“Love”
Love
Is the moment of peace in the storm,
The epiphany in the crowd.
It carries us through the hollows of the world,
The dark paths haunted by lonesome specters and lost souls.
It is a burning hearth fueling life,
An all-consuming fire growing ever stronger with time.
Love gives us purpose and makes each day a new paradise
And when all has faded, love lives on as a
Memory.
Memories
Are the root of identity,
The driving reminder of all said and done.
Memories give comfort to the chaotic present,
Or haunt minds long fled from the past.
They never leave us,
And in the end are our only constant companions.
Memories wait at the end of all introspection,
The final resting place of all
Dreams.
Dreams
Are where we lose ourselves,
Cutting loose from the bonds of self-doubt.
They are the raging rivers of the mind,
A place to drown in our thoughts and come out anew.
Dreams are a window into the soul,
And hidden desires that can never be pursued.
Dreams are where we go to get away from the claws of the world
And find out what we wish we could be, and what we
Hope.
Hopes
Can save people from themselves
And push one toward the common good.
They show what the world can be,
And offer a path toward that idea.
They can inspire a generation
To come out from under the cynicism of another.
Hopes are the powerful hands of humanity
But also so fragile, so easily shattered by
Despair.
Despair
Is the coldest of winters,
The deadest of deserts.
It carves out the soul of a man,
Leaving a hollow shell lost in time.
It can pull a man free from the world
And let everything pass him by.
Despair is a constant companion,
Self-doubt lingering at the edge of
Memory.
Memory
Is what binds us together,
And what we fear most.
Lost causes echo out
Amid missed opportunities and affairs.
It is the ever present relic of what we learn
And what we have come to accept.
Memories are a reminder of all that we have,
But in the end, fade compared to
Love.
Love
Is the eternal mercy,
The embrace of companionship.
It shines brighter than any star,
And burns hotter than any sun.
It is the essence of life,
And what preserves us even in death.
It heals us and cares for us,
And I know not of anything greater than
Love.
Showing posts with label Nicholas Slayton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nicholas Slayton. Show all posts
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve
Okay, so I'm a few minutes into Christmas proper, but I got the idea, and wrote 95% of this on Christmas Eve. It's not an overly personal story, no deep emotions coming out or a commentary on life. I just wanted to write a happy story for the holidays. I hope that your day is full of joy and companionship. Happy holidays, merry Christmas.
A festive tale of the writer,
Nicholas Slayton
Christmas Eve
The moon should have illuminated the night sky, but the heavy gray clouds left things dark and dreary. Inside the house, the fire was burning brightly, the sound of crackling wood drowned out only by the shouts and screams of the children in the large house’s main room.
The six children ran around the room, doing their best not to trip over the presents under the Christmas tree. Jenna’s family came from money, and their Christmas decorations put both Desmond and Stephen’s families to shame. But to their advantage, it also gave Jenna a large house full of things to occupy their time during winter vacation as the twenty-fifth approached, especially since Jenna’s parents were out at some socialite gathering. They just had not counted on looking after Jenna’s little brother and his friends.
The three college students sat on the family room’s overstuffed couches and watched in a mix of shock and awe as the six kids scurried around. They seemed to jump from activity to activity, never taking a moment to breathe.
“Were we this crazy when we were kids?” Jenna asked, turning her head to look at Desmond. Her dark hair hung over half of her face, the green and red elf hat giving her usually-serious, femme fatale look a festive touch.
Her boyfriend shrugged, unsure. He ran his hand through his messy brown hair. “I’m really not sure. Maybe the cookies were a bad idea.”
“Seriously Jenna, did you spike those cookies with adrenaline or something?” Stephen asked. Desmond’s roommate wore and oversized Santa hat on his head, which hung loosely over his hair, adding to his rumpled look. The only thing about him that did not look like it had been through a tumble-dry was his razor sharp grin.
“Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault my little brother and his friends are like the Road Runner,” Jenna said.
Hearing himself mentioned, Jeff stopped in his tracks and turned toward his sister. The 10 year-old’s eyes were wide from excitement. “Hey sis, can we open some presents, please? Mom and dad won’t find out.
“Oh come on, you know the rules. No presents opened until Christmas morning, that’s tradition.”
“Oh come on, we’ve got to do something for fun. You already won’t let us go to see a movie.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Desmond said. “It’s time to sit back by the fire and take it easy.”
“Oh well, fine. But we’ve got to do something or we’ll go insane!”
“Okay then, what would you like instead?” Jenna asked.
“Tell us a story!” Jeff said. “Like, tell us a story about Santa Claus!”
Desmond sat back in his chair, exhaling softly. He looked at Jenna then at Stephen. “That’s quite a request. Any ideas on that one?”
“I’ve got this,” Stephen said with a grin. “Okay kids, you want the story of Santa Claus? Then get ready. This is what the greeting cards didn’t want you to hear.”
***
The bells were ringing. The elves had been defeated. The North Pole was going to fall.
The ninjas were here.
Santa Claus hefted his samurai sword as he snuck through the toy factory. The work benches were abandoned and the toys left unfinished on their conveyor belts. Everyone had rushed to grab a weapon when the attack had started. Now things were quiet, and the factory empty. The stables had been let open, and he wasn’t sure where the reindeer were. Santa gripped the red and white handle of his sword tightly. It had already been put to use escaping his office. The four dead ninjas collapsed over his desk were proof enough to that. He had tried to escape through the ventilation system, but it was built for elves, not for him. So much for Die Hard-ing it.
He snuck through the room, staying against a wall to not expose himself. His red coat was stained with a darker shade of scarlet, but he ignored that. Despite his size and age, the old man had a few tricks left up his sleeve. One did not survive spending a year in the North Pole without being tough. And he wasn’t going to let a clan of angry ninjas ruin Christmas. Not for the children. He’d had been through worse. The time Genghis Khan had tried to ravage the North Pole. The pirate raids of the 1600s. The Nazi invasion of ’42. The Nazi zombie reinvasion of ’09.
He stopped where he was. A movement from up above. He couldn’t be sure what it was, but it was a time to take caution. He slowly regripped the katana and started to raise it when the bench he was crouching under exploded in a spray of splinters as razor sharp ninja stars embedded themselves in the wood. Santa jumped to his feet, running parallel to the bench as six black-clad ninjas dropped into the darkened factory from the ceiling from an open skylight. They landed almost silently, but the old man’s eyes were sharp, honed from years of reading the skyline and detecting different houses.
The ninjas threw another round of stars at him, but he rolled under the bench, using the work station as cover. He leapt to his feet, picking up a half-full scarlet bag from the ground. He swung it as hard as he could. It caught one of the ninjas in the face, the heavy toys inside of it sending the attacker to the ground with a loud crash and a sharp crack. It must have been the action figures production line. Santa should not have been upset with the elves for making those new toys so heavy and dense.
Santa did not stop to watch the ninja go down. He was already swinging his katana at one of the surprised attackers. It cut through his midsection, and he dropped to the ground with a thud. The other ninjas were quick to react, pulling out their ninjatos from behind their backs. In unison, the four ninjas rushed at Santa Claus.
Santa ran to meet them. He blocked one swipe, using his mass and momentum to knock the ninja back, sending him tumbling over an elf’s small stole. He then swung around, blocking another attack aimed at stabbing him in the back. He pushed the blade away, slashing downward. The ninja screamed, grabbing his left thigh as it erupted in a splash of red.
Santa saw the other two ninjas still standing move toward him to attack, but instead of charging them, he turned and ran in the opposite direction. They followed, but they were too far away to stop his plan. Santa leapt to the ground, rolling over the corpse of the first ninja. As he rolled over the toy-covered body, he reached into a pocket. As he came to his feet, the ninjas realized what was going on. Their eyes, the only parts of their body visible under their black outfits, widened to new heights as fear took them over. Santa threw the handful of ninja stars directly at them. At this distance it was impossible to miss. The shuriken caught the two ninjas in the face and the chest, and in their momentum they came tumbling to the ground around Santa, twitching as life left them.
Santa snorted at their foolishness. It was a bunch of young men holding a pointless vendetta. Men could change. A lump of coal for one ninja clan this year didn’t mean it was a mark for the rest of their lives.
He had no time to dwell on that thought as the only uninjured ninja, back on his feet after Santa’s body had tackled him, leapt into the air, screaming murder and vengeance. As Santa swung his katana into the air to block the ninjato’s strike, he whistled as loudly as he could. The ninja landed on his feet and launched into a lightning fast series of attacks. Santa’s speed was not as fast, and he struggled to parry the stabs. The ninja forced him back, into the middle of the factory’s spacious main room. Another attack from the ninja left a cut on Santa’s sleeve, sending rich and heavy red velvet flying into the air.
“What’s the matter old man?” the ninja asked. Santa could almost see the sneer under his mask. “Has the Katayanagi Clan finally got your attention? We’re important! More important than what you think! We deserve respect, not little black lumps of coal! Come on old man, say something!”
“I was just waiting for backup to arrive. On Dancer!”
“What?” the ninja asked, his stance dropping, his body language displaying confusing. Before he could readjust, a neighing filled the workshop and a large, angry reindeer came flying in through the open skylight, his antlers crashing into the ninja. Santa heard a loud cracking sound as the body was sent flying into a wall; where it fell from, limp.
“Good boy,” Santa said, patting the reindeer on the head. He stopped as he heard a pained groan.
He turned. One last ninja remained. He was gripping the large gash in his left leg, a pool of blood starting to form around the injured limb. Santa walked over slowly. The ninja looked up, eyes widened in fear. What he saw was an angry old man, dressed in red. His white beard was splattered in blood and his grandfatherly face betrayed raw wrath.
“You’ve been naughty,” Santa said as he raised his katana. In one swift movement he brought it down on the ninja.
***
“So…why were the ninjas trying to kill Santa?” Timothy asked.
Stephen looked up at Timothy, confused. His eyes shifted back and forth as he tried to figure out how to answer the question.
“Well, you know, they hate Christmas,” he said.
“Why? What did Santa ever do to them?” Zack asked.
“Santa gave them a lump of coal in the past. You see, they’re ninjas, they were running around killing people with ninja stars and all sorts of non-pirate weapons, so they made it onto the naughty list. And thus, the Tokyo-North Pole Feud was born.”
“I don’t believe it,” Jeff said.
“I’m Jewish, I don’t think I’m the expert on Santa-related stories,” Stephen said.
“Clearly, on the last part,” Desmond said.
“Oh, you can do better?”
“I can give it a try.”
***
The village was almost obscured entirely by the dreary winter fog. The few lit lanterns of the early morning guided Nicholas toward the settlement. Through the haze he could make out the church’s bell tower, rising above the snow-covered ground like a spear in the sky. With a tired smile, he shook the reins, urging the reindeer forward. The animals pulled the sleigh toward the village, its blades sliding along the icy ground.
