynic
Who pines for the new year's dawn.

Christmas.
Growth.
Development.
New Birth.
This time should be well spent.

Come new year,
Our two zero eleven,
I hope that we shall choose
To take the chance and make a choice
To improve our outlooks and actions
And make better this land that we borrow.

Christmas.
December.
Love?
Compassion?
Only the future will tell...


Well, it looks like there's still a bit of Christmas cynic in me, but you can't fully flush out the optimist it seems. So here's to the future! To the new year! I hope and pray that 2011 will be a time of reflection and improvement for us all. I for one vouch to try and better myself in a lot of aspects, my morosity being one of them... But, another is to write something on this blog every day of the coming year, to build up a heck of a compendium of writing and continue to develop. Hell, I don't know what I'll accomplish, but I'm always one for a challenge. So here's to what's left of Christmas! And here's to the coming year!

God bless you all and have a safe remainder of 2010, a very safe and joyous new year and until next time, this is Mr. Craiggy, signing off for now...

Once more with feeling.

Okay, a brief update on where I'm at. These past couple of weeks have been a bit rough to say the least. I wouldn't ever say I was a depressive person, but this past week or so it seems the only word I'd have used to describe myself is morose. There have been various issues within my life that I've not really discussed, or felt the need to discuss, and that's fine, that's not how I deal with things. I like my space, I like my own time to deal with things, but I want to take a moment to apologise with anyone who I might've been a bit off with these past few weeks, so I'm sorry for being a sulky, introverted arse.

Right, now on to the good stuff. My parents came down to visit at the weekend, which is always nice. What made it nicer was the fact that I was in such a foul mood, only my parents could drag me out of it, which they did in stunning fashion. But, more importantly, I got to see my dog, and that's the one thing I miss the most with being at university, not being with my dog. I can phone and email my parents, I can't do that with my dog. Anyhoo, that's the lifey update bit done, now on to the writing.

I'm currently sat in the campus Costa spending money which I can't even justify having, let alone spending, and it's made me rather contemplative, so I'm gonna try and knock something out; writing-wise that is...

The sights, the smells, the sounds.
There's so much to take in here.
This den of coffee and cookies
Seems busy all around the year.

Rarely do I have the chance to sit,
To contemplate.
So busy has my life become but it's
So easy to procrastinate.

A hazlenut hot chocolate
Resided in my cup,
But now it sits there, empty.
There is no more to sup.

So sad, a metaphor for life,
To see this former drink.
A hollow, dejected empty shell
That leads my heart to sink.

But still, the memory remains
Of the joy that beverage brought,
So warm, fulfilling, soothing and smooth
But infinitely for nought.

Still, life continues
Unlike the chocolatey dream.
My day shall continue to improve,
Or so, I hope, it seems.

Well there you have it for now... I've noticed a bit of a structural pattern with my poems of the four line stanzas with the singular alternate rhyming couplets. A little bit sullen this time, but I'd like to think of it as also optimistic in nature... And all this from a simple hazlenut hot chocolate, which I now want another of... No Craig! You can't afford it!!

Adios for now.

Update.

Okay, this is not an actual piece of writing as I'm short on time and this idea is still only that, just an idea.
I'm currently on my coffee break in my creative writing lecture and have a great idea (As well as a body full of pain, long story) but yeah, firstly an apology for not writing as much as I'd have liked to, I've been super busy these past couple of weeks.

So, the idea:
Two characters, one in the past, one in the present/future, related somehow.

The character in the past discovers some kind of conspiracy/event in the future that has the potential to cripple/destroy the earth as we know it but has neither the resources or the ability to prevent it and so concocts a plan. He deposits a small amount of money into a bank account and then leaves the account details along with a note explaining the situation in a time capsule for his descendant.

In the future, the descendant finds the time capsule and so the story begins, leading him along a cross-chronological scavenger hunt, with each parcel from the past coming with another note to lead him along to the next step to prevent whatever potential fate threatens the planet.

I wanted to write this down before I forget it, it's still early days yet, but I would really really like to hear feedback on this one.

Thanks guys, and hopefully it won't be too long til my next update this time.
Craiggy.

Edit - Okay, as the lecture progressed, more ideas came to me. I am now thinking along the lines of maybe Cold War Russia as the past setting and the past character being some kind of Russian intelligence agent. The clues left would be fragmented to risk discovery by potential conspirators.

The descendent would then have to follow the clues, piecing together where the next location could be whilst also being led along a journey of questioning the plausibility of this trail, though perhaps due to some later involvement with future conspirators convinces the descendent.

