Here's the link to the website where I won a contest. The story is called Man of Happiness. If you want to read it, there should be a link on the page.
http://jotabit.com/2010/05/01/march-2010-writing-contest-winner/
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Great Contest for Writers
http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/Dear+Lucky+Agent+Contest+Middle+Grade+And+Young+Adult.aspx
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Here is my first short story (First written and first published). Link to where it was published following the story.
A wisp of smoke crept into the atmosphere as the lick of an orange and yellow flame set the white tip on fire. Purple, maroon, and pink splattered across the evening sky as the sun dipped behind the horizon.
I closed the cap on my lighter, extinguishing the excited flame. The bum before me sucked on the newly lit cigarette like a straw in a milkshake. He exhaled the white smoke and stared at the ground, rubbing his old ragged shoe against its filthy surface. The smoke penetrated my nostrils and glazed over my nasal cavity as I sighed at the poor man’s appearance.
Honking car horns shattered the silence and I whipped my shoulders around to face the disturbance. A white Honda Civic skidded to a stop behind a blue Toyota Corolla. The driver in the Civic flipped up his middle finger and screamed profanities at the top of his lungs. The driver of the Toyota didn’t seem to pay them any mind.
I returned my attention to the homeless man, ignoring the dispute behind me. I plunged my hands in my pockets and shifted my weight to one side. The bum had on a tattered brown trench coat. The coat hung on scrawny but sturdy shoulders, while the guy’s chest supported a heavily soiled pastel T-shirt. His blue jeans had almost turned black from countless dirt stains and lack of washing. The stains seemed to have been soaked into the fabric due to an assortment of precipitation and perspiration.
A few pedestrians walked by, or around us, avoiding the stench of the man in front of me. The guy’s face was covered in hair like a grizzly bear’s. He wore a red baseball cap that he probably found in the garbage somewhere.
I soon grew tired of observing this man smoke in peace. I had work to do so I moved closer to him and said, “Come on pal, ya hungry?”
I placed my arm over and around his shoulder, but soon removed it. His collar was sticky and his skin felt like sandpaper. A thin, translucent film clung to my bare forearm. I frowned up my face and wrinkled my nose, gagging to the side as I motioned for him to walk foreword. The shelter-less man nodded his head in gratitude, a tiny cloud of dust and dirt bursting from his scalp and invading my lungs. I could taste the gritty residue and almost vomited from the disgusting substance.
The sun had almost completely disappeared as we neared a local diner. We came to a street, but the Do Not Walk signal halted our stroll. The bum inhaled on his cigarette one last time before plucking the stub into the street. The blunt stick hit the road and sparked into flares when a rubber tire barreled over it. The road sign conveyed a large Walk signal so we proceeded.
The giant golden arches to McDonalds beckoned us to enter. I pushed open the shiny glass door and held it for my “friend.” He sat at a table while I ordered a trio of cheeseburgers for us. When my food was ready the cashier tossed my order on the counter and I grabbed the inviting container. I went over to the table and sat down with the bum, taking out the food. I slid a burger over to the homeless man and unwrapped my own soggy fried meat. I opened wide and sunk my incisors into the edge, pulling off a chunk and chewing. The bread melted in my mouth and the meat squished against my molars. The combination of salt and fat triggered a tasty pandemonium of bliss upon my taste buds. I looked up and saw the bum scarfing down his burger like a hungry African lion feasting on a petite antelope.
“So why are you being so nice?” asked the bum between swallows.
“You’ll see,” I replied casually, taking another bite of my burger.
The inside of the restaurant smelled appetizing. The aroma of french fries and milkshakes filled my nose and overwhelmed all the other scents. Busy city workers scurried about, rushing down their food and chatting briefly amongst themselves before exiting to hurry home to their families. The table had an array of crumbs scattered across its face, but the street dweller did not seem to mind. He started on the second cheeseburger and looked up, a sparkle in his eye.
“So what do you do for a living?” asked the bum, swallowing another wad of food.
“You’ll see,” I replied with a smirk on my face.
I completed my meal and so did my company, so we stood to leave. I almost put my arm around him again, but instead I let it dangle, using my other hand to point to the door. He walked past and I noticed that he had left a slimy residue in the chair where he had sat. My mouth hung open in surprise and I shuddered. I didn’t know how I would deal with this guy. I pretended not to notice though, needing to stay on the bum’s good side for a little while longer. I had to jog to catch up with the guy, holding the door politely for him yet again.
We re-entered the noisy, bustling city and started walking for a place that he knew nothing about. The sun had vanished, scared away by the watchful moon. I walked relatively close to the stranger, listening to the melodic pitter patter of his shoes. It sounded like money to me.
After some time I started to notice the guy’s pungent odor. I decided to walk a few steps in front of him, breathing through my mouth to eliminate the mighty stench. We weren’t far now.
“Where we goin?” asked the bum.
“You’ll see,” I replied routinely.
We walked down the dingy cement sidewalk to a rather deserted portion of the city. This was not a place any sane person would want to be. Police sirens echoed in the distance. Birds would even stop on the outskirts and turn back. The tree’s themselves were spooky and seemed to dare you to walk close enough for them to devour your frail body and soul.
The bum and I stopped in front of a giant, antique, warehouse-like building. The windows had been covered up with black trash bags that fluttered furiously in the wind. The main door was halfway off, hanging by a single hinge and slowly swaying to the rhythm of its own music.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” questioned the bum nervously. He grabbed his arm and looked over his shoulder.
“You’ll see.”
We walked up the wooden steps that moaned under our weight like a dying old witch. We crossed through the threshold and into a hopeless darkness. A foul smell coursed through the room and fear possessed the homeless fellow. He turned to run, but the entrance had disappeared. Our eyes soon became useless in the claustrophobic darkness. The hairs on our necks were standing so far on end that they felt like they would jump from their follicular chains. The orange and yellow glow of my lighters fire danced and cast shadows across our environment. I put my fingers to my mouth, shushing the quivering bum and motioning him to follow me.