Nicholas was disturbed by the village. It was early morning, true, but he expected the people to be up and in the church for mass, especially on today of all days. But the streets were empty and the houses silent. The plague must have affected the village more than he had expected.
He reined in the reindeer in front of the church. The lanterns seemed to be grouped together here. He got out of the sleigh and tied the animals to a post. Despite his thin clothing, the white fur lining of his red cloak kept him warm. And he was not concerned with himself; he had others to help today. Reaching into the sleigh, he pulled out his large bag. It had been filled to the top when he had departed; he was on one of his last stops. Hefting the bag, he knocked on the church doors.
A tired layman opened the door for him. The man looked as his colorful guest with mild confusion. Nicholas was not old, but his face had a serene calm on it. With his long brown beard and hair that curled at his shoulders, he looked the picture of health, something the village had not seen in quite some time.
“Hello,” Nicholas said, opening his arms and nodding in greeting. “I am Nicholas, I have come with gifts for the sick here. I take it the children have been moved into the church?”
“Ah, Nicholas!” the layman said, recognizing the priest’s robes under Nicholas’s red cloak. “We did not expect you to visit us this year. Yes, the children are here, please come in. But I warn you, the plague is strong in our village.”
“I have been to all the villages in the area this last night, if I get sick, I will get sick. I am more concerned for those already ill,” Nicholas said as he entered the church.
The lanterns had lit up the exterior, but the interior was as gray as the morning haze. Children lay strewn out on the pews, the visiting monks tending to them. A priest walked through the church, swinging a thurible back and forth, the incense smoke filling the church. At the altar a few men prayed, their wishes for an end to the plague echoing through the stone building.
Nicholas surveyed the scene before them. Turning to his guide, he set the bag down on the ground, opening it up to reveal a collection of small toys. “If you can, please take these and give one to each child here.”
Father Nicholas reached into the bag and pulled out a large bundle of toys. With a nod to his compatriot, he turned and walked toward the pews. As he reached the first group of children, he smiled. With a few words of encouragement, he began to hand out his gifts to the children. The plague had ravaged the countryside, killing many. But to his sadness it left the young in throes of agony and sickness, no cure or quick end in sight.
As Nicholas handed out his presents, word began to spread. Father Nicholas had arrived, and he had his presents with him. The children began to talk, a glimmer of happiness flickering in their voices. Those who were not too far gone in their sickness sat up, eager to catch a glimpse of the wandering priest. As he passed through the pews, the children began to talk to him, excitedly engaging in conversation with him. With a polite reply and a blessing of health, Nicholas gave them his gift and moved onto the next one.
As he halfway through the pews, one of the children grabbed his arm. The child was young, no more than eight or nine. His smile was wide and full of life, but his sunken eyes showed how the plague had affected him. “Father Nicholas.”
“Yes, my child,” Nicholas replied.
“You’ve brought your gifts. You didn’t have to.”
“I do what I can to help. I have no medicinal talent, but if I can cheer you up, I try.”
“But why?” the child asked.
Nicholas stopped. His smile lost its enthusiasm, turning mournful. He set his pile of toys down, crouching to reach eye level with the sick boy. He stroked his beard in thought, before responding.
“A long time ago, before I was a priest, a strong plague had gripped this area. It was the dead of winter, must like now, and many children had fallen ill. I had been blessed enough to avoid the sickness, but not those I knew.
“I had a brother, Cyril. He was younger than me, and he had so much life in him. When the plague came, it sucked the life out of him. He was so weak, and I was so powerless to help him. I prayed nightly for my brother to get better, but no matter what I said, he only got worse. Finally, Christmas came. I returned from mass to find him at his weakest. He looked up at me and begged me to not cry. He did not want his sadness and health to make others sad. He told me, everyone deserves to be happy. He died that night.
“Since then, I’ve done what I can to make others happy, especially children like you. You do not deserve this, and you will get better. But you should not suffer. If my humble gifts can put a smile on your face, then that makes me happy.”
The boy smiled at Nicholas. Tightly hugging his new toy, he said, “I am happy. Thank you, Father Nicholas.”
Nicholas smiled back. He picked up his toys and got to his feet. Before he turned to continue down the pews, he looked back at the boy. “Merry Christmas, my son.”
***
“And I guess that’s how Nicholas became Santa Claus,” Desmond said.
“Wow. You should switch from cinema to creative writing with that one, pal,” Stephen said.
“I liked it a lot,” Jenna said.
“Thanks.”
The kids had mixed reactions.
“Way too old. I mean, where’s the modern stuff?” Andy asked.
“And why couldn’t the reindeer fly?” Timothy asked.
“I’m just the storyteller, you should ask Santa tonight about that,” Desmond replied.
“It’s okay. Can we get another story?” Jeff asked. “Come on Jenna, you haven’t told one yet! Tell us a story!”
“Really Jeff?” Jenna asked. “You usually don’t like stories. I thought you had grown out of those.”
Jeff frowned under his older sister’s teasing. “Well, it’s Christmas Eve. Come on, stories about Santa are what this is all about, right?”
“I guess you’re right,” Jenna said. “Okay, let’s see. Do you want to know why Santa went to the North Pole?”
***
The church bells rang, signaling another hour in the already late night. The fog flowed over the river, casting the low hanging bridge in a level of obscurity. The gas lamps cast the narrow bridge hanging over the canal in a rich golden hue.
Kris Kringle adjusted his heavy red coat one more time, anxiously patting down the wide lapels. Did he look okay? He rubbed his stubble, feeling the coarse brown hair. Maybe he should grow a beard. He shoved his cold hands into his pockets, looking around for her. He wasn’t sure how he was going to say it, but he had to. He didn’t want to leave things unfinished.
“Kris!”
He turned to look at the north end of the bridge. Sarah ran toward him, the tails of her black coat rippling in the wind behind her. She was beautiful in the wind. Her footsteps echoed over the cobblestone streets. She seemed every bit the classic movie actress, a timeless beauty.
She reached his spot on the bridge, embracing him in a tight hug. He rubbed her back, enjoying the intimate moment. After a moment, she broke the embrace, smiling as she took his hands in hers.
“Thank you for coming, Sarah,” Kris said.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked. “What was so important that you called me out here?
Kris let go of her hand, turning to the bridge’s railing. He gripped the stone work, looking down at the foggy river. Sighing quietly, he said, “Do you remember that conversation we were having a few weeks ago? About finding a purpose in life?”
“Of course,” Sarah replied. “What about it?”
“I think I’ve found mine. I’ve found a way that I can do some good in the world.”
“That’s amazing, Kris!” Sarah said. She walked over to him, putting a hand on his back. “What’s the matter though?”
“If I do this, I have to go away. I won’t be able to stay here with you. I have to go far away to the North. But it’s an opportunity I can’t pass up. I…it…it’s what I think I was meant to do with my life. I have to take this opportunity, Sarah.”
“Oh…” Sarah stepped back, her mind full of confusion and shock. Her happy smile faded and her arms fell limp to her side. “So…you’re just going to go then?”
Kris turned to her. Without a word he walked over to her, taking her hands in his. “Yes. But I’m not going to leave you.”
He reached into his coat pocket. “This is – this is hard for me to do.”
He dropped to one knee, pulling a small ring out from his coat. It was a band of white gold, a small ruby on top, glimmering in the gas lamps’ light. “Whatever I do, whoever I help, I’m not doing it without you. Sarah, I love you. Will you come with me? Will you marry me?”
Sarah raised her hands to her mouth. Tears started to well up in her eyes. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! Kris, I love you!”
She pulled him to his feet, and he pulled her into an embrace, kissing her passionately.
***
“I prefer Santa to be fat and funny,” Timothy muttered.
“I like it when he’s fighting ninjas,” Jeff said. Stephen smiled at the comment.
Jenna’s smile dropped as the kids started their commentary on her story. The slip was barely noticeable, especially since the kids were too busy arguing amongst themselves. Desmond slid an arm around her waist, giving her a quick hug. She smiled up at him, mouthing the words “thank you.”
“I think it’s time we wrap this up, maybe get everything ready for Santa,” she said.
Desmond looked around the room, lingering on the fireplace. The fire was starting to die out, the bright yellow flames turning to a low red.
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…” he said with a grin.
“…in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there,” Jenna finished. She waved to Jeff and the others. “Come on kids, it’s time for bed.”
“Oh come on Jenna, one more story!” Andy said, looking up eagerly.
“Yeah, especially from Stephen!” Timothy said.
“Hey now, you’ve had three good ones,” Stephen said. “Besides, the quicker to bed, the quicker the morning comes, and all the presents and hot chocolate that goes with it.”
“Hot chocolate!” the kids said with excitement.
The three college students led the kids upstairs, into the sleeping bags that Jenna’s family had set up for all of their guests. After wrangling in a few pre-teens who were developing an early case of insomnia, the trio made their way downstairs to the family room. Stephen eyed his watch, and then grabbed his jacket from the couch.
“Well my favorite lovebirds, it’s getting late,” he said. “I’m going to head out, maybe try and get home before dawn comes and the screams of a million kids make it too hard to sleep.”
“You have such a way with words,” Desmond said slyly. “Serious, ninjas versus Santa? I only thought you were this much fun on Halloween.”
“I’m a man for all seasons, Des,” Stephen replied.
“You’re still coming by tomorrow afternoon to hang out though, right Mr. Welles?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. See you later guys!”
“Thanks for coming by,” Jenna said, opening the door for Stephen as the latter left.
As she shut the door, she turned to Desmond and started laughing. He joined in, pulling her into a hug. Exhausted, the two moved back into the family room, collapsing onto the couch. Desmond pulled a blanket over them. The fire had almost died out entirely; it was nothing more than a few ruby embers casting the room in a soft glow. Jenna rested her head on Desmond’s shoulder, and for a few minutes, the two just sat there, enjoying the sound of the dying fire after the chaos of the day.
“Merry Christmas to all…” Jenna whispered as she drifted off to sleep. Desmond looked down at her, smiling. He kissed her gently on the forehead.
“And to all a good night.”
A festive tale of the writer,
Nicholas Slayton
Christmas Eve
The moon should have illuminated the night sky, but the heavy gray clouds left things dark and dreary. Inside the house, the fire was burning brightly, the sound of crackling wood drowned out only by the shouts and screams of the children in the large house’s main room.
The six children ran around the room, doing their best not to trip over the presents under the Christmas tree. Jenna’s family came from money, and their Christmas decorations put both Desmond and Stephen’s families to shame. But to their advantage, it also gave Jenna a large house full of things to occupy their time during winter vacation as the twenty-fifth approached, especially since Jenna’s parents were out at some socialite gathering. They just had not counted on looking after Jenna’s little brother and his friends.
The three college students sat on the family room’s overstuffed couches and watched in a mix of shock and awe as the six kids scurried around. They seemed to jump from activity to activity, never taking a moment to breathe.