Toying with the idea of a plot hook being the past character dying whilst leaving a clue, the clue then being taken away and either put into storage or destroyed, leaving the future character literally clueless and having to piece together the remainder of the puzzle themselves whilst also trying to find where the last remaining clue is stored, if it even still exists at all.

2nd Edit - Okay, I'm now, after some research, toying with the idea of this conspiracy being linked to Stalin's cult of personality and just how deep it actually ran. Possibly also contemplating the idea of adding some good old evil super science in the form of cloning, but that's really just a passing whim, not sure if I'm gonna use it or not, but some kind of super science element, or super underground intelligence network sounds like fun to write about.

Long time no write.

Well, it's been over a week since I posted something. Good thing I said I wasn't planning a post a day until the new year. I'm procrastinating, which I find is always a good time to write things except for the things that need writing, like essays... So I'm going to try for another short story intro thing today, but really have nothing planned, so am quite excited to see where this goes.

Chris stifled a yawn. It was too early. It was always too early... He'd been going to church now on and off for, well, most of his life. He couldn't help but muse about how Sundays always seemed to drag out whilst he consumed his usual Sunday morning 'breakfast' of a cup of weak, watery, overly milky tea and a dry custard cream biscuit. Why did they never stir the pot? Why could they never leave the tea to stand? And why were the biscuits always stale?! Some might say that this was an ironic reflection of the modern church: stale, watered down, anaemic... At least, this was how Chris had been feeling as of late. He tossed his paper cup into the rubbish and finished his biscuit, his stomach already groaning in protest at the continuation of this weekly ritual, yearning for something, anything more substantial than that of a stale biscuit. A frown played over Chris's lips as he found a seat nearer to the back than usual, not wanting to be noticed by any of the usual old dears that always made a point of talking to him and asking how things were with his girlfriend... He hadn't the heart to tell them that they'd broke up a good three months ago and she was now living in Texas with a fitness instructor named Davis. Honestly, Davis? That was a surname! Who names their child with a surname?!

The sermon passed; some trite little cliche number about sin clinging to the lives of people, though the preacher forgot to cover the part about salvation, about Jesus coming to free people from their sins... Preachers, often the most cynical and miserable people in the world yet supposedly with the greatest of messages. Chris coughed and stood, putting his jacket back on before turning and nearly knocking over Mrs. Elbury, one of those 'old dears' he was trying to avoid. He crouched to a knee to help her up as she flustered on the floor trying to stuff her belongings back into her sackcloth shopping bag, one of those 'bag for life' deals that every woman over the age of fifty seemed to never be seen without. He was just about to apologise. That was when the explosion hit...

The smoke subsided, Chris's vision cleared a little but was still blurred and his ears were still ringing from the blast. He didn't know what had just happened and tried to stand but his body refused, reacting with agonising pain over his whole body, throbbing and pulsing. He looked around, blinking a few times to help his vision focus more and instantly regretted it as he saw the sight before him. His church, the people he had spent the majority of his life with, even those who he barely knew, all lay there in the scattered ruins of the building, all in various states of injury, dismemberment, some even dead. It was gruesome. Chris thought he was dreaming, that the blast had knocked him unconcious and that this was just a comatose fantasy, but no, the pain in his body was too real. Plus there was the clashing noise. What was that? Could it be blood rushing around his skull? No, it sounded louder, but distant. Chris forced himself to sit up and looked to the sky above. His mind ached, burning as though it would explode from trying to comprehend what he saw above him. Two magnificent figures clad in the finest of armours, one gold, one silver. the gold-clad warrior's skin was an olived tan whilst the other's was pale and marblesque. They were fighting with weapons larger than even Chris himself, and he wasn't exactly a short man. One, the figure in gold, wielded a huge flaming bronze broadsword whilst the pale figure held a wickedly barbed glaive, seemingly crafted from obsidian or onyx or some other black material. Every strike and parry of the weapons resounded with an almighty, thunderous crash and sparks danced through the air. Chris wanted to look away, he wanted to scream, but he was transfixed in awe at the two beings above him. These were angels! He knew immediately! One fallen, one righteous, but angels all the same, and they were fighting! That was the last thing through Chris's mind before he once again slumped into unconciousness. Those beings were fighting, and somehow, he knew they were fighting over him...


So there we have it. I would like to note that this does not reflect my views of either my home or my uni churches as they're both awesome, but sadly, some churches do seem to be this stagnant and need more life in them. This is another story where I'm not honestly sure if i'm going to write more or not, but the only way for you people to find out more is to keep coming back and to keep reading my updates!