We traveled down a long corridor. The light projected eerie wavering images on the walls and floor from the dirty furniture and odd ornaments. Suddenly a figure appeared and the bum attached himself to the outside of my arms. His rough frigid epidermis startled me and I jumped slightly. I rolled my eyes and contorted my face after I realized that it was he who had touched me.
The figure in the distance took form. His pale brawny body sported a semi-automatic machine gun. Sun glasses covered his eyes for no reason, except to protect him from the psychotic darkness surrounding us. He had on a gas mask that made him look like some sort of science fiction chemical war soldier.
I nodded to him and he lowered one hand to open a door that was behind him. The wooden blockade groaned and creaked but soon stood all the way open. The most putrid stench ever smelled by a human nose, bubbled out the room and slapped our little triangle like a pimp slaps his hoe.
“What’s in there?” muttered the bum, trying to get a better look.
“You’ll see,” I said, grabbing his arm and shoving him inside.
He stumbled down a set of steps and nearly fainted. Hundreds of other bums worked tirelessly on various machines. A vast assembly line pit spanned the size of a soccer field. A rather large and smelly sweatshop was in full swing. Guards, similar to the one at the door, wore masks and overlooked the workforce, regulating the homeless men and telling them what tasks to carry out. A dim light buzzed at the top of the ceiling. The smell was so thick and nasty that it created a hazy layer of mist around the light.
The angry bum spun around and bound up the steps toward me, fury blazing inside his eyes. Like the aftermath of a nuclear attack. I smiled, slamming the door in his face.
“Now you see!”I clapped my hands together rather satisfied, another bum was mine.
The scum of the country would never be missed by anyone, so why not do what I do? I tapped the guard by the door, Kevin, on the shoulder and went to my office. I sat at my desk, shoving my nine millimeter pistol to the side so I could look over the progress report. Sales were up 20 percent in the last 3 months. My illegal weapons factory had never been more successful.
I had to think of something to do, and I had to think of it quick. The bums were growing restless. Some of them had been in captivity for over 9 months. I didn’t know when, but I knew they were planning something. I gave them too much time to sleep. But I needed them to do something and I needed them to do something quick. An example needed to be made before the whole shindig went awry. My debt was almost paid, it would only take a few more months now and I would have them off of my tail.
http://illogicalmuse.blogspot.com/2009/06/youll-see-part-one-by-jeremie-guy.html
A wisp of smoke crept into the atmosphere as the lick of an orange and yellow flame set the white tip on fire. Purple, maroon, and pink splattered across the evening sky as the sun dipped behind the horizon.
I closed the cap on my lighter, extinguishing the excited flame. The bum before me sucked on the newly lit cigarette like a straw in a milkshake. He exhaled the white smoke and stared at the ground, rubbing his old ragged shoe against its filthy surface. The smoke penetrated my nostrils and glazed over my nasal cavity as I sighed at the poor man’s appearance.
Honking car horns shattered the silence and I whipped my shoulders around to face the disturbance. A white Honda Civic skidded to a stop behind a blue Toyota Corolla. The driver in the Civic flipped up his middle finger and screamed profanities at the top of his lungs. The driver of the Toyota didn’t seem to pay them any mind.
I returned my attention to the homeless man, ignoring the dispute behind me. I plunged my hands in my pockets and shifted my weight to one side. The bum had on a tattered brown trench coat. The coat hung on scrawny but sturdy shoulders, while the guy’s chest supported a heavily soiled pastel T-shirt. His blue jeans had almost turned black from countless dirt stains and lack of washing. The stains seemed to have been soaked into the fabric due to an assortment of precipitation and perspiration.
A few pedestrians walked by, or around us, avoiding the stench of the man in front of me. The guy’s face was covered in hair like a grizzly bear’s. He wore a red baseball cap that he probably found in the garbage somewhere.
I soon grew tired of observing this man smoke in peace. I had work to do so I moved closer to him and said, “Come on pal, ya hungry?”
I placed my arm over and around his shoulder, but soon removed it. His collar was sticky and his skin felt like sandpaper. A thin, translucent film clung to my bare forearm. I frowned up my face and wrinkled my nose, gagging to the side as I motioned for him to walk foreword. The shelter-less man nodded his head in gratitude, a tiny cloud of dust and dirt bursting from his scalp and invading my lungs. I could taste the gritty residue and almost vomited from the disgusting substance.
The sun had almost completely disappeared as we neared a local diner. We came to a street, but the Do Not Walk signal halted our stroll. The bum inhaled on his cigarette one last time before plucking the stub into the street. The blunt stick hit the road and sparked into flares when a rubber tire barreled over it. The road sign conveyed a large Walk signal so we proceeded.
The giant golden arches to McDonalds beckoned us to enter. I pushed open the shiny glass door and held it for my “friend.” He sat at a table while I ordered a trio of cheeseburgers for us. When my food was ready the cashier tossed my order on the counter and I grabbed the inviting container. I went over to the table and sat down with the bum, taking out the food. I slid a burger over to the homeless man and unwrapped my own soggy fried meat. I opened wide and sunk my incisors into the edge, pulling off a chunk and chewing. The bread melted in my mouth and the meat squished against my molars. The combination of salt and fat triggered a tasty pandemonium of bliss upon my taste buds. I looked up and saw the bum scarfing down his burger like a hungry African lion feasting on a petite antelope.
“So why are you being so nice?” asked the bum between swallows.
“You’ll see,” I replied casually, taking another bite of my burger.
The inside of the restaurant smelled appetizing. The aroma of french fries and milkshakes filled my nose and overwhelmed all the other scents. Busy city workers scurried about, rushing down their food and chatting briefly amongst themselves before exiting to hurry home to their families. The table had an array of crumbs scattered across its face, but the street dweller did not seem to mind. He started on the second cheeseburger and looked up, a sparkle in his eye.