“Were we this crazy when we were kids?” Jenna asked, turning her head to look at Desmond. Her dark hair hung over half of her face, the green and red elf hat giving her usually-serious, femme fatale look a festive touch.
Her boyfriend shrugged, unsure. He ran his hand through his messy brown hair. “I’m really not sure. Maybe the cookies were a bad idea.”
“Seriously Jenna, did you spike those cookies with adrenaline or something?” Stephen asked. Desmond’s roommate wore and oversized Santa hat on his head, which hung loosely over his hair, adding to his rumpled look. The only thing about him that did not look like it had been through a tumble-dry was his razor sharp grin.
“Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault my little brother and his friends are like the Road Runner,” Jenna said.
Hearing himself mentioned, Jeff stopped in his tracks and turned toward his sister. The 10 year-old’s eyes were wide from excitement. “Hey sis, can we open some presents, please? Mom and dad won’t find out.
“Oh come on, you know the rules. No presents opened until Christmas morning, that’s tradition.”
“Oh come on, we’ve got to do something for fun. You already won’t let us go to see a movie.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Desmond said. “It’s time to sit back by the fire and take it easy.”
“Oh well, fine. But we’ve got to do something or we’ll go insane!”
“Okay then, what would you like instead?” Jenna asked.
“Tell us a story!” Jeff said. “Like, tell us a story about Santa Claus!”
Desmond sat back in his chair, exhaling softly. He looked at Jenna then at Stephen. “That’s quite a request. Any ideas on that one?”
“I’ve got this,” Stephen said with a grin. “Okay kids, you want the story of Santa Claus? Then get ready. This is what the greeting cards didn’t want you to hear.”
***
The bells were ringing. The elves had been defeated. The North Pole was going to fall.
The ninjas were here.
Santa Claus hefted his samurai sword as he snuck through the toy factory. The work benches were abandoned and the toys left unfinished on their conveyor belts. Everyone had rushed to grab a weapon when the attack had started. Now things were quiet, and the factory empty. The stables had been let open, and he wasn’t sure where the reindeer were. Santa gripped the red and white handle of his sword tightly. It had already been put to use escaping his office. The four dead ninjas collapsed over his desk were proof enough to that. He had tried to escape through the ventilation system, but it was built for elves, not for him. So much for Die Hard-ing it.
He snuck through the room, staying against a wall to not expose himself. His red coat was stained with a darker shade of scarlet, but he ignored that. Despite his size and age, the old man had a few tricks left up his sleeve. One did not survive spending a year in the North Pole without being tough. And he wasn’t going to let a clan of angry ninjas ruin Christmas. Not for the children. He’d had been through worse. The time Genghis Khan had tried to ravage the North Pole. The pirate raids of the 1600s. The Nazi invasion of ’42. The Nazi zombie reinvasion of ’09.
He stopped where he was. A movement from up above. He couldn’t be sure what it was, but it was a time to take caution. He slowly regripped the katana and started to raise it when the bench he was crouching under exploded in a spray of splinters as razor sharp ninja stars embedded themselves in the wood. Santa jumped to his feet, running parallel to the bench as six black-clad ninjas dropped into the darkened factory from the ceiling from an open skylight. They landed almost silently, but the old man’s eyes were sharp, honed from years of reading the skyline and detecting different houses.
The ninjas threw another round of stars at him, but he rolled under the bench, using the work station as cover. He leapt to his feet, picking up a half-full scarlet bag from the ground. He swung it as hard as he could. It caught one of the ninjas in the face, the heavy toys inside of it sending the attacker to the ground with a loud crash and a sharp crack. It must have been the action figures production line. Santa should not have been upset with the elves for making those new toys so heavy and dense.
Santa did not stop to watch the ninja go down. He was already swinging his katana at one of the surprised attackers. It cut through his midsection, and he dropped to the ground with a thud. The other ninjas were quick to react, pulling out their ninjatos from behind their backs. In unison, the four ninjas rushed at Santa Claus.
Santa ran to meet them. He blocked one swipe, using his mass and momentum to knock the ninja back, sending him tumbling over an elf’s small stole. He then swung around, blocking another attack aimed at stabbing him in the back. He pushed the blade away, slashing downward. The ninja screamed, grabbing his left thigh as it erupted in a splash of red.
Santa saw the other two ninjas still standing move toward him to attack, but instead of charging them, he turned and ran in the opposite direction. They followed, but they were too far away to stop his plan. Santa leapt to the ground, rolling over the corpse of the first ninja. As he rolled over the toy-covered body, he reached into a pocket. As he came to his feet, the ninjas realized what was going on. Their eyes, the only parts of their body visible under their black outfits, widened to new heights as fear took them over. Santa threw the handful of ninja stars directly at them. At this distance it was impossible to miss. The shuriken caught the two ninjas in the face and the chest, and in their momentum they came tumbling to the ground around Santa, twitching as life left them.
Santa snorted at their foolishness. It was a bunch of young men holding a pointless vendetta. Men could change. A lump of coal for one ninja clan this year didn’t mean it was a mark for the rest of their lives.
He had no time to dwell on that thought as the only uninjured ninja, back on his feet after Santa’s body had tackled him, leapt into the air, screaming murder and vengeance. As Santa swung his katana into the air to block the ninjato’s strike, he whistled as loudly as he could. The ninja landed on his feet and launched into a lightning fast series of attacks. Santa’s speed was not as fast, and he struggled to parry the stabs. The ninja forced him back, into the middle of the factory’s spacious main room. Another attack from the ninja left a cut on Santa’s sleeve, sending rich and heavy red velvet flying into the air.
“What’s the matter old man?” the ninja asked. Santa could almost see the sneer under his mask. “Has the Katayanagi Clan finally got your attention? We’re important! More important than what you think! We deserve respect, not little black lumps of coal! Come on old man, say something!”
“I was just waiting for backup to arrive. On Dancer!”
“What?” the ninja asked, his stance dropping, his body language displaying confusing. Before he could readjust, a neighing filled the workshop and a large, angry reindeer came flying in through the open skylight, his antlers crashing into the ninja. Santa heard a loud cracking sound as the body was sent flying into a wall; where it fell from, limp.
“Good boy,” Santa said, patting the reindeer on the head. He stopped as he heard a pained groan.
He turned. One last ninja remained. He was gripping the large gash in his left leg, a pool of blood starting to form around the injured limb. Santa walked over slowly. The ninja looked up, eyes widened in fear. What he saw was an angry old man, dressed in red. His white beard was splattered in blood and his grandfatherly face betrayed raw wrath.
“You’ve been naughty,” Santa said as he raised his katana. In one swift movement he brought it down on the ninja.
***
“So…why were the ninjas trying to kill Santa?” Timothy asked.
Stephen looked up at Timothy, confused. His eyes shifted back and forth as he tried to figure out how to answer the question.
“Well, you know, they hate Christmas,” he said.
“Why? What did Santa ever do to them?” Zack asked.
“Santa gave them a lump of coal in the past. You see, they’re ninjas, they were running around killing people with ninja stars and all sorts of non-pirate weapons, so they made it onto the naughty list. And thus, the Tokyo-North Pole Feud was born.”
“I don’t believe it,” Jeff said.
“I’m Jewish, I don’t think I’m the expert on Santa-related stories,” Stephen said.
“Clearly, on the last part,” Desmond said.
“Oh, you can do better?”
“I can give it a try.”
***
The village was almost obscured entirely by the dreary winter fog. The few lit lanterns of the early morning guided Nicholas toward the settlement. Through the haze he could make out the church’s bell tower, rising above the snow-covered ground like a spear in the sky. With a tired smile, he shook the reins, urging the reindeer forward. The animals pulled the sleigh toward the village, its blades sliding along the icy ground.
Nicholas was disturbed by the village. It was early morning, true, but he expected the people to be up and in the church for mass, especially on today of all days. But the streets were empty and the houses silent. The plague must have affected the village more than he had expected.
He reined in the reindeer in front of the church. The lanterns seemed to be grouped together here. He got out of the sleigh and tied the animals to a post. Despite his thin clothing, the white fur lining of his red cloak kept him warm. And he was not concerned with himself; he had others to help today. Reaching into the sleigh, he pulled out his large bag. It had been filled to the top when he had departed; he was on one of his last stops. Hefting the bag, he knocked on the church doors.
A tired layman opened the door for him. The man looked as his colorful guest with mild confusion. Nicholas was not old, but his face had a serene calm on it. With his long brown beard and hair that curled at his shoulders, he looked the picture of health, something the village had not seen in quite some time.
“Hello,” Nicholas said, opening his arms and nodding in greeting. “I am Nicholas, I have come with gifts for the sick here. I take it the children have been moved into the church?”
“Ah, Nicholas!” the layman said, recognizing the priest’s robes under Nicholas’s red cloak. “We did not expect you to visit us this year. Yes, the children are here, please come in. But I warn you, the plague is strong in our village.”
“I have been to all the villages in the area this last night, if I get sick, I will get sick. I am more concerned for those already ill,” Nicholas said as he entered the church.
The lanterns had lit up the exterior, but the interior was as gray as the morning haze. Children lay strewn out on the pews, the visiting monks tending to them. A priest walked through the church, swinging a thurible back and forth, the incense smoke filling the church. At the altar a few men prayed, their wishes for an end to the plague echoing through the stone building.
Nicholas surveyed the scene before them. Turning to his guide, he set the bag down on the ground, opening it up to reveal a collection of small toys. “If you can, please take these and give one to each child here.”
Father Nicholas reached into the bag and pulled out a large bundle of toys. With a nod to his compatriot, he turned and walked toward the pews. As he reached the first group of children, he smiled. With a few words of encouragement, he began to hand out his gifts to the children. The plague had ravaged the countryside, killing many. But to his sadness it left the young in throes of agony and sickness, no cure or quick end in sight.
As Nicholas handed out his presents, word began to spread. Father Nicholas had arrived, and he had his presents with him. The children began to talk, a glimmer of happiness flickering in their voices. Those who were not too far gone in their sickness sat up, eager to catch a glimpse of the wandering priest. As he passed through the pews, the children began to talk to him, excitedly engaging in conversation with him. With a polite reply and a blessing of health, Nicholas gave them his gift and moved onto the next one.
As he halfway through the pews, one of the children grabbed his arm. The child was young, no more than eight or nine. His smile was wide and full of life, but his sunken eyes showed how the plague had affected him. “Father Nicholas.”
“Yes, my child,” Nicholas replied.
“You’ve brought your gifts. You didn’t have to.”
“I do what I can to help. I have no medicinal talent, but if I can cheer you up, I try.”
“But why?” the child asked.
Nicholas stopped. His smile lost its enthusiasm, turning mournful. He set his pile of toys down, crouching to reach eye level with the sick boy. He stroked his beard in thought, before responding.
“A long time ago, before I was a priest, a strong plague had gripped this area. It was the dead of winter, must like now, and many children had fallen ill. I had been blessed enough to avoid the sickness, but not those I knew.
