Patience

Tags

god, labor, patience, time, waiting, work, Writing

Today is one of those November breaths that seems to recede into the chest of autumn and then wait. The air warms for a little while and then as that air is breathed, the cold returns. Days like this make me thoughtful and I can’t help but sit down in my chair and clear my head. I breath as the air outside does, slowly, and let my brain wander. I listen.

Sometimes I hear things, sometimes I don’t. But that’s not what is important. Just taking time out to listen and pray is what the soul needs. I need to be able to sort through my thoughts and order my life differently.

Right now, things are crazy, but in a truly meaningful and wonderful way. I am stressed, sometimes frustrated, but I am hopeful in ways that I cannot fully explain. I have a vision and I am working toward that vision.

The thing that I have been realizing more and more, is that I simply need to be patient. I just have to wait and work, and keep my goal in sight. It’s terrifying at first, but one day at a time, one stroke of the chisel at that dream, and suddenly, things aren’t quite as scary.

Killing Time

Tags

death, enjoy, fiction, flash, killing, man, men, shadows, story, thump thump thump, time, Writing

Not exactly what I was promising, but my project with the game has come back up and I felt like writing this. Hopefully you enjoy this little flash fiction and take something away from it.

——————————–

11:50 p.m.May 17, 1886.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Ten minutes. His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

His name? There was no longer such a thing to him. Long ago had he forgotten that silly little thing. Forgotten to his quest. What quest? Why, to live forever, to find Time and…well…there are some things that can go without being said straight out.

The night air brushed its fingers through the man’s coarse brown hair. His dark eyes took in the scene before him; an old squat shop made of brick and a roof made of wooden shingles. The windows were shuttered on either side of a solid wooden door. No light peeked through the cracks, leaving the store in complete darkness. It gave the illusion that it was vacant, but he knew that people lived in there. His experience told him so.

He shivered with glee, he could hear the ticking from where he stood on the street. His silhouette cast dancing shadows in many directions as he stood in the candle-lit street lamp’s light as if they were mimicking their owner’s feelings.The sound of a man whistling in the distance faded away, lost to the night.

The man took a look at his watch and then buried it in the pocket of his dingy leather trench-coat. 11:51 p.m. May 17 1886. He would have to act quickly.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Nine Minutes. His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

Swiftly, like a shadow, he rushed to the door of the small brick shop. He could have easily battered down the door if he had a mind, but no, that would have been too much noise and too much time that he did not have. Soon he would have it. He picked the lock in exactly two heartbeats.

Sound exploded in his ears. The hundreds of clocks within the shop ticked away the seconds. Right in time with the damnable mechanism on his wrist. They were of one mind and he cursed them all.

Closing the door behind him, he rushed upstairs. His fingers itched to wrap themselves around those ticking things and cast them to the ground. For now he had to wait. The stairs were solid as well and he was able to climb up silently, soft as a maiden’s breath. He moved methodically, checking each room for the inhabitants.

The man took another look at his watch.

11:52 p.m. May 17.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Eight more minutes. His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

The man opened the door at the end of the hall. There, inside, was another man. A time-worn face drooled quite unceremoniously into the pillow that his long, graying hair had suffered a ruffling from. No clocks dwelt here. The sleeping man must find the silence to be a sacred thing.

A knife was pulled from the man’s old dingy coat. It was long and sharp, the surface unmarred by time, use or rust. It was a sort of ritual. After each kill -yes, he had to kill them, the clock-makers- he would go and make a new blade from the pieces of clocks. Melt them, fuse them, and sharpen them. Each one an atonement for what he did here.

To kill time, he had to -must even- kill them.

The knife slid into the man’s neck without the slightest resistance. The sleeper opened his eyes and locked with the man holding the knife. They held each other’s gaze and then as if resigning, the sleeper slowly closed his eyes and went without uttering a noise, the knife left in his throat, blood spilling and collecting in the sheets of the bed.

The sleeper would be better for this. Everyone would.

The man looked at his watch again.

11:53 p.m.May.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Seven more minutes.His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

Once downstairs again, the sounds of ticking and gonging and tweeting was deafening. Each a resonator, a counter of seconds. Constantly reminding, reminding, reminding that he was running out of time, time, time.

Rage, pure filthy rage enveloped the man. His dark eyes grew wet with tears. The absurdity, the fact that a mere object could cause him so much pain, pain, pain, pain, pain.

He shakes his head. His heart is still beating, he is still alive.

He does not need to look back down at his watch.

11:54 p.m.

Tick…tick…

Thump…thump…

Listening, ooh listening. Six more minutes. His heart beat, beat, beat to the damn hand of the clock…his damn clock.

Hungry fingers, long awaiting this moment, grab the first contraption and cast it to the floor. Then the next, the next and the next. Each losing its parts, each falling to the ground. This was merely procedure now. He knew how they all worked, all counted, and how they could be stopped. Time was desperate. Some of these were harder to destroy than most, he knew that he was close to victory. He could live, would live. He laughed as he worked.

Tick…thump…

Tick…thump…

Tick…thump…

11:55

Listening, listening, that’s all he could do was listen. Five minutes, more clocks. His heart beat to the clock…his clock, the one tied to his wrist, counting away ‘till his time was to close.

More and more clocks fell victim. Silenced forever, never to tell others just how much time they had left. He would escape time, outsmart it. Time had enslaved humanity, all they could think of was just how much time they did not have.

Thump…thump…

Tick…tick…

11:56

Listening.Four more minutes.

More clocks thrown to the ground.

11:57.

Listening…

11:58.

And…a sigh.

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

Two minutes left.He had even destroyed the watch that had sat on his wrist. The store was a mess with pieces of clocks lying on the floor, certainly a scene to behold. However, it was beautiful. The most beautiful thing that the man had ever experienced. Thump…

He smiled.