“So what do you do for a living?” asked the bum, swallowing another wad of food.
“You’ll see,” I replied with a smirk on my face.
I completed my meal and so did my company, so we stood to leave. I almost put my arm around him again, but instead I let it dangle, using my other hand to point to the door. He walked past and I noticed that he had left a slimy residue in the chair where he had sat. My mouth hung open in surprise and I shuddered. I didn’t know how I would deal with this guy. I pretended not to notice though, needing to stay on the bum’s good side for a little while longer. I had to jog to catch up with the guy, holding the door politely for him yet again.
We re-entered the noisy, bustling city and started walking for a place that he knew nothing about. The sun had vanished, scared away by the watchful moon. I walked relatively close to the stranger, listening to the melodic pitter patter of his shoes. It sounded like money to me.
After some time I started to notice the guy’s pungent odor. I decided to walk a few steps in front of him, breathing through my mouth to eliminate the mighty stench. We weren’t far now.
“Where we goin?” asked the bum.
“You’ll see,” I replied routinely.
We walked down the dingy cement sidewalk to a rather deserted portion of the city. This was not a place any sane person would want to be. Police sirens echoed in the distance. Birds would even stop on the outskirts and turn back. The tree’s themselves were spooky and seemed to dare you to walk close enough for them to devour your frail body and soul.
The bum and I stopped in front of a giant, antique, warehouse-like building. The windows had been covered up with black trash bags that fluttered furiously in the wind. The main door was halfway off, hanging by a single hinge and slowly swaying to the rhythm of its own music.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” questioned the bum nervously. He grabbed his arm and looked over his shoulder.
“You’ll see.”
We walked up the wooden steps that moaned under our weight like a dying old witch. We crossed through the threshold and into a hopeless darkness. A foul smell coursed through the room and fear possessed the homeless fellow. He turned to run, but the entrance had disappeared. Our eyes soon became useless in the claustrophobic darkness. The hairs on our necks were standing so far on end that they felt like they would jump from their follicular chains. The orange and yellow glow of my lighters fire danced and cast shadows across our environment. I put my fingers to my mouth, shushing the quivering bum and motioning him to follow me.
We traveled down a long corridor. The light projected eerie wavering images on the walls and floor from the dirty furniture and odd ornaments. Suddenly a figure appeared and the bum attached himself to the outside of my arms. His rough frigid epidermis startled me and I jumped slightly. I rolled my eyes and contorted my face after I realized that it was he who had touched me.
The figure in the distance took form. His pale brawny body sported a semi-automatic machine gun. Sun glasses covered his eyes for no reason, except to protect him from the psychotic darkness surrounding us. He had on a gas mask that made him look like some sort of science fiction chemical war soldier.
I nodded to him and he lowered one hand to open a door that was behind him. The wooden blockade groaned and creaked but soon stood all the way open. The most putrid stench ever smelled by a human nose, bubbled out the room and slapped our little triangle like a pimp slaps his hoe.
“What’s in there?” muttered the bum, trying to get a better look.
“You’ll see,” I said, grabbing his arm and shoving him inside.
He stumbled down a set of steps and nearly fainted. Hundreds of other bums worked tirelessly on various machines. A vast assembly line pit spanned the size of a soccer field. A rather large and smelly sweatshop was in full swing. Guards, similar to the one at the door, wore masks and overlooked the workforce, regulating the homeless men and telling them what tasks to carry out. A dim light buzzed at the top of the ceiling. The smell was so thick and nasty that it created a hazy layer of mist around the light.
The angry bum spun around and bound up the steps toward me, fury blazing inside his eyes. Like the aftermath of a nuclear attack. I smiled, slamming the door in his face.
“Now you see!”I clapped my hands together rather satisfied, another bum was mine.
The scum of the country would never be missed by anyone, so why not do what I do? I tapped the guard by the door, Kevin, on the shoulder and went to my office. I sat at my desk, shoving my nine millimeter pistol to the side so I could look over the progress report. Sales were up 20 percent in the last 3 months. My illegal weapons factory had never been more successful.
I had to think of something to do, and I had to think of it quick. The bums were growing restless. Some of them had been in captivity for over 9 months. I didn’t know when, but I knew they were planning something. I gave them too much time to sleep. But I needed them to do something and I needed them to do something quick. An example needed to be made before the whole shindig went awry. My debt was almost paid, it would only take a few more months now and I would have them off of my tail.
http://illogicalmuse.blogspot.com/2009/06/youll-see-part-one-by-jeremie-guy.html
Here's a short story that I had published (the link is after the story, and I have a copy of the magazine if you want to see it in print)
Pearls 2
Jeremie Guy
Things just didn’t seem to be the same anymore. Was she right? Wrong? Who cared anyway? A guilty heart weighs down even the strongest of men.
Sable wasn’t wrong for what she had done. She was just too right. As right as two left feet. She was too much of a woman and too real to be held down by the confines of normal everyday description. You couldn’t classify her with the rest of humanity. That would require too many words. Regardless of how much of a woman she was, she felt guilty.
The orange eye of the sky slowly fell behind the face of the earth and created dazzling purples, oranges, and reds: a genius child’s artwork against an infinite backdrop. Sable sighed a deep sigh from the bottom of her diaphragm and pulled Patrick closer. Ever since they started dating her life had been a wild ride of fun and excitement. She couldn’t help but miss her ex-husband though. Ah yes, the good old days.
Sable let Patrick go and stood to her feet, facing the setting sun. A cool breeze gently invaded her garments and sent a shiver up her spine: the cold fingers of a forbidden lover. Patrick soon slid his hands around her waist and cupped her stomach. It was getting rounder and fuller each day: a pearl in the soft flesh of a clam.
