Does avoidance foster creativity?


I have been known for my work ethics; working 10 hours straight increments without a single pause, cultivating writings and indulging in literature of all sorts, while avoiding complete contact with the world of society of general jamboree and socializing. 

I work in my workshop with many sleepless nights, educating myself and expanding knowledge of writings of many authors and screenwriters, improving every aspects of writing. I can’t believe this could be accomplish through means of fraternize. 

After a day of mingling, It’s quite difficult to get back into the groove, for me at least. 

A loner fosters.




Continuing Education


Salutations All,

Hazy. Brisk. Coffee. Tuesday.

As I hold my head only slightly leveled, I’ve been discussing, with some close friends about my plans after graduation.

I will be receiving my BFA in a couple of months, but yet, I am not satisfied. A sufficed notion has surfaced on continuing my education.

The opportunity has arose about going to school for dual masters degree (Literature, creative writing). I’m jumping to the opportunity and have already planned a visit to a college to garner information regarding the program.

I’m still not 100% sure about pursuing this. What are your opinions on this?

Is Your Vocabulary Greater Than Shakespeare’s?

Interesting Literature

We came across a nice site that tests your vocabulary in a short ‘quiz’ (of sorts) that takes only a few minutes to complete. It’s an interesting little test, because it will calculate (by which we really mean ‘estimate’) your vocabulary, or total number of words which you could practically use in conversation or writing.

This got us thinking about interesting words, especially rare ones, found in literature. It is commonly said that Shakespeare had a vocabulary of 17,000-20,000 words, but most modern English speakers use many more than this. That said, there are many rare old words which are sadly underused today, but which writers of times past would have been familiar with. Here are a few of them:

Shakespeare2A bellibone is an old word for (we’re quoting Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary here) ‘a woman excelling in both beauty and goodness’; it appears in Edmund Spenser’s Shepheardes Calendar in the…

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I’ll Fight Forever as the Heavens Fall


I recently awoken from a nap. It was quite different from most naps due to the verisimilitude of the dream.

Let me tell you about the dream.
The dream was about the missing Malaysia flight.
The continuity of the dream was a bit disarrayed: I seemed to be looking through the eyes of a passenger on board the plane, as well as my own eyes during the late night news

The plane was actually highjacked and taken to an island. 10 or so people including the pilot died. The pilot fought off the highjacker. He died a hero. The US government will then supposedly “find” the plane and take responsibility for saving them when in reality, the US government knew about this whole operation the entire time.

Slowly I Turned


Hi Pal!

You called me pal?
Well I haven’t heard that word in years. You know, I was once a bum like you. Ah, but it wasn’t always thus. I could look back to the days of yor’ when I was a very happy married man, and one day that rat came and destroyed forever of all the happiness I’ve ever known. I’ll never forget that day. I just came home from the graveyard-shift, and there was her note on the pillow. It was one of those cold-blooded notes. Dear Moe, I’m running away with Larry. I was obsessed with the idea that I must find him. The trail led me to Pittsburgh. I found that I missed him by three days when I got there, and I swore right there in Pittsburgh that I’d find him and have my revenge!
Now, on with the chase! Miami, Dallas, New Orleans, then i came face to face with the rat that had ruined my life.

It was in Niagara Falls. Niagara Falls! Slooowly I Turned. Step by Step. Inch by Inch. I walked up to him and smashed him, I hit him, I punched him, stabbed him, I poked his eyes out, I ripped his shirt off, then I knocked him down to the ground.
Excuse me kid, it’s the word Niagara Falls, every time I hear it, it tares me apart.
Ohh, that woman, I’ll kill her. And him. but, AHHHH RIVERS OF BLOOD! POOLS OF BLOOD! AHHH THE BLOOD!!

What Happened in Rehab?


The warmth turning to steady cold, the dark night filled the sky at the peak of 6pm. Autumn. Leaves change colors, the days are shorter, nights are cooler, birds head south and Mexicans head north. Autumn, the only type of change humans can adapt to after a series of complaining and days of wining.

I walked out of the entrance of Stony Way Inn, and that’s when I saw her. Her smile lit the sky like a new dawns light. Her eyes, like crystal ice cubes. Her hair, glowing like a chandelier at the end of a tunnel. She’s minus human, but an angel that was sent to me to save me from lack of love or perhaps suicide.

She approached me. As she grabbed my hands and squeezed tightly, fireworks went off, giving me pure happiness to share with her. And to love her forever until we’re buried, until we’re forgotten, until we’re missed by our family that brought us into this world, to hate us, to love us, to give us life, but then again, give us theirs.
She pulled herself closer to me. She whispers into my ears, “wake up”.