Adios for now you lovely lovely peoples!

More poetry.

Okay, today's Thursday, which means I've just had my creative writing lecture, so this means today's an easy one as I actually wrote in my lecture. Here we go:
The first is a poem based on a picture of screaming fans. There was a kid in this picture so I wrote from his perspective and thought of those clips of people screaming at The Beatles.

The day I saw John Lennon,
His glasses so lilac and pale.
I heard the shot and saw him fall
As his heart began to fail.

The crowd was hushed to silence
And then the screams, they started,
No longer joy at fever pitch
But shock and sorrow for our departed.

Imagine all the people,
I soon heard in my mind,
So lost without their icon
Taken before his time.

I'd never heard his music much.
I went there with my Mum.
But even I could understand
The horror just been done.

And then the next thing we had to do was come up with something we were passionate about, so I chose comic books. We then had to associate a group of people to this topic, so I chose superheroes. We then had to write as a collective mind from their perspective and try and put across a political viewpoint.

Worshipped as gods
High in our heavenly watchtower.
The world cries out for heroes
Because it cannot save itself.

We are the agents of justice,
Spandex clad warriors of hope.
But do we not cause harm,
Interfering with this world and
Fuelling complacency?

We cannot live forever.
Our time someday shall come.
And what then of those who we protect?
Who'll be the first to raise a gun?

So that's it for today folks. I'm now going to take part in a local ghost walk as a tour guide. Fun times!!

In continuation.

Okay guys, something rare is about to happen... I am about to continue a story!!
I'm gonna carry on from where I left off the other day with my homage to Supernatural.

Jared span the cylinder within his pistol to make sure it wasn't going to jam before pressing on, pulling the collar on his jacket higher to try and keep the cold at bay a little more, but to no avail. He knew by now that when dealing with the ethereal cold associated with the creatures that he hunted, there was nothing material that could keep a body warm.

Frost was visible on the walls of the alley now and the floor was slick in parts with patches of black ice; Jared was close, he could feel it. He held his pistol ready and kept a close watch on the alleyway. There was a sudden crunch, like the splintering of wood. He turned to face the corner at the end of the alley where the sound emanated. There! Barrelling around the corner! It was Feral One. The legend goes that they were once normal men, but were driven from their homes and forced to live in the wilds, making pacts with dark spirits to survive the hardships before them, the dark energies of these spirits corrupting and twisting their flesh to the point where their muscles had contorted so much that the skin had literally begun to peel away and hung in tatters from their steel, sinewy muscles. It bounded down the alley and criss-crossed out of instinct to try and avoid the sight of Jared's gun, it's eyes glistening with a keen, wild ferocity. Jared braced, taking a step back and let loose two shots. The first went wide, punching a hole clean through a dumpster. The second shot ripped off the beast's leg at the shin as it leapt up and pounced, forcing Jared to the ground, its long, razorlike claws gripping and slicing into the flesh of his arm. Jared could do nothing but cry out in pain as he tried to wrestle the beast off of him, bu the creature's jaws were getting closer to his throat; he could feel the Feral One's breath on his neck, as icy cold as the alley, causing his skin to ripple with goosebumps, only to shiver and the cold needle drop of saliva that dripped upon him.

He had only one option left. It'd hurt like hell, but he'd live... With a roar indistinguishable from that of the beast that had him pinned, Jared twisted his arm, shredding his own flesh within the beasts claws so that his gun now pressed into the left eye of the creature.

What happened next, he'd never know. The next moment Jared knew, it was morning, and there he lay, still in the alley, now warm, surrounded by a congealing pool mixed from the beast's and his own blood. His clothes where a mess of red and black stains; the headless corpse of the creature still lay atop him and the only sensations he could feel were relief at still being alive, intense pain from his shredded left arm and an indescribable numb throbbing throughout his whole body, no doubt from the loss of blood. He smiled the faintest of smiles, coughed, and his eyes flickered closed, once more drifitng into unconciousness, unsure as to whether he would see another day.


So there you have it. Will there be more? Who knows? Not even I do at the moment!

Here we go again!

Well guys, I thought I'd try something a bit different again tonight, some observational poetry, and seeing as I'm sitting here currently in rehearsal for a show I'm in on Wednesday, what better opportunity to observe than with a variety of wonderful peoples around me. This one's close to my heart because we've, I think I'm well within my rights to say this, lost access to the drama studio at the last minute and have been basically bent over and violated as a society... So yeah, there we go!