“I had a brother, Cyril. He was younger than me, and he had so much life in him. When the plague came, it sucked the life out of him. He was so weak, and I was so powerless to help him. I prayed nightly for my brother to get better, but no matter what I said, he only got worse. Finally, Christmas came. I returned from mass to find him at his weakest. He looked up at me and begged me to not cry. He did not want his sadness and health to make others sad. He told me, everyone deserves to be happy. He died that night.
“Since then, I’ve done what I can to make others happy, especially children like you. You do not deserve this, and you will get better. But you should not suffer. If my humble gifts can put a smile on your face, then that makes me happy.”
The boy smiled at Nicholas. Tightly hugging his new toy, he said, “I am happy. Thank you, Father Nicholas.”
Nicholas smiled back. He picked up his toys and got to his feet. Before he turned to continue down the pews, he looked back at the boy. “Merry Christmas, my son.”
***
“And I guess that’s how Nicholas became Santa Claus,” Desmond said.
“Wow. You should switch from cinema to creative writing with that one, pal,” Stephen said.
“I liked it a lot,” Jenna said.
“Thanks.”
The kids had mixed reactions.
“Way too old. I mean, where’s the modern stuff?” Andy asked.
“And why couldn’t the reindeer fly?” Timothy asked.
“I’m just the storyteller, you should ask Santa tonight about that,” Desmond replied.
“It’s okay. Can we get another story?” Jeff asked. “Come on Jenna, you haven’t told one yet! Tell us a story!”
“Really Jeff?” Jenna asked. “You usually don’t like stories. I thought you had grown out of those.”
Jeff frowned under his older sister’s teasing. “Well, it’s Christmas Eve. Come on, stories about Santa are what this is all about, right?”
“I guess you’re right,” Jenna said. “Okay, let’s see. Do you want to know why Santa went to the North Pole?”
***
The church bells rang, signaling another hour in the already late night. The fog flowed over the river, casting the low hanging bridge in a level of obscurity. The gas lamps cast the narrow bridge hanging over the canal in a rich golden hue.
Kris Kringle adjusted his heavy red coat one more time, anxiously patting down the wide lapels. Did he look okay? He rubbed his stubble, feeling the coarse brown hair. Maybe he should grow a beard. He shoved his cold hands into his pockets, looking around for her. He wasn’t sure how he was going to say it, but he had to. He didn’t want to leave things unfinished.
“Kris!”
He turned to look at the north end of the bridge. Sarah ran toward him, the tails of her black coat rippling in the wind behind her. She was beautiful in the wind. Her footsteps echoed over the cobblestone streets. She seemed every bit the classic movie actress, a timeless beauty.
She reached his spot on the bridge, embracing him in a tight hug. He rubbed her back, enjoying the intimate moment. After a moment, she broke the embrace, smiling as she took his hands in hers.
“Thank you for coming, Sarah,” Kris said.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked. “What was so important that you called me out here?
Kris let go of her hand, turning to the bridge’s railing. He gripped the stone work, looking down at the foggy river. Sighing quietly, he said, “Do you remember that conversation we were having a few weeks ago? About finding a purpose in life?”
“Of course,” Sarah replied. “What about it?”
“I think I’ve found mine. I’ve found a way that I can do some good in the world.”
“That’s amazing, Kris!” Sarah said. She walked over to him, putting a hand on his back. “What’s the matter though?”
“If I do this, I have to go away. I won’t be able to stay here with you. I have to go far away to the North. But it’s an opportunity I can’t pass up. I…it…it’s what I think I was meant to do with my life. I have to take this opportunity, Sarah.”
“Oh…” Sarah stepped back, her mind full of confusion and shock. Her happy smile faded and her arms fell limp to her side. “So…you’re just going to go then?”
Kris turned to her. Without a word he walked over to her, taking her hands in his. “Yes. But I’m not going to leave you.”
He reached into his coat pocket. “This is – this is hard for me to do.”
He dropped to one knee, pulling a small ring out from his coat. It was a band of white gold, a small ruby on top, glimmering in the gas lamps’ light. “Whatever I do, whoever I help, I’m not doing it without you. Sarah, I love you. Will you come with me? Will you marry me?”
Sarah raised her hands to her mouth. Tears started to well up in her eyes. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! Kris, I love you!”
She pulled him to his feet, and he pulled her into an embrace, kissing her passionately.
***
“I prefer Santa to be fat and funny,” Timothy muttered.
“I like it when he’s fighting ninjas,” Jeff said. Stephen smiled at the comment.
Jenna’s smile dropped as the kids started their commentary on her story. The slip was barely noticeable, especially since the kids were too busy arguing amongst themselves. Desmond slid an arm around her waist, giving her a quick hug. She smiled up at him, mouthing the words “thank you.”
“I think it’s time we wrap this up, maybe get everything ready for Santa,” she said.
Desmond looked around the room, lingering on the fireplace. The fire was starting to die out, the bright yellow flames turning to a low red.
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…” he said with a grin.
“…in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there,” Jenna finished. She waved to Jeff and the others. “Come on kids, it’s time for bed.”
“Oh come on Jenna, one more story!” Andy said, looking up eagerly.
“Yeah, especially from Stephen!” Timothy said.
“Hey now, you’ve had three good ones,” Stephen said. “Besides, the quicker to bed, the quicker the morning comes, and all the presents and hot chocolate that goes with it.”
“Hot chocolate!” the kids said with excitement.
The three college students led the kids upstairs, into the sleeping bags that Jenna’s family had set up for all of their guests. After wrangling in a few pre-teens who were developing an early case of insomnia, the trio made their way downstairs to the family room. Stephen eyed his watch, and then grabbed his jacket from the couch.
“Well my favorite lovebirds, it’s getting late,” he said. “I’m going to head out, maybe try and get home before dawn comes and the screams of a million kids make it too hard to sleep.”
“You have such a way with words,” Desmond said slyly. “Serious, ninjas versus Santa? I only thought you were this much fun on Halloween.”
“I’m a man for all seasons, Des,” Stephen replied.
“You’re still coming by tomorrow afternoon to hang out though, right Mr. Welles?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. See you later guys!”
“Thanks for coming by,” Jenna said, opening the door for Stephen as the latter left.
As she shut the door, she turned to Desmond and started laughing. He joined in, pulling her into a hug. Exhausted, the two moved back into the family room, collapsing onto the couch. Desmond pulled a blanket over them. The fire had almost died out entirely; it was nothing more than a few ruby embers casting the room in a soft glow. Jenna rested her head on Desmond’s shoulder, and for a few minutes, the two just sat there, enjoying the sound of the dying fire after the chaos of the day.
“Merry Christmas to all…” Jenna whispered as she drifted off to sleep. Desmond looked down at her, smiling. He kissed her gently on the forehead.
“And to all a good night.”
Thursday, December 9, 2010
A Better Life
This was an extremely cathartic piece to write, and more than a little reflective of my life. I hope you enjoy, and I hope you live your life to the fullest.
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas Slayton
The Sun stirred me from my slumber. At first I was in a haze, unaware of what was going on. The warmth crept over me, bringing life back to my still body. My cheek twitched, but for the moment, I stayed still. Something was just right; I did not want to let it slip away.
I laid there as the sounds of waves crashing against the shore washed over me. It was a steady rhythm of thunder, loud but soothing. I was on the beach; that was clear. The memories of the previous night seemed distant at the moment. For now, the serene peacefulness of everything had enveloped me. It might have been seconds that I laid there. It could have been hours. I did not mind, I was at ease.
After drifting into a state of calm, I opened my eyes for the first time that morning. At first the world was a blur of whites and blues, gold and green. Then things came into focus and I saw the crisp colors of the ocean, stretching vast into the horizon. Besides the crashing of the waves and the caws of the seagulls, there was a quiet in my surroundings. I could sense the isolation of the world around me.
But I was not alone. She was lying next to me, curled at my side. Her loose clothes blanketed her in bright blue and rose, a colorful angel on the white sand. Her red hair framed a sharp, beautiful face. She was still asleep, and I dared not wake her. She whimpered quietly in her sleep. I wondered what she was dreaming of. I only hoped that she was okay, and happy. The world owed her that much for what she had done for it. For me.
The memory of the past night came back to me when I saw her face. It had been a time to celebrate, not for any occasion, but simply out of a love of life. The day had been brilliant, spent with friends. It had passed without hurry or anxiety, simply stretching into the evening. The bottles of wine had emptied, the fruit eaten up. The bright sunshine of the day and the laughter had faded, replaced in the evening by the lush reds of the crackling fire. Friends made their exit, until only she and I were left, smiling through the night as we made the beach our home for the night.
The memories brought a small smile to my face. Not wanting to disturb her, I carefully slid away from her warm body, pushing myself off the ground and onto my feet. I was fully awake and aware of my surroundings. A light breeze rustled my shirt and blew my hair, bringing a cool relief to the warm sunshine. Taking one more look at her, I started to walk to the beach.
The sand fell off my bare feet with each step. I reveled in the feel. The world felt so alive around me, it was as if I had just discovered the wonders of the beach. I marveled at such things now. I used to find everything so fake. The world had been a phony varnish, masking the cruelty and deceitfulness of people. My old thoughts haunted me. They were alien, and yet so familiar. But as I reached the wet edge of the sand, moist from the tide, I knew I would not return to my past state of mind.
The water was cool to the touch, but it was invigorating. I walked into the waves, letting the water lap against my ankles. The breeze picked up, sending the tails of my loose shirt flapping in the wind. I let my arms hang at my side, closed my eyes and sighed. The sigh seemed to take away any edge or worry I had. I stopped walking and just took the moment in.
Things had been so different a year ago. My life had been a mess, and I was even worse. I had been a wreck, barely able to keep myself going from day to day. The crowded city, with its narrow alleys and cobblestone streets had trapped me, unable to find a moment of isolation. I was always surrounded by people, and they were determined to make my life a miserable existence.
The abuse had been endless. Since my childhood I had been the one others preyed on. I was the target of the taunts, the insults, and violence. I don’t remember doing anything to provoke it. I had only wanted to make friends and enjoy life. But for some reason, I was the pariah. Everything I did to try to help myself only ended in failure and a more miserable life.
They said that it was the insulters who were damaged. They said that they were the ones who were hurting, and that I was fine. How wrong they were. They didn’t know what I was going through. They didn’t find themselves on the edge of the building, looking down at the crowded streets, ready to leap. The memories of my old self scared me. I had been wrapped up in so much conflict. I was in agony, unable to escape my situation. I wanted to end it all, but I was afraid of what it would do to my family. I wanted to end my suffering; I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I was trapped in my own depression.