Patrick’s chin came to a rest on his lover’s shoulder and he felt like he had the universe between his palms. Not a care in the world. He had won the war and it felt good.
Sable didn’t feel Patrick’s hands. All she felt was cold: the snake-like guilt slithering through her gut and grasping onto her nerves. She just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling. She wasn’t wrong for what she had done. It was just a mistake. A mistake that no longer could be fixed. It was much too late for repair. Eugene probably wanted to divorce her years ago anyway. That’s why she had to take everything. It was his fault that everything ended the way it did.
The cold continued to encase her body until the warmth of her love failed to serve any purpose. She shivered and decided to take a walk. It was dark now. Or were her eyes closed? The moist ground embraced her feet and offered some relief, but she didn’t accept it. She kept moving, forgetting the earth and floating off into a sea of memories.
A head, distorted and disgustingly white, drifted by: Eugene’s face. These weren’t the currents that Sable wanted to travel, so she paddled her way west, sailing further and further back in the seas of memory.
Music caressed her ears and she smiled. The opera was her favorite and Eugene always treated her to a show for their anniversary. He was a good man. His job was nice and his money was deep: the rain and the fire on the grass of their relationship. The music faded and a black ice solidified over Sable’s body. She wasn’t wrong for what she had done, she just wasn’t right.
The money was the real reason that everything went to hell. Money is the root of all evil, but money makes the world go around. What then can be the expected outcome of the state of the world?
Eugene was a workaholic and it made Sable seethe with envy. Being the woman that she was, she was jealous of everything and anything that came between her and her desires, even if what came in between was the green fuel that powered her world. Nothing else seemed to matter to Eugene. All he did was work work work and more work. He came home, gave her a kiss on the cheek and worked. He even ate his food while working. Though the opera made her happy, and Eugene never failed to take her to the opera on their anniversaries, he would work right through the whole night. Work work work work. Was money that important to him? The answer was obviously yes, and that was why she had to leave.
Things started out slowly at first, but eventually spun out of control. It started with a conversation. Patrick was an ear to fill with problems and Sable had plenty. He was smart. Lend a woman your hand and get a smile in return; lend a woman your money and get her happiness in return; but lend a woman your ears and get her heart in return.
It all started with a simple touch. One little finger to the thigh: a drop of gasoline on an ember. Before long, Sable couldn’t hold back the fires of her passion any longer. She craved the touch of a man that wasn’t thinking about money all the time.
When Patrick and Sable came together they devoured each other. Sable didn’t care that he was a horrible lover. She just needed love. Like a starving man at a cheap buffet, Sable gorged herself until she could take no more. She grew tired of Patrick and there was nothing she could do. Eugene was at least good at what he did before the money came.
Sable crashed back to earth and felt Patrick’s thin excuses for arms around her waste. Her eyes rolled up to the heavens and the black of space consumed her: an oil blanket on the lungs of a baby. She wished she could be free of this man. Patrick. Eugene. Max. Terry. Bill. Christian. Would the list go on? Could the list go on? Should the list go on? She looked over her shoulder and the brightness of the full moon caused Patrick’s eyes to glisten: two green turtle shells hiding a pathetic excuse for masculinity.
Sable had to leave. She wouldn’t be Sable if she didn’t leave somehow. She left her family when she was 12. She left religion when she was 15. She left school when she was 20. She left Eugene when she was 33. She didn’t know how to do anything but leave. Leave with everything important and never look back. The pearl in her belly begged her to stay, but Sable had to be Sable. She wasn’t wrong for what she did. She was merely doing what she did best. Sable removed Patrick’s arms and they flopped to his side. She took a quick glance over his frail body and almost giggled to herself.
Patrick was clueless. Just another seashell on the shores of Sable beach. He expected everything to turn out for the better with Sable, but Sable had to be Sable. Patrick wasn’t worth her time anyway. Was Eugene?
A frigid chill caked over Sable’s heart and she couldn’t help but shiver. She wrapped her arms around the growing pearl in her tummy and whispered a lullaby. She had to find the warmth that her soul craved. Nothing else seemed to matter.
http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/works_e.pl?/home/users/web/b929/us.scars/perl/text-writings/g2181.txt
Pearls 2
Jeremie Guy
Things just didn’t seem to be the same anymore. Was she right? Wrong? Who cared anyway? A guilty heart weighs down even the strongest of men.
Sable wasn’t wrong for what she had done. She was just too right. As right as two left feet. She was too much of a woman and too real to be held down by the confines of normal everyday description. You couldn’t classify her with the rest of humanity. That would require too many words. Regardless of how much of a woman she was, she felt guilty.
The orange eye of the sky slowly fell behind the face of the earth and created dazzling purples, oranges, and reds: a genius child’s artwork against an infinite backdrop. Sable sighed a deep sigh from the bottom of her diaphragm and pulled Patrick closer. Ever since they started dating her life had been a wild ride of fun and excitement. She couldn’t help but miss her ex-husband though. Ah yes, the good old days.
Sable let Patrick go and stood to her feet, facing the setting sun. A cool breeze gently invaded her garments and sent a shiver up her spine: the cold fingers of a forbidden lover. Patrick soon slid his hands around her waist and cupped her stomach. It was getting rounder and fuller each day: a pearl in the soft flesh of a clam.
Patrick’s chin came to a rest on his lover’s shoulder and he felt like he had the universe between his palms. Not a care in the world. He had won the war and it felt good.
Sable didn’t feel Patrick’s hands. All she felt was cold: the snake-like guilt slithering through her gut and grasping onto her nerves. She just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling. She wasn’t wrong for what she had done. It was just a mistake. A mistake that no longer could be fixed. It was much too late for repair. Eugene probably wanted to divorce her years ago anyway. That’s why she had to take everything. It was his fault that everything ended the way it did.
