My Writing Blog

So this is just a place where I can post some of my pieces for feedback and to connect with fellow writers. Let me know what you think!

wilhelminaslayter:

jenniferstolzer:

shaggy2pope:

faetrouble:

pastelmorgue:

theoneguyoverthere:

hangthecode:

Jack was employed into service for the East India Trading Company and was given command of the Wicked Wench. However, after he set free a cargo of slaves, his employer, Cutler Beckett, had Jack branded as a pirate and the Wench set aflame and sunk. After failing to rescue the Wench, Sparrow struck a bargain with the ghostly captain of the Flying Dutchman, Davy Jones, to resurrect his beloved vessel. Jones returned the ship to Jack in near perfect condition except for the permanently charred hull. This prompted Jack to rename her the Black Pearl

(via)

Jack Sparrow just got way cooler.

BABE

Yo, this is why Norrington said he’s the “worst pirate I’ve ever heard of,” and then Jack followed it up with, “But you have heard of me.”

Because Jack was branded a Pirate because he freed people rather than stealing anything. So Norrington, with his sense of duty, knows that Jack has been branded a criminal for actively not being a terrible human being. Norrington is torn between his duty as a naval officer and knowing that Jack is right.

He freed exactly 100 people, that’s why his debt to Jones was 100 souls. Davy has a sick sense of irony after all. Jack freed 100 souls and as a consequence his ship got sunk. Now his ship has been raised and as a consequence, he has to enslave 100 souls. This explains his reluctance to actually pay back the debt.

Crap, the latter portion of this franchise was a lot smarter than I thought it was… 

There’s so much people don’t get about this franchise, the story is really more complex than just “funny drunken pirate meets hottie lady and hottie man with occasional visits from squid man”.

"Between West and East"

           Overhead, the thin tread of bicycle tires tear like a zipper through a foot and a half of concrete.  The thunderous pounding of Sunday joggers, finally willing to bare the perfect 75 degree breeze and loose a pound or two, enters my ear like a cotton swab pushing against my eardrum.  But the sounds of New Year’s resolutions past are interrupted by the gasps of a toddler and her mother.

            “Look at the water,” says mom as she raises the small child over the chain-link fence.  The fall is only 10 feet, but the artificial rapids and broken breezeblocks lacing the creek bed could spell fatality for those with “butter fingers”.  That’s always made me nervous, even if I’m not the one at risk of loss.  I’ve seen it before, a lightly grasped cell phone or a loose fitting hat is dropped or caught up and blown away with the wind because it was not secured properly.  Now it’s the thought of a child ignorantly squirming with excitement in the face of natural beauty.  There would be no fathomable chance for a last minute catch.  My stomach lurches and my knees burn with uneasy energy.  I’ve never been good with loss, or maybe it’s something else.

            Only an arm’s length and a few cigarette butts away, I see fall colors lost and out of place, perpetually drowning beneath the chilly, algae infested water.  Even in death, the leaves flutter in the current, full of life and the spring season.  They paint themselves to the sharp contours of mossy rocks.  Like wet newspaper over a cardboard frame, it reminds me of the Halloween dad and I made a paper mâché T-rex head.

            That fall, about 15 years ago, my parents drove my sister and I an hour into the Appalachian Mountains for a walk.  Dad said the mountains were different in the fall.  He was right.  About half a mile into our hike, we walked over a fallen oak tree.  The thick old oak bowed gracefully over a small creek, as if modeling a certain humility to be observed and re-enacted by all who witness.  Under that tree was the first place I remember seeing water painted like that.  The creek bed colored red, brown, orange, yellow, and green was oddly reminiscent of a more modest Jackson Pollock.  As I stared further, the white water’s foam ripped through the autumn pallet like a wolf’s gnashing teeth. 

            Looking now at this thin, insignificant, and possibly toxic vein of water under a faux tree, it’s hard for me to see Greenville.  The cigarette butts are water bugs trapped and floating aimlessly in a small pool saved from the harsh current.  The child squealing in torn sneakers and an ECU sweater (who I’ve refused to look at anymore given her possibly precarious situation) is a conversation sung over tall oaks between two cardinals named Carl and Esther.  From under this bridge, I can hear my dad. “Did you know Cardinals mate for life?”

"Visiting Home"

Once I imagined home:

Mother, Father, Sister, four Dogs.

A dark maple wood banister,

“Don’t hang on that!”

My mother’s voice hailing

like God from above,

stern and confused as to why

I lean there.

 -

Once I imagined home:

Mother, Father, Sisters, two Dogs.

My grandparents’ walls

Hiding beneath a generously applied coat

of my family’s will,

determination,

to make that our house,

our home.

-

Staring at a house, inside:

You, my Dog.

Cuban hips swaying

above bare-feet

lightly padding across dark,

hard wood floor,

and comfort in relief

when I get home.

gobookyourself:

All My Friends are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman

For more quirky, quick reads about life and identity, try these…

When I Was Five I Killed Myself by Howard Buten for an offbeat short story about an institutionalised little boy

The Suicide Shop by Jean Teule for a black comedy about a French family looking for a raison d’être

The Gigantic Beard that was Evil by Stephen Collins for a quirky graphic novel about individuality

The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett a charming, offbeat novella about the Queen discovering her local mobile library

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"Public Speaking"

Here’s one about talking to people

with all the jitters

intensified in my fingers,

but they do that anyway.

 

A crack in my voice

as I make eye contact.

Oh God…

They’re actually looking back.

 

I have the floor,

metaphorically speaking,

but if I dance too much

I may become Bacon.

 

That reference should’ve stayed up top.

 

Top rhymes with flop

This is a train of thought.

Oh God, I’m stalling

and I can’t stop.

 

Still in my head

and now in my mouth,

words come tumbling out.

 

They’re covered in Velcro,

and my throat is inflamed,

I hope my breath latches on to something.

 

Where’s my water?

I’m supposed to have a bottle.