And then she came into my life. I was standing on the bridge, vacantly staring at the murky waters below. I was lost and aimless, as stagnant at the river below me. Then I looked up and I saw her coming across the bridge. She was a gem of color in the gray city. Her scarlet hair and emerald green eyes seemed full of life, and they entranced me. She smiled at me as she passed and I did not know what to do. Her presence, her raw lust for life, invigorated me. I ran after her, stumbling over myself to say hello. She laughed, but it wasn’t scornful. She listened to me and gave me the time of day. And that was how my life began to change.
At first we talked. A simple conversation covered hours of a day, stretching well into the night. She was happy and empathetic. I found myself in love with her. Then she did what no one else had done. She pulled me out of my depression and out of the city. She severed my mind from the past and taught me to live in the present.
My former self hurt me. I don’t try to distance myself. I don’t want to forget what I once was. Without my trials I would not be able to enjoy life as I now do. But I do not want to go back to how things once were. I’ve laid my past to rest, and I have moved on. I have her, and no matter what else comes my way, she is all that I need.
I have her, and no matter what else comes my way, she is all that I need.
I opened my eyes. The sea seemed crisper than ever, a field of blue glistening with the golden light of the Sun. The waves flowed over my feet, moving back and forth with a simple rhythm. I was in awe of the beauty around me. It was so alive and vibrant, as if it could not hold back the life it held. And I was alive in it. I was truly alive.
I began to laugh. It wasn’t from humor or anything funny. I laughed because I was happy. For the first time in my life, I was happy. All that I had been through, all the suffering I had faced, it was worth it just for this.
I looked back at the beach. She was awake, sitting up now. She wrapped herself in her loose shirt, smiling from the breeze. Her hair was a fire on the white sand. I could almost make out the shine of those green eyes. She saw me standing at the shore and waved. She called out to me with affection. I wouldn’t die for that voice, I would live for it. Her voice filled me with such joy. I loved her.
I waved back, smiling. Stepping out of the water, I started back toward our camp. I walked back to her.
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas Slayton
A Better Life
The Sun stirred me from my slumber. At first I was in a haze, unaware of what was going on. The warmth crept over me, bringing life back to my still body. My cheek twitched, but for the moment, I stayed still. Something was just right; I did not want to let it slip away.
I laid there as the sounds of waves crashing against the shore washed over me. It was a steady rhythm of thunder, loud but soothing. I was on the beach; that was clear. The memories of the previous night seemed distant at the moment. For now, the serene peacefulness of everything had enveloped me. It might have been seconds that I laid there. It could have been hours. I did not mind, I was at ease.
After drifting into a state of calm, I opened my eyes for the first time that morning. At first the world was a blur of whites and blues, gold and green. Then things came into focus and I saw the crisp colors of the ocean, stretching vast into the horizon. Besides the crashing of the waves and the caws of the seagulls, there was a quiet in my surroundings. I could sense the isolation of the world around me.
But I was not alone. She was lying next to me, curled at my side. Her loose clothes blanketed her in bright blue and rose, a colorful angel on the white sand. Her red hair framed a sharp, beautiful face. She was still asleep, and I dared not wake her. She whimpered quietly in her sleep. I wondered what she was dreaming of. I only hoped that she was okay, and happy. The world owed her that much for what she had done for it. For me.
The memory of the past night came back to me when I saw her face. It had been a time to celebrate, not for any occasion, but simply out of a love of life. The day had been brilliant, spent with friends. It had passed without hurry or anxiety, simply stretching into the evening. The bottles of wine had emptied, the fruit eaten up. The bright sunshine of the day and the laughter had faded, replaced in the evening by the lush reds of the crackling fire. Friends made their exit, until only she and I were left, smiling through the night as we made the beach our home for the night.
The memories brought a small smile to my face. Not wanting to disturb her, I carefully slid away from her warm body, pushing myself off the ground and onto my feet. I was fully awake and aware of my surroundings. A light breeze rustled my shirt and blew my hair, bringing a cool relief to the warm sunshine. Taking one more look at her, I started to walk to the beach.
The sand fell off my bare feet with each step. I reveled in the feel. The world felt so alive around me, it was as if I had just discovered the wonders of the beach. I marveled at such things now. I used to find everything so fake. The world had been a phony varnish, masking the cruelty and deceitfulness of people. My old thoughts haunted me. They were alien, and yet so familiar. But as I reached the wet edge of the sand, moist from the tide, I knew I would not return to my past state of mind.
The water was cool to the touch, but it was invigorating. I walked into the waves, letting the water lap against my ankles. The breeze picked up, sending the tails of my loose shirt flapping in the wind. I let my arms hang at my side, closed my eyes and sighed. The sigh seemed to take away any edge or worry I had. I stopped walking and just took the moment in.
Things had been so different a year ago. My life had been a mess, and I was even worse. I had been a wreck, barely able to keep myself going from day to day. The crowded city, with its narrow alleys and cobblestone streets had trapped me, unable to find a moment of isolation. I was always surrounded by people, and they were determined to make my life a miserable existence.
The abuse had been endless. Since my childhood I had been the one others preyed on. I was the target of the taunts, the insults, and violence. I don’t remember doing anything to provoke it. I had only wanted to make friends and enjoy life. But for some reason, I was the pariah. Everything I did to try to help myself only ended in failure and a more miserable life.
They said that it was the insulters who were damaged. They said that they were the ones who were hurting, and that I was fine. How wrong they were. They didn’t know what I was going through. They didn’t find themselves on the edge of the building, looking down at the crowded streets, ready to leap. The memories of my old self scared me. I had been wrapped up in so much conflict. I was in agony, unable to escape my situation. I wanted to end it all, but I was afraid of what it would do to my family. I wanted to end my suffering; I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I was trapped in my own depression.
And then she came into my life. I was standing on the bridge, vacantly staring at the murky waters below. I was lost and aimless, as stagnant at the river below me. Then I looked up and I saw her coming across the bridge. She was a gem of color in the gray city. Her scarlet hair and emerald green eyes seemed full of life, and they entranced me. She smiled at me as she passed and I did not know what to do. Her presence, her raw lust for life, invigorated me. I ran after her, stumbling over myself to say hello. She laughed, but it wasn’t scornful. She listened to me and gave me the time of day. And that was how my life began to change.
At first we talked. A simple conversation covered hours of a day, stretching well into the night. She was happy and empathetic. I found myself in love with her. Then she did what no one else had done. She pulled me out of my depression and out of the city. She severed my mind from the past and taught me to live in the present.
My former self hurt me. I don’t try to distance myself. I don’t want to forget what I once was. Without my trials I would not be able to enjoy life as I now do. But I do not want to go back to how things once were. I’ve laid my past to rest, and I have moved on. I have her, and no matter what else comes my way, she is all that I need.
I have her, and no matter what else comes my way, she is all that I need.
I opened my eyes. The sea seemed crisper than ever, a field of blue glistening with the golden light of the Sun. The waves flowed over my feet, moving back and forth with a simple rhythm. I was in awe of the beauty around me. It was so alive and vibrant, as if it could not hold back the life it held. And I was alive in it. I was truly alive.
I began to laugh. It wasn’t from humor or anything funny. I laughed because I was happy. For the first time in my life, I was happy. All that I had been through, all the suffering I had faced, it was worth it just for this.
I looked back at the beach. She was awake, sitting up now. She wrapped herself in her loose shirt, smiling from the breeze. Her hair was a fire on the white sand. I could almost make out the shine of those green eyes. She saw me standing at the shore and waved. She called out to me with affection. I wouldn’t die for that voice, I would live for it. Her voice filled me with such joy. I loved her.
I waved back, smiling. Stepping out of the water, I started back toward our camp. I walked back to her.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Return to the Pen
Hello? Anyone still here? It's kind of dusty.
Okay, I want to apologize. I created this blog with the intent of regularly posting on it as a way to not only share my writing, but to motivate myself to write. Now it's been almost a month since my last post. I have no one to blame but myself on that one. So what happened? Well, a lot of things changed. My schedule became really busy, and classwork started piling up. A lot of other things changed too. Plans for the summer, relationships, and even priorities. So, now that I've dealt with all of that, I hope to get back to this blog, my writing projects, and my goal to actually be a published writer.
So what about my writing? I haven't written any new poems, but I am proud to say that I went to a poetry reading for the first time in years. I was insanely nervous, but I read "Wanderlust" and "Maybe," and to my surprise, everyone else liked it. It was very fulfilling. However, I'm ashamed to admit it, but my novel has not been touched upon in this last month. My goal for the rest of the year and the summer is to get a lot of work done on it. Like, actually complete a chapter. My admiration and bitter jealousy goes out to the writers who actually have the drive and energy to sit down and write. Sometimes I feel like a poser, claiming to be a writer, but not doing anything towards that claim. At least I have this: Study Day.
Study Day is my entry into a "blackout" film festival on campus. The idea behind the festival is that writers submit scripts, and the festival-runners blackout certain adjectives, locations, proper nouns, etc, so that the film production groups have to come up with their own ideas. It could be serious, it could be hilarious. I'll find out when the films screen on the 23rd. Study Day is my attempt at dissonant styles. Essentially, I wanted to take the tone and kinetic feel of a big budget action/adventure film and then place it in a context which made no sense: college students trying to find a book that guarantees a passing grade on the final. It's part satire, part subtle comedy, and part Bourne-style foot chase and fight scene. For those of you who do not go to USC, I apologize if any of the locations are hard to visualize. I hope you enjoy.
Study Day
By
Nicholas Slayton
Hey Alex, what’s up?
Uh, I’m screwed, Chris.
You should be happy man, classes
are done!
Yeah, but I am doomed.
What, did Sarah cheat on you again?
(takes a step back from his
phone, confused)
What? No. Fuck you man. It’s my
Philosophy of Life class. The
final’s on the first day of tests,
and we are all screwed. It’s like,
impossible to pass.
Ouch.
Yeah.
Wait. What class is that?
Philosophy of Life. Why?
I think I can help you out! My
friend Zack took that last
semester. He said that there was
this one book at Leavy that the
professor takes the entire test
from.
Oh that’s helpful. Wouldn’t
everyone in the class check it out?
No! Nobody knows about it. Zack
only knew about it because he was
dating his TA.
What’s it called? If this works you
may be a lifesaver!
"Everything You Wanted to Know
About Life But Were Afraid to Ask."
I’m going to get it tonight. Thank
you! I owe you so much.
Eh, just send Sarah my way.
(pause)
Fuck you man.
Michael pulls a hood off Chris’s head. He’s tied to a chair
in a room. Michael and Shawn stand over him. Chris looks
around, with a nervous smile.
CHRIS
Umm...hey. What’s up?
SHAWN
Where’s the book?
CHRIS
What book?
SHAWN
You know what book I’m talking
about.
CHRIS
(Trying to get up)
Look, I threw out my Cannabis
Cultivator Guide two weeks ago. I
thought I told you guys that.
No no no. What my friend Mr. Wood
is trying to say is-
SHAWN
Wait, Mr. Wood? I though I was Mr.