Spotlight's on us

The stage is set, the actor's prepare,
Donning their outfits and doing their hair.
Some say this show's a shambles,
But we don't really care.

We're going to give you a show,
One you'll never forget.
Well worth the price of admission
Though we've no real costumes or set.

We've comedy, and songs and even some poi.
This is a night you'll always remember
For its laughter, its mirth and its joy
So close to the month of November.

This is no ordinary show my friends,
I'll tell you how it goes.
This is our protest to make amends
Against our lack of studio.

So roll up roll up,
Come one, come all,
This isn't the greatest show on earth,
But we're damned if we're gonna fall!

Take 2 - Let's see how this goes.

Okay guys, it's been a lousy two days so far. Been suffering with a head cold (Not the man flu before anybody says that!) so this ramble comes in the form of some fiction for you that I'm just gonna go with and see what comes out. So here goes nothing I guess:

Jared watched as the heat from his breath created a cloud of mist on the cold night air. It was dark; Jared always felt uneasy in the dark. There were, things, in the dark. It had been ten long years since the death of Jared's parents and he still to this day was tracking down the organisation responsible for their murder, a sacrifice to ancient spirits from what he'd gathered. Ten long years since he'd vowed to train, to improve, to study and learn all he could about the creatures that dwelled within the darkness. Jared knew of the dangers that lurked all around him, within the alleys, the sewers, the very shadows themselves and he clutched the gun braced beneath his long coat for comfort. He knew that whatever would try and get the drop on him, or whatever he would try and confront, it would lead him one step closer to finding the cult that killed his family; whether providing him with information, or just sharpening his skills to an even finer point.

A crash, down the alley! Jared swung and raised his flashlight to try and get a better view. Nothing. Not a creature at least, just a lid from a trash can, still spinning before clattering to the ground. Jared sighed and moved his hand to actually grasp the handle of his gun before turning to continue along the side street.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Jared could've swore that it had become colder the further down the street he walked. Unholstering his gun, an oversized eight-chambered magnum with the title "Virtus" engraved along the barrel. He closed his eyes briefly and held the gun to his chest, offering a short, silent prayer to guide his bullets; his own special blend of flechette rounds that mixed the regular charge with silver nitrate and halite, rock salt, one of the purest substances known to man. He moved his flashlight and braced his pistol overarm so that he could aim directly into the light's beam and continued walking, noticing his breath misting even more and the ambient light becoming more scarce; something was near.


So yeah, that's what you get today. I might carry this on another day, but for now I'm gonna leave you with that. And yes, I have been watching a lot of Supernatural lately, so this is kind of a little homage, what with the rock salt and the character being named Jared (Padalecki - Sam Winchester from the series) So who knows, maybe I'll continue this, maybe I won't (Sorry Carrie.)

Adios for now!

A new project?!

Okay, I was going to wait until January to start this, and it may not start properly until then, but I'm creating the blog now while I think on.

The purpose of this blog is first and foremost as a place to develop my abilities as a writer: What this means is that I shall be updating regularly with little snippets of original poetry, or short fiction that my mind creates, with the intention of, from January, updating with a piece of original writing a day!

Now, don't fret, I'm not going to let this distract from my responsibilities from the Three Guys site at all (Which by the way, is currently on hold until we get around to refilming the footage for our big 30th articleversay!)

So, to get the ball rolling, here are a few choice offerings from my notepad that I'd like to share with you.
First, some haiku:

Massive astroturf.
Field of battle and sporting.
Slippery when wet.

Oxfam ensure life.
Three pounds a month they ask for.
Sponsor a child please.

And then a short poem created as part of a defamiliarisation exercise where we were given, as a class, a variety of items and told to relate them to a person we know, so here's what I came up with:

My brother is a bucket,
Wider at the top than at the bottom,
And holds a great many things.

As solid as steel
But never as cold,
And holds a great many things.

Sometimes, he's like a sandwhich,
Brown or white on the outside,
And holds a great many things.

Perhaps he might be a briefcase;
Official, and hinged at the base,
And holds a great many things.

Though he's definitely more of a box,
With many sides and uses,
And holds a great many things.

My brother is a Father,
With a wife and sons kept close.
He holds a great many things.

So that'll do you for now. I'll hopefully whack up a bit of short fiction by the end of the day, see what my mind comes up with, but it's only now that I realise that, with all this time I'm dedicating to writing, I could just direct it on writing my actual novel I'm working on, but more on that another time.

This is Mr Craiggy, signing out for now!