I woke up. I was alone, no one to share my morning warmth with. I looked over my shoulder and try to focus in and make up the numbers from the clock. 5:15 in the morning. I looked out the window and the sky, still as dark as it could be. But I rather have darkness, to cover up my guilt, my shame, my anger and my shattered dreams that filled my head and leaked on to my empty cold bed that was once filled with warmth, glory and happiness. My everlasting pride, so low that it’s destroyed by pity and self-gratitude.

I’m not mad at the world, the world is mad at me for the sin I have committed. So beautiful and innocent of a wife I had. She loved spending every waking moment with me. She’s gone now, gone forever. I wake up every morning, hoping to find her by my side, dreaming peacefully, hoping to hear and feel her breath just one last time, to be happy just one last time.

A life of which I’ve helplessly put forth effort to, but yet predetermined by a higher power. A bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of Scotch waiting to be emptied. The perfect combination to put me to sleep peacefully and painlessly and never wake up. To never wake up lonely and depressed. This is the only way to be with my lovely Rose. To be with her inside my dreams. To spend eternity of watching her smile and stare down deeply into her eyes without meaningless doubts.
I flash out from all this happiness. It all comes back to me. Her painful screams, becomes shallow, continuous amount of blood with every cough. Her multiple stab wounds and bullet holes that covered her entire body. She’s begging for me to stop. Begging for a second chance to live. Begging for a life she once had and loved, but now will be lost forever. The existence of pain is what connects people with reality.  We cry, we suffer; maybe the only way to escape pain is through dissolution. When we die, we honor ourselves by shoving each other six feet under ground carelessly, like we’re some kind of meat shoved into a freezer. We honor ourselves by remembering the achievers and to let go of the unfortunate. Self-righteousness, utterly doubtful with bounds of pure insanity covering our Predetermined truculent fate.

A Condo In New York (Unfinished)


Here is a first draft of an unfinished short story I began to write.
Feedbacks are appreciated.

    Living in a condo in a sunny evening in New York city is quit resentful when compared to living in a one-story home in cherrywood, Massachusetts. The playground where the kids play is only a block or so down the street. All the houses look the same and most of the mailboxes are the same color. The sound of birds chirping is worth getting up to in the morning. My backyard connects to the backyard of my neighbors. A boring brown-colored fence keeps them distant from us. We met them once, four years ago when we moved in. 8 weeks later, my 23 year old son spied on their 15 year old daughter. Didn’t  take them that long when they realized a giant telescope was pointing directly into their daughters bedroom window. We never talk about it.
     Scrambled eggs, overcooked sausages, and bacon that wasn’t cooked all the way was our breakfast on most mornings. Other times, it’s scrambled eggs and beat dough from Frenchy’s bakery on Limington, by the flower shop. She’s a pretty lousy cook, my wife. I don’t tell her, I never do. She’s too sweet for insensitive comments. Two years ago, my son moved back into the condo in New York where we previously lived in. He enjoys living there. School, friends and work is only a bus stop away from him. Lucky him. I drive to the office in a 1988 Oldsmobile. I don’t complain, it brings me from point A to point B, but if I decided to make a quick stop to point C, I’m screwed. 
      I work at a law firm in downtown, only three miles away. My wife is the typical housewife. She spends most of the time in her garden. It’s her own fortress of solitude. She hoped to have another child to teach her the fundamental skills of taking care of a garden. I promised her another child, but only after my promotion. I know I’m getting one, I can feel it. She hates waiting though. She’s very impatient. She accepted the marriage proposal from me, because she knew how a patient person I am, and that it could make her a better person. It did for a couple of years, but then she became herself again after our son left.

Page 217 ( The Journey Back)

Ten years ago, I wrote a novel. Three months later, it went missing. Never to be found, until this very moment. Still lost, however, a couple of pages clearly survived the journey back to my hands.

So I give you, the surviving piece of my novel.Image

Chapter Five

Although, I didn’t understand what he was saying at the time. It seemed logical at first, but once you try and emphasize it, then maybe, just maybe, you could get a glimpse of not his reality, but your own reality. I looked at my watch and it reads 8:15am. The perfect time for scrambled eggs, bacon and half burnt sausage washed down with a cold refreshing glass of orange juice. I looked out the window and try to catch a glimpse at the car next to me. Its licenses plate reads “Illinois 139-4986.” Four days, and we’ve already made it though five states. Continue reading

Something’s Missing.

Where are my cigarettes!?

As I sit here, attempting to [pontificate] by rationalizing a thoughtful and analytical perception on the view of life through the lens of a camera or through the means of grouping words with the use of a 1954 Olympia typewriter, and the support of a tepid cup of black, I’ve come to realize…where are my cigarettes?