Stone.
MICHAEL
(sighs in exasperation)
No man, I’m Mr. Stone. You’re Mr.
Wood.
SHAWN
But Mr. Stone is badass. Wood is
kind of bland.
Chris looks up at the two, confused.
MICHAEL
Look, Wood, Stone, whatever.
(To Chris)
What I’m trying to say is, where’s
the book for that Philosophy of
Life class?
CHRIS
(deadpan)
I have no idea what you could be
talking about.
MICHAEL
Hmm, okay, funny guy here. Look Mr.
Funny Man, you can tell me and my
friend Wood here-
(Shawn rolls his eyes)
-Or I can show you how painful dorm
room chairs can be when smashed
against your face. So, what’s your
pick?
CHRIS
(nervously)
Guys, it’s just a book. No need to
go all Liam Neeson on me.
SHAWN
Just a book?! This is a big test!
If I don’t pass this GE, I’m
screwed out of my 5 year plan!
CHRIS
5 year plan?
SHAWN
I’m an engineer, shut up.
MICHAEL
So, what’s it going to be? Tell us,
or Liam Neeson?
What’s up? Need some help?
ALEX
Yeah, I was wondering where I could
find "Everything You Wanted to Know
About Life But Were Afraid to Ask?"
LIBRARIAN
Weird, you’re the second person to
ask for that tonight.
ALEX
Second guy? Was he kind of shady
looking? Wears a lot of hoodies?
LIBRARIAN
No, not at all. He’s --
(He looks up suddenly and
points)
--that guy!
Well...okay then.
(pause)
What the hell?
Alex walks out of the room, unscathed and smiling. Chris is
there waiting.
CHRIS
Well, how’d the final go?
Alex grins. Michael and Shawn look over, glaring.
ALEX
You’re a lifesaver with that book.
Aced it!
The two high five.
CHRIS
Awesome! Want to get a drink?
ALEX
Yeah!
A (horribly late) tale of the writer,
Nicholas
Okay, I want to apologize. I created this blog with the intent of regularly posting on it as a way to not only share my writing, but to motivate myself to write. Now it's been almost a month since my last post. I have no one to blame but myself on that one. So what happened? Well, a lot of things changed. My schedule became really busy, and classwork started piling up. A lot of other things changed too. Plans for the summer, relationships, and even priorities. So, now that I've dealt with all of that, I hope to get back to this blog, my writing projects, and my goal to actually be a published writer.
So what about my writing? I haven't written any new poems, but I am proud to say that I went to a poetry reading for the first time in years. I was insanely nervous, but I read "Wanderlust" and "Maybe," and to my surprise, everyone else liked it. It was very fulfilling. However, I'm ashamed to admit it, but my novel has not been touched upon in this last month. My goal for the rest of the year and the summer is to get a lot of work done on it. Like, actually complete a chapter. My admiration and bitter jealousy goes out to the writers who actually have the drive and energy to sit down and write. Sometimes I feel like a poser, claiming to be a writer, but not doing anything towards that claim. At least I have this: Study Day.
Study Day is my entry into a "blackout" film festival on campus. The idea behind the festival is that writers submit scripts, and the festival-runners blackout certain adjectives, locations, proper nouns, etc, so that the film production groups have to come up with their own ideas. It could be serious, it could be hilarious. I'll find out when the films screen on the 23rd. Study Day is my attempt at dissonant styles. Essentially, I wanted to take the tone and kinetic feel of a big budget action/adventure film and then place it in a context which made no sense: college students trying to find a book that guarantees a passing grade on the final. It's part satire, part subtle comedy, and part Bourne-style foot chase and fight scene. For those of you who do not go to USC, I apologize if any of the locations are hard to visualize. I hope you enjoy.
Study Day
By
Nicholas Slayton
EXT. MCCARTHY QUAD - NIGHT
It’s empty or nearly empty in McCarthy. A few people are out
by Trojan Grounds, but beyond that, not much.
SHAWN RUNS across McCarthy. In his hand is a bag filled with
3 books. He’s running as fast as he can, looking back over
his shoulder. There is someone chasing him. He keeps
running, jumping over a bag in his way.
He turns the corner, running onto Trousdale and running
towards a building. He throws open the doors and enters it.
INT. BUILDING - NIGHT
The building is lit. Shawn runs into a room with stairway.
He takes off to the second floor. At the top of the stairs
he looks back at the bottom of the stairs. He hears
footsteps, and takes off running again.
He runs down a hallway, turning a corner. He stops, leaning
against the wall. He turns around, leaning around the
corner. It’s empty. He’s safe.
Shawn exhales with relief. He starts to walk down the
hallway, bag in his hand. Things are good. He reached an
intersection of hallways.
Out of nowhere ALEX tackles him from the side, knocking the
two out of frame.
by Trojan Grounds, but beyond that, not much.
SHAWN RUNS across McCarthy. In his hand is a bag filled with
3 books. He’s running as fast as he can, looking back over
his shoulder. There is someone chasing him. He keeps
running, jumping over a bag in his way.
He turns the corner, running onto Trousdale and running
towards a building. He throws open the doors and enters it.
INT. BUILDING - NIGHT
The building is lit. Shawn runs into a room with stairway.
He takes off to the second floor. At the top of the stairs
he looks back at the bottom of the stairs. He hears
footsteps, and takes off running again.
He runs down a hallway, turning a corner. He stops, leaning
against the wall. He turns around, leaning around the
corner. It’s empty. He’s safe.
Shawn exhales with relief. He starts to walk down the
hallway, bag in his hand. Things are good. He reached an
intersection of hallways.
Out of nowhere ALEX tackles him from the side, knocking the
two out of frame.
CUT TO:
BLACK FRAME
Text: STUDY DAYFADE TO:
BLACK FRAME
Text: Earlier that day...CUT TO:
INT. SGM - DAY
Alex walks out of a classroom, very stressed out. Behind him
a bunch of people file out, including MICHAEL and SHAWN.
Alex’s phone rings. He answers it.
Alex walks out of a classroom, very stressed out. Behind him
a bunch of people file out, including MICHAEL and SHAWN.
Alex’s phone rings. He answers it.
CUT TO:
CHRIS is talking on his cell phone. He’s in a hoodie.
CHRISHey Alex, what’s up?
CUT TO:
ALEXUh, I’m screwed, Chris.
CUT TO:
CHRISYou should be happy man, classes
are done!
CUT TO:
ALEXYeah, but I am doomed.
CUT TO:
CHRISWhat, did Sarah cheat on you again?
CUT TO:
ALEX(takes a step back from his
phone, confused)
What? No. Fuck you man. It’s my
Philosophy of Life class. The
final’s on the first day of tests,
and we are all screwed. It’s like,
impossible to pass.
CUT TO:
CHRISOuch.
CUT TO:
ALEXYeah.
CUT TO:
CHRISWait. What class is that?
CUT TO:
ALEXPhilosophy of Life. Why?
CUT TO:
CHRISI think I can help you out! My
friend Zack took that last
semester. He said that there was
this one book at Leavy that the
professor takes the entire test
from.
CUT TO:
ALEXOh that’s helpful. Wouldn’t
everyone in the class check it out?
CUT TO:
CHRISNo! Nobody knows about it. Zack
only knew about it because he was
dating his TA.
CUT TO:
ALEXWhat’s it called? If this works you
may be a lifesaver!
CUT TO:
CHRIS"Everything You Wanted to Know
About Life But Were Afraid to Ask."
CUT TO:
ALEXI’m going to get it tonight. Thank
you! I owe you so much.
CUT TO:
CHRISEh, just send Sarah my way.
CUT TO:
ALEX(pause)
Fuck you man.
Alex hangs up the phone. Even with the subtle insult, he’s
happy. He may have a chance of passing this apocalyptic
final.
CUT TO:
Chris hangs up the phone, shrugging. He walks into a
bathroom. He goes over to the sink, turning on the faucet to
splash to water on his face. He turns off the faucet and
looks up in the mirror.
Michael is standing behind him, glaring.
bathroom. He goes over to the sink, turning on the faucet to
splash to water on his face. He turns off the faucet and
looks up in the mirror.
Michael is standing behind him, glaring.
CUT TO:
INT. ROOM - DAY
Michael pulls a hood off Chris’s head. He’s tied to a chair
in a room. Michael and Shawn stand over him. Chris looks
around, with a nervous smile.
Umm...hey. What’s up?
SHAWN
Where’s the book?
CHRIS
What book?
SHAWN
You know what book I’m talking
about.
CHRIS
(Trying to get up)
Look, I threw out my Cannabis
Cultivator Guide two weeks ago. I
thought I told you guys that.
Michael puts a hand on Chris’s shoulder, forcing him back
into the chair.
MICHAELinto the chair.
No no no. What my friend Mr. Wood
is trying to say is-
SHAWN
Wait, Mr. Wood? I though I was Mr.
Stone.
MICHAEL
(sighs in exasperation)
No man, I’m Mr. Stone. You’re Mr.
Wood.
SHAWN
But Mr. Stone is badass. Wood is
kind of bland.
Chris looks up at the two, confused.
MICHAEL
Look, Wood, Stone, whatever.
(To Chris)
What I’m trying to say is, where’s
the book for that Philosophy of
Life class?
CHRIS
(deadpan)
I have no idea what you could be
talking about.
MICHAEL
Hmm, okay, funny guy here. Look Mr.
Funny Man, you can tell me and my
friend Wood here-
(Shawn rolls his eyes)
-Or I can show you how painful dorm
room chairs can be when smashed
against your face. So, what’s your
pick?
CHRIS
(nervously)
Guys, it’s just a book. No need to
go all Liam Neeson on me.
SHAWN
Just a book?! This is a big test!
If I don’t pass this GE, I’m
screwed out of my 5 year plan!
CHRIS
5 year plan?
SHAWN
I’m an engineer, shut up.
MICHAEL
So, what’s it going to be? Tell us,
or Liam Neeson?
Chris gulps nervously.
CUT TO:
INT. LEAVY LIBRARY - NIGHT
Alex walks up to a help desk. The librarian on duty looks
up.
LIBRARIANAlex walks up to a help desk. The librarian on duty looks
up.
What’s up? Need some help?
ALEX
Yeah, I was wondering where I could
find "Everything You Wanted to Know
About Life But Were Afraid to Ask?"
LIBRARIAN
Weird, you’re the second person to
ask for that tonight.
ALEX
Second guy? Was he kind of shady
looking? Wears a lot of hoodies?
LIBRARIAN
No, not at all. He’s --
(He looks up suddenly and
points)
--that guy!
Alex turns around, looking at the exit to McCarthy. Shawn is
walking out, a bag of books under his arm. Shawn stops,
looking around. He meets eyes with Alex. Alex glares. Shawn
glares. They hold their stares for a few seconds.
Then all of a sudden Shawn bolts out the door. Alex takes
off after him. The librarian looks around, confused.