The cold continued to encase her body until the warmth of her love failed to serve any purpose. She shivered and decided to take a walk. It was dark now. Or were her eyes closed? The moist ground embraced her feet and offered some relief, but she didn’t accept it. She kept moving, forgetting the earth and floating off into a sea of memories.
A head, distorted and disgustingly white, drifted by: Eugene’s face. These weren’t the currents that Sable wanted to travel, so she paddled her way west, sailing further and further back in the seas of memory.
Music caressed her ears and she smiled. The opera was her favorite and Eugene always treated her to a show for their anniversary. He was a good man. His job was nice and his money was deep: the rain and the fire on the grass of their relationship. The music faded and a black ice solidified over Sable’s body. She wasn’t wrong for what she had done, she just wasn’t right.
The money was the real reason that everything went to hell. Money is the root of all evil, but money makes the world go around. What then can be the expected outcome of the state of the world?
Eugene was a workaholic and it made Sable seethe with envy. Being the woman that she was, she was jealous of everything and anything that came between her and her desires, even if what came in between was the green fuel that powered her world. Nothing else seemed to matter to Eugene. All he did was work work work and more work. He came home, gave her a kiss on the cheek and worked. He even ate his food while working. Though the opera made her happy, and Eugene never failed to take her to the opera on their anniversaries, he would work right through the whole night. Work work work work. Was money that important to him? The answer was obviously yes, and that was why she had to leave.
Things started out slowly at first, but eventually spun out of control. It started with a conversation. Patrick was an ear to fill with problems and Sable had plenty. He was smart. Lend a woman your hand and get a smile in return; lend a woman your money and get her happiness in return; but lend a woman your ears and get her heart in return.
It all started with a simple touch. One little finger to the thigh: a drop of gasoline on an ember. Before long, Sable couldn’t hold back the fires of her passion any longer. She craved the touch of a man that wasn’t thinking about money all the time.
When Patrick and Sable came together they devoured each other. Sable didn’t care that he was a horrible lover. She just needed love. Like a starving man at a cheap buffet, Sable gorged herself until she could take no more. She grew tired of Patrick and there was nothing she could do. Eugene was at least good at what he did before the money came.
Sable crashed back to earth and felt Patrick’s thin excuses for arms around her waste. Her eyes rolled up to the heavens and the black of space consumed her: an oil blanket on the lungs of a baby. She wished she could be free of this man. Patrick. Eugene. Max. Terry. Bill. Christian. Would the list go on? Could the list go on? Should the list go on? She looked over her shoulder and the brightness of the full moon caused Patrick’s eyes to glisten: two green turtle shells hiding a pathetic excuse for masculinity.
Sable had to leave. She wouldn’t be Sable if she didn’t leave somehow. She left her family when she was 12. She left religion when she was 15. She left school when she was 20. She left Eugene when she was 33. She didn’t know how to do anything but leave. Leave with everything important and never look back. The pearl in her belly begged her to stay, but Sable had to be Sable. She wasn’t wrong for what she did. She was merely doing what she did best. Sable removed Patrick’s arms and they flopped to his side. She took a quick glance over his frail body and almost giggled to herself.
Patrick was clueless. Just another seashell on the shores of Sable beach. He expected everything to turn out for the better with Sable, but Sable had to be Sable. Patrick wasn’t worth her time anyway. Was Eugene?
A frigid chill caked over Sable’s heart and she couldn’t help but shiver. She wrapped her arms around the growing pearl in her tummy and whispered a lullaby. She had to find the warmth that her soul craved. Nothing else seemed to matter.
http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/works_e.pl?/home/users/web/b929/us.scars/perl/text-writings/g2181.txt
Yet some more poems I had published some time ago...link to the website is after the poems.
If
If kisses were light, I'd send enough to make you go blind,
This light would be bright enough to be seen by all mankind,
It would flow through the world and make you squint your eyes,
Its immense brightness would even uncover the worst lies,
When you kiss me it makes my day bright,
It fills my mind up with the most heavenly light,
If it were up to me, I would kiss you for as long as time would allow,
I want to slow down time when I'm with you; I wish I knew how,
If love was water, I would send you a flood,
It would be of the purest type, not polluted with mud,
We'll have to build a boat, so we can float on this stuff,
Because we all know how love goes, sometimes it gets rough,
The waves and the storms try to sink our two person ship,
But we have to stay close and strong so the boat will not flip,
I'm glad that right now the waters are calm,
We have God's help; he has us in his palm,
If hugs were a color, for you it would be blue,
I'd send you so many you might turn blue too,
My arms would surround you, love you, and hold on tight,
Never to let go, comfort you when you get a fright,
It's cold outside, but here next to your body there is heat,
You taste better than candy; you taste oh so sweet,
I hope this time never ends, leaves, or departs from me,
Because you're my baby and I hope we'll always be.
Like
I need you like the beach needs its sand,
I don't want a thing; it's only you I demand,
You say you need me like a body needs a brain,
Without this essential part, it will soon go insane,
We fit together perfectly like a key in a lock,
Our relationship should last since it's built upon a rock,
We've been together a while now, it's been better then I thought,
Our relationship still hung in there even though we may have fought,
Some people tried to tear us apart, like a puppy with and a house shoe,
They thought we would get sick of each other as if we had the flu,
We've proven them wrong, and lasted this long, I'll be here until the end,
Even if you get sick of me, I'll still want to be, at the very least, a friend,
If love was light, mine would make the sun seem dim and un-bright,
Try not to look at it all at once though or you might lose your sight,
I love your skin; it's soft like a teddy bear washed by Downy
You taste so sweet, close to candy, or maybe a brownie,
I wonder what I taste like to you; hopefully it's something good,
I hope you think that it's ok, because you shouldn't do it if you don't think you should,
We need each other like a shoe needs a foot to move and walk,
We need each other like a mouth needs a tongue to taste and talk,
Without each other, our lives will be incomplete, like a book without pages,
Even if you're a little bit younger, love does not have ages
If there is one thing that I like, it's the way you kiss me,
I lose control, and things simply disappear all too quickly.