Thump…

Faltered.

Thump…

And then frowned.

Thump…

His heart. It still beat…beat…beat…beat…

Time was still very much alive. He was alive, therefore time was alive.

“NO!” He shouts the word, as surely causing the silence to flee into recesses unknown as if he had poured a bucket of water over fire.

11:59 p.m. May 17, 1886.

He knew exactly when he was. His heart, his damned thumping, ticking heart. Keeping time, reminding him of just how much time was left. A single, solitary minute was left.

He fell to his knees, feeling about for something, anything. He sobbed, tears blinding him, making him curse. It was unfair. Here he was, trying so hard to help, but time would not let him. If only he had more time!

He stopped. More time. He needed…more.

“No escape.” The words barely escaped from between clenched teeth. His shaking hand furiously cleared tears from his eyes and then fell onto the hand of a clock.

Cleverly carved into the shape of a pointing finger.

Thump…

He could not escape.

Thump…

He glanced down at the hand, the one that pointed.

Thump…

Picked up the piece.

Thump…

And drove the piece into his damned, ticking,thumping, counting, laughing heart.

12:00 a.m. May 18, 1886.

He fell forward and instead of silence greeting the new coming day, or the gong from a clock, it was the passing breath of a man who only wanted to live forever. Time counted on…on…on…

Word Quantity or Word Quality?

Tags

culture, dead dreamer, funny phrases, ink, literature, meaningful words, paper, patience, pen, pencil, quality, time, time and patience, word counts, words, Writing

It’s something that I’ve been noticing among a lot of writers. Not so much in books as on blogging websites and forums when they discuss their “writing”. (Which we never see). Many of them seem more concerned about getting a ton of words on the page than they do about making the words count toward a wonderfully told story.

“Just get the first draft down!” They seem to say. Their pen quivers in their hands as they scribble down the next sentence which contains the same words and funny phrases that they used a couple pages ago. “It’ll be a kick!” They aspire, but rarely do they seem to accomplish.

Such is the path of a dead dreamer.

So many writers dream. I respect their dreams, their wishes, but it’s a lack of drive and passion that keeps them from reaching their goals. Sacrifice is an element that I’ve been discovering and some of that sacrifice means time and patience. Taking lots of time to write down the perfect phrase, and having the patience to find the perfect word. The right sentence can mean the difference between making a reader cry out in anguish for a character, or them setting the book down because they found it too poorly drawn.

I do not mean to say that I am a perfect writer, but I have been trying to eradicate those untimely words and phrases from my writing. To keep myself from putting something on the paper that will be “good enough” until I revise it months later. It’s hard, it requires thought and more time that I am really comfortable with, but I have been starting to be happier with my writing because of it. I do not restrict myself to word counts. If I get 2000 words down in a day, and that was all I was trying to do, then fine, that goal was accomplished. But if I get 1000 passionate and meaningful words down, then that is far, far better than any word count will ever be.

Our culture revolves around pushing things out so quickly that we have lost the reality of quality. Do not become the next cliche, make every word count so that when you have a finished product, it won’t be “good enough” but will instead be something to remember. Quantity is not quality, and quantity will not by cherished like like quality will. Glass is pretty, but it is the diamond that stands the test of time.

College And My Book

Tags

book, college, lack, life, me, of, people, photo, photography, picture, studying, time, update

The path often seems daunting.

Aside from the overwhelming amount of homework that seems to be building up around me, I think that I am enjoying my first year in College. Yes, it’s a headache meeting tons of people that you don’t know, or having to deal with slightly more than annoying teachers, but I think that I am, over-all, enjoying my experience.

Most of my classes are what I expected. Math, of course, is the worst one that I’m currently having to suffer through. Algebra and Trig. Ugh.. They are the absolute worse! It’s my last math class that I will ever have to take, ever, though. And that thought alone is what is keeping me motivated through it all. In the meantime, however, I will be eyeing that bowl of chalk that I could rather be eating than learning math.

Speech, oddly enough, is a class that I am enjoying immensely. So far at least. Most of that fact is that I have been able to escape any speech giving so far, but I think that we will be ignoring that fact for now. For pride’s sake ;). We shall have to see how much I still enjoy it after we are assigned a real speech. Maybe I’ll become the next prophet! You never know.

My favorite class so far, and by no stretch of the imagination, is my Literature class. We just finished the Iliad and are now beginning the first stages of reading the Odyssey. I love Greek and Roman literature, and this class is simply reading, discussing, and then writing about what we just read and talked about. My three favorite things to do with something that I enjoy! My Professor is absolutely hysterical and knows what he is talking about. His love for the subject also carries over into our conversations and makes the class that much more interesting. I’m very excited about the discussions that we are going to have on the Odyssey! I know that I’ll be laughing to his sarcastic enactments of the gods and men.

While all of this is going on, though, I will still be working on my book. It’s so slow in coming, but it’s coming and I carry a notebook with me just in case I need to write down some fantastic idea! I’m feeling much better about it this time around, it’s only on its second draft, so it’s still rough, but hey, it’s already better than the first draft! That’s saying a lot, I think.

One thing about it though, is that I’m thinking of blogging parts of it. Chapters here and there, just to see how people react to it. I know that I will be writing what I want, and not what everyone else wants, but if people like it, I will gain more of a following. That way, if I ever publish (Which is my dream) I will already have a small fanbase who will only then spread word. It’s an idea that I’m still playing with in my head, seeing how I would be able to do school, work, and keep up with a consistent update of my book as well as knowing what I want to put out there. I know some people liked the first chapter that I posted a little while back, so I definitely want to post more. It’s time that is the problem. What do you guys say?