LIBRARIANwalking out, a bag of books under his arm. Shawn stops,
looking around. He meets eyes with Alex. Alex glares. Shawn
glares. They hold their stares for a few seconds.
Then all of a sudden Shawn bolts out the door. Alex takes
off after him. The librarian looks around, confused.
Well...okay then.
CUT TO:
EXT. MCCARTHY QUAD - NIGHT
Shawn runs across the Quad, looking back over his shoulder.
Alex is right behind him.
Shawn runs across the Quad, looking back over his shoulder.
Alex is right behind him.
CUT TO:
EXT. TROUSDALE - NIGHT
Shawn runs onto Trousdale, almost sliding along the ground
from the quick turn, dashing southward. Alex makes a similar
turn, still chasing him.
Shawn runs onto Trousdale, almost sliding along the ground
from the quick turn, dashing southward. Alex makes a similar
turn, still chasing him.
CUT TO:
Shawn runs into the building.
INT. BUILDING - NIGHT
Shawn runs up the stairs.
CUT TO:
Shawn turns the corner in a hallway. He looks back. Nothing.
He sighs in relief, and walks to an intersection of
hallways.
He sighs in relief, and walks to an intersection of
hallways.
CUT TO:
Alex tackles Shawn to the ground from the side. The two
slide a little across the ground. The bag of books falls a
little ahead of them. Alex reaches for it, but Shawn kicks
him away, hurriedly getting to his feet. Alex does the same.
The two men run at each other. They throw punches at each
other, blocking each one. After three rounds of that, Alex
punches Shawn in the face. Shawn kicks Alex in the back of
his leg, causing him to lose his balance. They stumble away
from each other.
They both charge at each other again. Shawn throws a punch at
Alex, who blocks it with his left forearm, before punching
Shawn in the face with his other arm. Shawn punches again,
Alex grabs his fist, but Shawn then pulls Alex towards him,
spinning around and slamming Alex into a wall. Alex
headbutts Shawn in the face. Shawn stumbles back, but
punches Alex in the face, knocking him to the ground.
Shawn reaches down to grab the bag, but Alex grabs him from
behind, knocking the bag to the ground. Shawn has one of the
books in his hand. Shawn pushes backwards, slamming Alex
against a wall. Alex lets go of Shawn, who spins around,
hitting Alex in the face with the book.
Alex falls to the ground, but before Shawn can do anything,
Alex kicks out, tripping Shawn and sending him to the ground
as well. The two scramble to their feet, Shawn using the
wall as support. The two stand up, and Shawn lunges at Alex
with the book, but before he can hit him, Alex kicks him
straight in the chest, sending Shawn stumbling backwards.
Alex lunges forward, punching Shawn in the face. He then
knees him in the stomach, before throwing him to the ground.
Shawn tries to get to his feet, but Alex kicks him in the
face. Shawn collapses.
Alex picks up the book from the ground, along with the bag.
He takes a step back, looking down at Shawn. He is utterly
angry, confused, and exhausted.
ALEXslide a little across the ground. The bag of books falls a
little ahead of them. Alex reaches for it, but Shawn kicks
him away, hurriedly getting to his feet. Alex does the same.
The two men run at each other. They throw punches at each
other, blocking each one. After three rounds of that, Alex
punches Shawn in the face. Shawn kicks Alex in the back of
his leg, causing him to lose his balance. They stumble away
from each other.
They both charge at each other again. Shawn throws a punch at
Alex, who blocks it with his left forearm, before punching
Shawn in the face with his other arm. Shawn punches again,
Alex grabs his fist, but Shawn then pulls Alex towards him,
spinning around and slamming Alex into a wall. Alex
headbutts Shawn in the face. Shawn stumbles back, but
punches Alex in the face, knocking him to the ground.
Shawn reaches down to grab the bag, but Alex grabs him from
behind, knocking the bag to the ground. Shawn has one of the
books in his hand. Shawn pushes backwards, slamming Alex
against a wall. Alex lets go of Shawn, who spins around,
hitting Alex in the face with the book.
Alex falls to the ground, but before Shawn can do anything,
Alex kicks out, tripping Shawn and sending him to the ground
as well. The two scramble to their feet, Shawn using the
wall as support. The two stand up, and Shawn lunges at Alex
with the book, but before he can hit him, Alex kicks him
straight in the chest, sending Shawn stumbling backwards.
Alex lunges forward, punching Shawn in the face. He then
knees him in the stomach, before throwing him to the ground.
Shawn tries to get to his feet, but Alex kicks him in the
face. Shawn collapses.
Alex picks up the book from the ground, along with the bag.
He takes a step back, looking down at Shawn. He is utterly
angry, confused, and exhausted.
(pause)
What the hell?
Alex leaves. Shawn is still there, unconscious.
CUT TO:
INT. SGM - DAY
CAPTION: The Day of the FinalAlex walks out of the room, unscathed and smiling. Chris is
there waiting.
Well, how’d the final go?
Alex grins. Michael and Shawn look over, glaring.
You’re a lifesaver with that book.
Aced it!
The two high five.
CHRIS
Awesome! Want to get a drink?
ALEX
Yeah!
The two walk away.
The End.
A (horribly late) tale of the writer,
Nicholas
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Two Poems for Tuesday
Here are a few new poems from me. The first I got the idea for while I was flying to San Francisco for Spring Break. Just the joys, the difficulties, and the excitement of traveling overwhelmed me. It made me think, why do we travel? Why do we find a thrill from some unknown place? The second I thought up today, during a panic of anxiety and doubt. I need to be more sure of myself, I guess writing this out is a cathartic release.
"Wanderlust"
The road winds on an on
And feelings pull even harder
Like a quiet mournful song
It draws me across borders
Through the fields, across oceans
Down dusty trails
Long since abandoned,
Haunted by ghostly gales
What drives us here,
To places now unknown
Is it a fear of the static
Or fear of being alone?
I'm caught by a grip
Is it excitement or fear?
This nervousness in me
Am I afraid of leaving what I hold dear?
Yet I'm drawn towards the road
Pulled towards what is far away
Be it silent plains and lonely towns
Or loud and bustling bays
If the road winds on
And I'm just a traveler,
Do I know what brings me down the road
Or am I just a wanderer?
"Concern"
Why am I nervous?
Things are going fine
Yet here I am, as hesitant as ever
I know things are well between us,
But I'm just a wreck
Maybe it's me
I've never been good at this
I've never had the company of someone like you
Okay, it's definitely me
I'm just afraid
Not of your or us
But of me
How do I not ruin things?
How do I not drive you away?
Things are so perfect right now
And I don't want them to pass
But I don't know how to ask you
If I'm good or am I bad
I want to stay, I don't want to go
Please give me a sign
I'm anxious, my mind is racing
I'm trying my best, but I'm just a mess
I second guess and doubt
I'm trying to stop, I'm trying to be free
Of the fear that grips me tightly
Things are so good,
So why I am nervous?
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas
"Wanderlust"
The road winds on an on
And feelings pull even harder
Like a quiet mournful song
It draws me across borders
Through the fields, across oceans
Down dusty trails
Long since abandoned,
Haunted by ghostly gales
What drives us here,
To places now unknown
Is it a fear of the static
Or fear of being alone?
I'm caught by a grip
Is it excitement or fear?
This nervousness in me
Am I afraid of leaving what I hold dear?
Yet I'm drawn towards the road
Pulled towards what is far away
Be it silent plains and lonely towns
Or loud and bustling bays
If the road winds on
And I'm just a traveler,
Do I know what brings me down the road
Or am I just a wanderer?
"Concern"
Why am I nervous?
Things are going fine
Yet here I am, as hesitant as ever
I know things are well between us,
But I'm just a wreck
Maybe it's me
I've never been good at this
I've never had the company of someone like you
Okay, it's definitely me
I'm just afraid
Not of your or us
But of me
How do I not ruin things?
How do I not drive you away?
Things are so perfect right now
And I don't want them to pass
But I don't know how to ask you
If I'm good or am I bad
I want to stay, I don't want to go
Please give me a sign
I'm anxious, my mind is racing
I'm trying my best, but I'm just a mess
I second guess and doubt
I'm trying to stop, I'm trying to be free
Of the fear that grips me tightly
Things are so good,
So why I am nervous?
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Five Stories that Influenced the Writer
Whenever I've talked to anyone interested in writing, or any avid reader, the question always comes up: "what's your favorite book?" To writers and literary buffs, this is like choosing between de Havilland and Bacall, or Zepellin and The Who. It's not an easy question, and usually won't get a simple answer. There's a lot of "Well I'm in the mood for this..." or "If you're talking this genre..."
A few days ago, I was talking to a friend and much-more-successful-than-me writer and the question came up again. He settled for Dickens, but I was at a loss. So, here are my five favorite books of all time, the one's that have influenced me as a writer and entertained me as a reader.
5. The Dark is Rising Sequence by Susan Cooper
I owe this series of books a lot. I was 10 years old, wandering through my elementary school's library when I saw The Dark is Rising. Until then, I had passed the time reading kid mysteries like The Hardy Boys. I saw the title of this book, was intrigued, and picked it up. This was the novel that got me into serious reading. It was dense, think, and smart. I didn't understand all of it then, but I loved what I understood. I read the rest of the series, growing more enthralled as I went. This was a series with character development, mysticism, adventure, all told on an epic scale that never felt cliche. It was fantasy, but unlike most series today, even the excellent Harry Potter series, never felt dependent on tropes. And unlike, say, the Percy Jackson series, where mythology is a gimmick, Cooper weaved Arthurian and Celtic myths into the series, creating a unique mythos that felt natural instead of standing out to catch attention. I still reread this series, and now I get it.
4. American Gods by Neil Gaiman
Neil Gaiman may be British, but he crafted what is surely the Great American Novel. I've read The Great Gatsby; it's good, but it does not capture what America is the way American Gods does. It's an epic about immigration and assimilation, told through the filter of a road novel mixed with crime literature. The mix of genres fascinated me, and the direct, serious way Gaiman told the story really helped the novel. It works on so many levels: as a low key personal story of an ex-con, a tale about gods, and what it means to be an American. I would love to see this taught in high schools across the country.
3. Rex Mundi by Arvid Nelson
Okay, it's a comic book, but it's the best comic book of the last ten years, and the best mystery series you'll find. This is a story about the Holy Grail, only not the conventional cup story. You're probably thinking of The DaVinci Code. That was a lackluster thriller that gained fame only through controversy. Rex Mundi, which not only came before Dan Brown's book, is a smart murder mystery set in a 1930s Paris where magic is real, the Protestant Reformation never happened, and masked Inquisitors roam the streets. A political thriller, a murder mystery, a romance, all told through a noir filter that seques into an Indiana Jones-style adventure? Oh hell yes. The work Nelson put into the series really stands out. There's a good deal of world building going on, and it is really effective, from subtle differences to shocking alterations from our history. A compelling cast, brilliant art, and excellent buildup and payoff make Rex Mundi a must read, even if you aren't a comic book fan.