When Nothing Compares
When people talk about looks, comparison is used,
But what can you say when mere words only abuse?
By this, I mean that you are so much better than language,
So what can I use to link to you? I need to find a bridge,
Some would use the sun, but your smile is far more brilliant,
No verbal means are good enough; your beauty is too resilient,
Some would use diamonds, but your eyes are too glittery,
How can you put gems to shame? Is your beauty some form of debauchery?
Some would use the seasons; saying your pleasant like the springs flower selection,
But the winter comes and messes that up for most, but your always perfection,
Some would compare your smell to a lily, a tulip, or a rose,
But the smell you leave is not temporary; it infests the brain, instead of the nose,
Some would compare their love's voice to a stream or creak,
But the way your vocal cords vibrate makes even a world class orchestra sound bleak,
Some compare their mate's lips to the taste of sweet nectar,
But the way you taste is far above all earthly flavors in every sector,
Some compare their feelings to making lots of money,
But the pleasures you give are impossible to receive, just like no bees no honey,
So what can I do when words do not suffice?
I need a new form of communication; for language is not the right device,
So where do I get this, if on earth it is not found?
Well there is one thing that compares, but in this world they do not abound,
So that poses the question of your humanity,
Because you not being real would help me keep my sanity,
But angels stay in heaven, and humans stay on earth,
And both entities can not stay where there mother's did not give birth,
Even with this knowledge, I am still lost; my confusion continues to dangle,
I have no choice but to elect the impossible, are you an angel?
http://poetichours.homestead.com/Issue31JeremieGuy.html
If
If kisses were light, I'd send enough to make you go blind,
This light would be bright enough to be seen by all mankind,
It would flow through the world and make you squint your eyes,
Its immense brightness would even uncover the worst lies,
When you kiss me it makes my day bright,
It fills my mind up with the most heavenly light,
If it were up to me, I would kiss you for as long as time would allow,
I want to slow down time when I'm with you; I wish I knew how,
If love was water, I would send you a flood,
It would be of the purest type, not polluted with mud,
We'll have to build a boat, so we can float on this stuff,
Because we all know how love goes, sometimes it gets rough,
The waves and the storms try to sink our two person ship,
But we have to stay close and strong so the boat will not flip,
I'm glad that right now the waters are calm,
We have God's help; he has us in his palm,
If hugs were a color, for you it would be blue,
I'd send you so many you might turn blue too,
My arms would surround you, love you, and hold on tight,
Never to let go, comfort you when you get a fright,
It's cold outside, but here next to your body there is heat,
You taste better than candy; you taste oh so sweet,
I hope this time never ends, leaves, or departs from me,
Because you're my baby and I hope we'll always be.
Like
I need you like the beach needs its sand,
I don't want a thing; it's only you I demand,
You say you need me like a body needs a brain,
Without this essential part, it will soon go insane,
We fit together perfectly like a key in a lock,
Our relationship should last since it's built upon a rock,
We've been together a while now, it's been better then I thought,
Our relationship still hung in there even though we may have fought,
Some people tried to tear us apart, like a puppy with and a house shoe,
They thought we would get sick of each other as if we had the flu,
We've proven them wrong, and lasted this long, I'll be here until the end,
Even if you get sick of me, I'll still want to be, at the very least, a friend,
If love was light, mine would make the sun seem dim and un-bright,
Try not to look at it all at once though or you might lose your sight,
I love your skin; it's soft like a teddy bear washed by Downy
You taste so sweet, close to candy, or maybe a brownie,
I wonder what I taste like to you; hopefully it's something good,
I hope you think that it's ok, because you shouldn't do it if you don't think you should,
We need each other like a shoe needs a foot to move and walk,
We need each other like a mouth needs a tongue to taste and talk,
Without each other, our lives will be incomplete, like a book without pages,
Even if you're a little bit younger, love does not have ages
If there is one thing that I like, it's the way you kiss me,
I lose control, and things simply disappear all too quickly.
When Nothing Compares
When people talk about looks, comparison is used,
But what can you say when mere words only abuse?
By this, I mean that you are so much better than language,
So what can I use to link to you? I need to find a bridge,
Some would use the sun, but your smile is far more brilliant,
No verbal means are good enough; your beauty is too resilient,
Some would use diamonds, but your eyes are too glittery,
How can you put gems to shame? Is your beauty some form of debauchery?
Some would use the seasons; saying your pleasant like the springs flower selection,
But the winter comes and messes that up for most, but your always perfection,
Some would compare your smell to a lily, a tulip, or a rose,
But the smell you leave is not temporary; it infests the brain, instead of the nose,
Some would compare their love's voice to a stream or creak,
But the way your vocal cords vibrate makes even a world class orchestra sound bleak,
Some compare their mate's lips to the taste of sweet nectar,
But the way you taste is far above all earthly flavors in every sector,
Some compare their feelings to making lots of money,
But the pleasures you give are impossible to receive, just like no bees no honey,
So what can I do when words do not suffice?
I need a new form of communication; for language is not the right device,
So where do I get this, if on earth it is not found?
Well there is one thing that compares, but in this world they do not abound,
So that poses the question of your humanity,
Because you not being real would help me keep my sanity,
But angels stay in heaven, and humans stay on earth,
And both entities can not stay where there mother's did not give birth,
Even with this knowledge, I am still lost; my confusion continues to dangle,
I have no choice but to elect the impossible, are you an angel?
http://poetichours.homestead.com/Issue31JeremieGuy.html
Here's another link to some old published poems of mine...Feel free to comment on them (the link is below the poems.)
