Sometimes, I like to write short pieces based on a specific thought. This is a fun and interesting exercise, and a good way to express myself through the Stream of Consciousness style. Below are five examples I’ve been working on, enjoy! The Eagle and the Rat An eagle swoops down from above with great speed and agility, diving to the ground like a military jet. His eyes set. His form; a symbol of perfection. His target stands carefreely, munching on plant matter, as he always does. He takes his ultimate and final munch and swallows the life-giving nourishment through his tiny little throat...
Hello happy readers, lately I’ve been having a burning desire to read all of the classic texts, so I purchased The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. I’ll be honest with you all, I have read very little so far. It’s a very big book (over 1000 pages long!). I also bought about ten other books, plus I’ve been very busy with all of the end of the year mayhem that is still happening here in Colombia. I also published my two new series The Mad One and The Greatest Party!, nonetheless, I did manage to read Bells, which is a delightful poem, if I do say so myself. I love its flowing, rhythmic, rhyming prose and deep, thoughtful, mysterious message.
I had no idea who this guy was or where the hell he came from. Dave found him somehow through his vast array of contacts. His specialty was snakes. He toured around the country with his elongated friends to add an extra amount of culture and edge to house parties and various social events. He had wavy blond hair, a transparent goatee, khaki shorts, and thick leather boots. One of my rooms was converted into a snake lover’s paradise. There were various props, branches, and edibles set up along the walls for the creatures to climb on and eat. A few rats and mice scurried across the floor waiting for their imminent deaths. The space was supposed to help people to conquer their fears.
So, I bought my ticket at the station. There must have been five thousand freakin people in that place. Every type of fried food was available; filling the air with a tempting aroma. Screaming babies, kids running around like maniacs, and adults acting like typical adults, patiently waiting for the buses to come in, listening to the call of the conductor’s assistants yelling and naming off the various destinations. And there I was, with my few bags, my slacks, my spectacles, my panama hat. Everything I needed to begin this new adventure.
“The first thing you have to realize before we undergo on this path is that everything around is okay, you are okay, I am okay, Joe´s house is okay, Jessica and the pill dealers are okay, Jimbo isn’t okay, but we will bring him to the sacred land of okay eventually with some effort, the earth is okay, everything, generally speaking is okay, do you understand this overall okayness?” He said this in a low raspy struggling yet poetic voice, and then a huge puff of smoke left his mouth, and he coughed so hard that the bed shook beneath them,
When you meet someone new, the first date (the first impression you make on this person) is probably one of the most crucial moments. For, many base all future thoughts (and interactions) of who you are as a person, based on your behavior during this potentially fun or disastrous event. In this post, I’ll be giving some simple and practical tips on how you can impress your date and ensure a second date. Let's begin! Don’t show up late. Your time is the most precious thing you have, so when you go out on a date always be punctual. Although, there are some exceptions to this rule.
For this reason, I have not been able to hold a “normal” job since 1982. That was the year when shit really got serious for me. In 82´, most of my family and friends disowned me. Leaving me to my own devices. I had long unkempt hair back then, wilder than histories maddest scientists. Actually, my hair is still this way, which is one of the few things I cherish in life and am relatively proud of. Anyways, I almost graduated University. I was studying chemistry which always came easy to me. For me, chemicals were as typical as looking at the marks on the palm of my hand. I knew them all. How to use them, combine them and exploit them. I was one of the most talented and dedicated pupils. But one day I was overly stressed.
Brent Hill Keeper - the bold, depraved trucker. The Viking-esque conqueror of America’s highways. The cigarette smoking, head banging, black wearing, lead-footed gas fiend, finally parked the enormous metallic beast and I was actually quite happy to step out and stretch my legs. We had been blasting and barreling through the states like a cannonball of death and pain. Death, because of the death metal he constantly played at full throttle while we screamed along at insanely excessive speeds, scaring the shit out of me, driving right through and over countless - helpless furry little creatures; squirrels, snakes, stray dogs, coyotes, and a few baby deer. I think we even had some pigeon carcasses impregnated into the front grill of the truck,
God forbid I keel over on this here island one day by accident without having documented the story of the Greatest Party in all of its glorious detail. Existing only in my consciousness. Deceasing with my corpse. Buried in a sandy grave on an isolated isle of the Caribbean. For this reason, I feel compelled to tell the story. Almost as an obligation/service to my fellow man. But before we begin, you must prepare yourself both mentally and physically. Mentally, because after reading this story your mind will be
When I came upon that huge pile of trash with the broken furniture legs sticking out, it was quite dark outside and I thought one of those wooden legs was going to reach out and attack me. As if it would morph into a living branch arm thing and the nails and sharp splintered ends would pierce my helpless pedestrian flesh. Injecting me with tetanus and other horrible diseases or possibly end me right there on the sidewalk by a stabbing or slow strangulation.
I’ve been living in Colombia for several years now and I have a lot of stories to tell about this region, too many actually. Today, I’ll be writing about one of my wildest nights out in a lesser known city called Bucaramanga, which is home to an infinite amount of gorgeous Latinas. So readers, lend me your ears, get comfortable, take a few shots of your favorite whiskey or tequila and enjoy the tale. A tale you won’t soon forget! Let’s begin… I arrived to Bucaramanga alone, it was my first time in the city. A city that is located in the department of Santander.
How many of us remember our grandparents, our great-grandparents, or those further back in our family’s history? In my family, I would say that the available knowledge on my ancestors, their roots, their personalities, their likes and dislikes, the mark they made in the world, is very slim. I wish I could learn more about them and know what they were really like, but time has washed over things and taken away most of the details, leaving behind only a vague memory of their existence.
Writing is just like one of those strange, elusive cats that stalk the outskirts of remote jungle villages in the heart of Papua New Guinea. While tribesmen munch on roots inside thatch huts and reminisce about hunting campaigns, smashing clubs on bamboo floors, and shaking shells ritualistically in harmony with the calls of nature that can be heard just outside their primitive homes, the cats growl from the thick bush, filling any listener with great wonder...
I sit in the cafe and see everyone looking down. I stand in the metro and see the same. I stroll down the city streets and watch as everyone walks around with devices in their hands. And I am currently writing to you from such a device, attempting to get you to put yours away for several hours a day… Instead of looking down - Look Up. Look at the amazing world you live in, not the digital world that exists in S-C-R-E-E-N-S.
Writing is a purely magical experience. The way it seems to be born from nothing, floating in from out of the blue. Words appear on a page, and ideas, concepts, and visions take shape before us. Writers use conscious and subconscious powers to weave words together until they form a complete whole. Analyzing and judging each letter - every punctuation mark. Their precise placement upon the page. Their overall appearance. Some artists paint with oils, acrylics or watercolors, but writers paint with words. Words which generate images within the reader’s mind.