Freestyle
Girl sit back and relax so I can run my fingers through your soul. Open up your eyes and see how love unfolds,
Stare deep into the crevice of desire and wait for me to retire down into a valley of seduction where I will wait,
Here I wait and wait until you join me...where we come together and sounds erupt,
Sounds of passion but sounds of cognitive reality,
A realism that only we can make,
Realism made from the putty of us joining together.
Now let us rise!
We must flee this place before things get too heavy,
Our hearts and our souls can attain but so much before they swell with the liquid of love
Let it flow, let it drip from the tips of my lips and let it fill you until you can take no more,
Gorge yourself on it and make it your own
Let it consume your spirit and hold onto your being until I am yours and you are mine
Let it float us away on clouds of gentleness,
Clouds that float about in the fore fronts of our heads and make us wish we were the sky.
The image of reality merely bounces off the mirror of imagination.
I Am the Pen
I am the pen.
I am the embodiment of creativity,
I am the epitome of verbal liberty,
I am the seeming contradiction of imaginative reality,
I am the pen.
Should I wait for the muse or simply embody her myself?
No! I refuse to be cast aside, tossed on a shelf,
My determination is tall and mighty, the opposite of Santa's help!
I am the pen.
My blood is black ink,
My skin has turned to paper I think,
Now I must find a way to bring what is in to the out, my soul to the physical, what I need is the link,
I am the pen,
My mind flips tricks while my heart tries to reason,
This life has me confused like cold summer season,
But as long as I write it keeps my mouth far from treason,
I am the pen,
As long as I have lips that talk through my fingers,
As long as my paper soaks my blood and speaks like a singer,
As long as these words dangle and linger,
I am the pen,
I will stay true to self and live to write me,
I will stay here in thought until these words can not speak,
I will be here, a pitcher, until all has poured out,
I will be here, a winner, despite all their doubt,
And I will stay here, a utensil that uses his silent scribbles to shout,
I am the pen, and it is me that I can not live without.
http://www.etmmagazine.info/future/2008/08/2008_08_jeremieguy.html
Freestyle
Girl sit back and relax so I can run my fingers through your soul. Open up your eyes and see how love unfolds,
Stare deep into the crevice of desire and wait for me to retire down into a valley of seduction where I will wait,
Here I wait and wait until you join me...where we come together and sounds erupt,
Sounds of passion but sounds of cognitive reality,
A realism that only we can make,
Realism made from the putty of us joining together.
Now let us rise!
We must flee this place before things get too heavy,
Our hearts and our souls can attain but so much before they swell with the liquid of love
Let it flow, let it drip from the tips of my lips and let it fill you until you can take no more,
Gorge yourself on it and make it your own
Let it consume your spirit and hold onto your being until I am yours and you are mine
Let it float us away on clouds of gentleness,
Clouds that float about in the fore fronts of our heads and make us wish we were the sky.
The image of reality merely bounces off the mirror of imagination.
I Am the Pen
I am the pen.
I am the embodiment of creativity,
I am the epitome of verbal liberty,
I am the seeming contradiction of imaginative reality,
I am the pen.
Should I wait for the muse or simply embody her myself?
No! I refuse to be cast aside, tossed on a shelf,
My determination is tall and mighty, the opposite of Santa's help!
I am the pen.
My blood is black ink,
My skin has turned to paper I think,
Now I must find a way to bring what is in to the out, my soul to the physical, what I need is the link,
I am the pen,
My mind flips tricks while my heart tries to reason,
This life has me confused like cold summer season,
But as long as I write it keeps my mouth far from treason,
I am the pen,
As long as I have lips that talk through my fingers,
As long as my paper soaks my blood and speaks like a singer,
As long as these words dangle and linger,
I am the pen,
I will stay true to self and live to write me,
I will stay here in thought until these words can not speak,
I will be here, a pitcher, until all has poured out,
I will be here, a winner, despite all their doubt,
And I will stay here, a utensil that uses his silent scribbles to shout,
I am the pen, and it is me that I can not live without.
http://www.etmmagazine.info/future/2008/08/2008_08_jeremieguy.html
Saturday, January 9, 2010
In A World
Just thought I'd post a link to a poem I wrote that made it into the "Best of 2009" issue of Illogical Muse. Check it out (you have to scroll down to see it).
http://illogicalmuse.blogspot.com/
I'm sure the link is dated....so if you wait too long then I'm sure it won't be there (I posted this 1/9/2010)
http://illogicalmuse.blogspot.com/
I'm sure the link is dated....so if you wait too long then I'm sure it won't be there (I posted this 1/9/2010)
Friday, January 8, 2010
I Clipped My Wings
No, I'm not a fallen angel that decided to live among the human race, and the wings I'm referring to aren't actually feathered limbs attached to my back. I'm referring to "being fly." For all of the culturally retarded and "unhip" people out there, being fly (by my definition) is wearing fashionable drab that is either flashy, expensive, current, or beyond the cultural norm of desirable outer wear.
I'm sure many of you don't think I am or ever was fly, but I'd like to think I used to be (before I clipped my wings of course). You might have seen me stomping around Towson's campus like the sun came up to shed light on how good I look, or you might have seen me posing on a wall at church with my I'm blessed face on, or you might have even seen me at the mall pretending to look at designer shirts in designer stores so that I can see how much I would save by going to the rip-off store. Either way, I used to think I had achieved some "air" with my attire. Regardless of how horribly I failed at looking good, I thought I found success, and when no one's bold enough to show you failure, you call it greatness.
Now I didn't clip my wings because I realized that my flapping was about as successful as a chicken's with no head, but I did commit the deed with ulterior motives. I waltzed around on cloud nine for a while before I started to question, why?
When I put a little thought into it (yes, I'm not always as dumb as I look) I realize I dressed the way I did for the approval of others. As humbling as this thought is, I'd bet my bottom dollar (what does that even mean!) that most of you also dress for the approval of others. If you don't, then your either over 35 (no not you Mr. 35 and still dancing with 18-year old girls in the club, you'll always be a young spry chicken), socially awkward and possibly friendless, or your just human enough to not care what other people think. Kudos to you if your option number three. (PS. This does not refer to business attire or uniforms, I'm referring solely to the clothes we were at leisure).
Dressing to impress also lead me to discover that I dressed to impress a specific type of human. I'm not homosexual, and so I prefer to catch the eyes of women. Consequently, I walk down Towson's campus with the sun as my spotlight because I want the ladies to notice me. I'm not superficial, but subconsciously I am tying a fake worm to a hook and hoping the tuna enjoy their meals made in a factory (this is not a reference to the bad jokes about girls smelling like fish. This is just a metaphor).
This touched on a deeper issue, and I started to look back on the long list (don't ask how long) of failed relationships. If I use fake bait, and the fish don'tlike fake worms, then why would the fish be satisfied? I know I'd be mad if I went to McDonald's and sank my teeth into a juicy Big Mac...made of wood.
In short, dressing flashy and essentially packing myself into the uncomfortable and always changing mold of society wasn't what I was looking for. Dress like you have money, and some people might believe you. I'm not looking for a gold digger, and I don't want a girlfriend thats with me for my looks. I might not be the most interesting person in the world, but I'd like to attract someone that didn't think the best thing about me was my shirt or shoes. I guess it takes "liking me even when the clothes come off" to a whole new level.
Is it so much to want to be liked for who you are? Oh, and sorry to the girls that thought I was something that I wasn't. If you could see me, I'd shrug my shoulders and put a dumb smirk on my face.
So goodbye wings. You brought a lot of attention, but I'd much rather have the right type of attention from one girl, then the wrong type of attention from 100.
I understand that what I've realized isn't for everyone, and by no means am I recommending that everyone stop caring so much about looks, but all I can say is that I'm a real worm and I'd like to catch a real fish.
I'm sure many of you don't think I am or ever was fly, but I'd like to think I used to be (before I clipped my wings of course). You might have seen me stomping around Towson's campus like the sun came up to shed light on how good I look, or you might have seen me posing on a wall at church with my I'm blessed face on, or you might have even seen me at the mall pretending to look at designer shirts in designer stores so that I can see how much I would save by going to the rip-off store. Either way, I used to think I had achieved some "air" with my attire. Regardless of how horribly I failed at looking good, I thought I found success, and when no one's bold enough to show you failure, you call it greatness.
Now I didn't clip my wings because I realized that my flapping was about as successful as a chicken's with no head, but I did commit the deed with ulterior motives. I waltzed around on cloud nine for a while before I started to question, why?
When I put a little thought into it (yes, I'm not always as dumb as I look) I realize I dressed the way I did for the approval of others. As humbling as this thought is, I'd bet my bottom dollar (what does that even mean!) that most of you also dress for the approval of others. If you don't, then your either over 35 (no not you Mr. 35 and still dancing with 18-year old girls in the club, you'll always be a young spry chicken), socially awkward and possibly friendless, or your just human enough to not care what other people think. Kudos to you if your option number three. (PS. This does not refer to business attire or uniforms, I'm referring solely to the clothes we were at leisure).
Dressing to impress also lead me to discover that I dressed to impress a specific type of human. I'm not homosexual, and so I prefer to catch the eyes of women. Consequently, I walk down Towson's campus with the sun as my spotlight because I want the ladies to notice me. I'm not superficial, but subconsciously I am tying a fake worm to a hook and hoping the tuna enjoy their meals made in a factory (this is not a reference to the bad jokes about girls smelling like fish. This is just a metaphor).
This touched on a deeper issue, and I started to look back on the long list (don't ask how long) of failed relationships. If I use fake bait, and the fish don'tlike fake worms, then why would the fish be satisfied? I know I'd be mad if I went to McDonald's and sank my teeth into a juicy Big Mac...made of wood.
In short, dressing flashy and essentially packing myself into the uncomfortable and always changing mold of society wasn't what I was looking for. Dress like you have money, and some people might believe you. I'm not looking for a gold digger, and I don't want a girlfriend thats with me for my looks. I might not be the most interesting person in the world, but I'd like to attract someone that didn't think the best thing about me was my shirt or shoes. I guess it takes "liking me even when the clothes come off" to a whole new level.
Is it so much to want to be liked for who you are? Oh, and sorry to the girls that thought I was something that I wasn't. If you could see me, I'd shrug my shoulders and put a dumb smirk on my face.
So goodbye wings. You brought a lot of attention, but I'd much rather have the right type of attention from one girl, then the wrong type of attention from 100.
I understand that what I've realized isn't for everyone, and by no means am I recommending that everyone stop caring so much about looks, but all I can say is that I'm a real worm and I'd like to catch a real fish.
Is the world this boring?
In the age we live in, hobbies and recreation seems to be diminishing. I'm not a health nut, or a recreation center employee with a grudge (though I do try to stay fit and eat right), but enough is enough people. The world is a vast space with endless possibilities (and by endless, I mean we're limited by lots of things, and its our job to find a way around the limits), and I think its time to go out and do something.
Stop and think about how you spend your day. Is Twitter really that entertaining? How many times do you have to tell the world that your bored, or that your boyfriend is wonderful, or that squirrels climb trees, or that ice cream is cold? I'm not angry with Twitter, and I'm not jealous of the success of others, but am I the only one who thinks there should be more to a social networking sight than status updates (sound like a Facebook rip off without all the good? Well I'm glad you have ears).
I'm with your mom when she used to tell you to go outside and stay out of trouble. If your not the outdoorsy type (which I'm not, and probably why I'm being lazy and writing a blog instead of doing something productive) then get a hobby. Write a poem, read a book (I write if your looking for an excuse to criticize me), do a cartwheel, find something fun to do that doesn't involve staring at a screen for 23 hours of the day...just my opinion. Any comments?
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