2. The Quiet American by Graham Greene
I love spy fiction, and I always have. From Ian Fleming's James Bond series to the sometimes-espionage Dirk Pitt books, dark alley meet ups, paranoia, and spy vs. spy action has been a favorite of mine. When I picked up Greene's 1950s Vietnam spy story, my perception of spy fiction was turned upside down. Here was a tale of terrorism, idealism, and cynicism told through a love triangle. It was realistic, without cliched espionage tropes. Greene was a force to be reckoned with; he was a king of characterization and character growth, and he could paint vivid locales, be it Vietnam or the Cuba of his great spy-comedy Our Man in Havana.
1. The Club Dumas by Arturo Perez-Reverte
Without a doubt, my favorite novel of all time. I came across this thanks to Roman Polanski's excellent, if different, adaptation The Ninth Gate. This is quite simply the book for bibliophiles. Books play a huge part in the story, both the adventure serials of Alexander Dumas and books on demonology. This is a story that plays with the characters and the reader, shifting between adventure and crime, all under the banner of a great gothic mystery. A "literary mercenary" is called into authenticate both a chapter of The Three Musketeers and book that may have been written in part by Satan. Soon bodies start piling up and characters seem to come to life from Dumas's classic. Is it the work of ordinary people, or is the Devil involved? Immensely satisfying, this is a book I reread constantly, and each time I find something new that I missed, a connection, a bit of foreshadowing, or a new insight to a character. This, more than any other book, has shaped my views as a reader and a writer, and if I could write a novel half as good as this, I would be thrilled.
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas
A few days ago, I was talking to a friend and much-more-successful-than-me writer and the question came up again. He settled for Dickens, but I was at a loss. So, here are my five favorite books of all time, the one's that have influenced me as a writer and entertained me as a reader.
5. The Dark is Rising Sequence by Susan Cooper
I owe this series of books a lot. I was 10 years old, wandering through my elementary school's library when I saw The Dark is Rising. Until then, I had passed the time reading kid mysteries like The Hardy Boys. I saw the title of this book, was intrigued, and picked it up. This was the novel that got me into serious reading. It was dense, think, and smart. I didn't understand all of it then, but I loved what I understood. I read the rest of the series, growing more enthralled as I went. This was a series with character development, mysticism, adventure, all told on an epic scale that never felt cliche. It was fantasy, but unlike most series today, even the excellent Harry Potter series, never felt dependent on tropes. And unlike, say, the Percy Jackson series, where mythology is a gimmick, Cooper weaved Arthurian and Celtic myths into the series, creating a unique mythos that felt natural instead of standing out to catch attention. I still reread this series, and now I get it.
4. American Gods by Neil Gaiman
Neil Gaiman may be British, but he crafted what is surely the Great American Novel. I've read The Great Gatsby; it's good, but it does not capture what America is the way American Gods does. It's an epic about immigration and assimilation, told through the filter of a road novel mixed with crime literature. The mix of genres fascinated me, and the direct, serious way Gaiman told the story really helped the novel. It works on so many levels: as a low key personal story of an ex-con, a tale about gods, and what it means to be an American. I would love to see this taught in high schools across the country.
3. Rex Mundi by Arvid Nelson
Okay, it's a comic book, but it's the best comic book of the last ten years, and the best mystery series you'll find. This is a story about the Holy Grail, only not the conventional cup story. You're probably thinking of The DaVinci Code. That was a lackluster thriller that gained fame only through controversy. Rex Mundi, which not only came before Dan Brown's book, is a smart murder mystery set in a 1930s Paris where magic is real, the Protestant Reformation never happened, and masked Inquisitors roam the streets. A political thriller, a murder mystery, a romance, all told through a noir filter that seques into an Indiana Jones-style adventure? Oh hell yes. The work Nelson put into the series really stands out. There's a good deal of world building going on, and it is really effective, from subtle differences to shocking alterations from our history. A compelling cast, brilliant art, and excellent buildup and payoff make Rex Mundi a must read, even if you aren't a comic book fan.
2. The Quiet American by Graham Greene
I love spy fiction, and I always have. From Ian Fleming's James Bond series to the sometimes-espionage Dirk Pitt books, dark alley meet ups, paranoia, and spy vs. spy action has been a favorite of mine. When I picked up Greene's 1950s Vietnam spy story, my perception of spy fiction was turned upside down. Here was a tale of terrorism, idealism, and cynicism told through a love triangle. It was realistic, without cliched espionage tropes. Greene was a force to be reckoned with; he was a king of characterization and character growth, and he could paint vivid locales, be it Vietnam or the Cuba of his great spy-comedy Our Man in Havana.
1. The Club Dumas by Arturo Perez-Reverte
Without a doubt, my favorite novel of all time. I came across this thanks to Roman Polanski's excellent, if different, adaptation The Ninth Gate. This is quite simply the book for bibliophiles. Books play a huge part in the story, both the adventure serials of Alexander Dumas and books on demonology. This is a story that plays with the characters and the reader, shifting between adventure and crime, all under the banner of a great gothic mystery. A "literary mercenary" is called into authenticate both a chapter of The Three Musketeers and book that may have been written in part by Satan. Soon bodies start piling up and characters seem to come to life from Dumas's classic. Is it the work of ordinary people, or is the Devil involved? Immensely satisfying, this is a book I reread constantly, and each time I find something new that I missed, a connection, a bit of foreshadowing, or a new insight to a character. This, more than any other book, has shaped my views as a reader and a writer, and if I could write a novel half as good as this, I would be thrilled.
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Weekly Round Up and this Blog's First Poem!
Here is the first weekly round up of the blog. To keep this from just being my articles, I want to through in a poem or a music with each entry.
I write for USC's newspaper the Daily Trojan, with both Thursday's internet column and a variety of articles bearing my byline. These past two weeks I had some of my favorite articles published. One is a look at The Losers, a great comic by Andy Diggle that's been made into a movie that comes out in April. Anotheris a look at the blog culture that explores the hidden sides of Los Angeles. Thanks to Sean Percival of Lalawag for his help with that. And I got to write about blogging! How wonderfully fitting for this. http://dailytrojan.com/2010/03/03/comic-book-losers-get-their-own-action-flick & http://dailytrojan.com/2010/03/03/getting-to-know-l-a-the-online-way/ & http://dailytrojan.com/2010/03/10/blogging-provides-students-a-soapbox/
I also contribute to Dan Northern's excellent college-tip blog, College Thrive. I write the weekly drink column "Screw the Solo Cup." With Spring Break fast approaching, here's my recommendation for a wonderfully classic and tiki cocktail. http://collegethrive.com/drink-of-the-week-mai-tai
Now onto the poem. I haven't written poetry in a while, so this is a great time to get back into the practice of it. A word of warning, the poetry on this blog is going to be sentimental, maybe inane, irreverent, and sometimes very personal. This one, "Maybe," is my first poem in months. It's short, but very true. I've met a lot of great people recently, and one of them is truly awesome. You could say she was the muse for this one.
Maybe it’s the way you smile,
So truly happy
Without a care in the world
Maybe it’s the taste of your lips,
The sweetness you have
In the warmest embrace
Maybe it’s the words I can say,
How I can be honest
Knowing you’re listening
Maybe it’s the way I feel,
The nervousness of screwing this up
And upsetting you
Maybe it’s how much I want to be with you
When we’re together,
And even more when we’re apart
Maybe I’ll never know
Why I love you
But I do
And maybe that’s all I need
Since I’m with you
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas
I write for USC's newspaper the Daily Trojan, with both Thursday's internet column and a variety of articles bearing my byline. These past two weeks I had some of my favorite articles published. One is a look at The Losers, a great comic by Andy Diggle that's been made into a movie that comes out in April. Anotheris a look at the blog culture that explores the hidden sides of Los Angeles. Thanks to Sean Percival of Lalawag for his help with that. And I got to write about blogging! How wonderfully fitting for this. http://dailytrojan.com/2010/03/03/comic-book-losers-get-their-own-action-flick & http://dailytrojan.com/2010/03/03/getting-to-know-l-a-the-online-way/ & http://dailytrojan.com/2010/03/10/blogging-provides-students-a-soapbox/
I also contribute to Dan Northern's excellent college-tip blog, College Thrive. I write the weekly drink column "Screw the Solo Cup." With Spring Break fast approaching, here's my recommendation for a wonderfully classic and tiki cocktail. http://collegethrive.com/drink-of-the-week-mai-tai
Now onto the poem. I haven't written poetry in a while, so this is a great time to get back into the practice of it. A word of warning, the poetry on this blog is going to be sentimental, maybe inane, irreverent, and sometimes very personal. This one, "Maybe," is my first poem in months. It's short, but very true. I've met a lot of great people recently, and one of them is truly awesome. You could say she was the muse for this one.
Maybe it’s the way you smile,
So truly happy
Without a care in the world
Maybe it’s the taste of your lips,
The sweetness you have
In the warmest embrace
Maybe it’s the words I can say,
How I can be honest
Knowing you’re listening
Maybe it’s the way I feel,
The nervousness of screwing this up
And upsetting you
Maybe it’s how much I want to be with you
When we’re together,
And even more when we’re apart
Maybe I’ll never know
Why I love you
But I do
And maybe that’s all I need
Since I’m with you
A tale of the writer,
Nicholas
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Shape of Things to Come
So, now that this blog is up, what is going to be on here? Well, I work on the University of Southern California's newspaper the Daily Trojan, and I have a weekly column there, in addition to the other articles I write. So I was thinking about a doing a "weekly roundup" of my articles, every Friday or Saturday. I also want to put up information on some of the bigger projects I'm working on, as well as a few short stories, some poetry, and even my thoughts on writing as a whole.
To say that writing is a happy exercise is a bit of a rose-colored glasses. So many famous writers lived tragic lives, and met nasty ends. Hemingway, suicide. Byron lived in constant depression before dying of a violent illness. Don't even get me started on the Russian writers of the 1800s. The Pulitzer Prize winning writer J. Anthony Lukas once said "All writers are, to one extent or another, damaged people. Writing is our way of repairing ourselves." That may be one of my favorite quotations of all time. I went through a very rough time a few years ago, and while I turned my life around, I have not forgotten my past. I wouldn't say that I am haunted, but I carry that turmoil in me. And it fuels my writing.
You may be wondering, what exactly is he writing? Well, my main project is one which actively involves my past depression. I am working on a novel about a group of people tied together by past suicide attempts. It is a romance and character drama, told in the fog covered banks of the Siene, where self-doubt and fear cast a shadow over everyone, and loneliness runs deep. It is an extremely personal project, and a way to come to terms with a part of my life that I want to purge. In many ways it's difficult to write, but at the same time, very fulfilling. I will try to provide updates on it, maybe even an excerpt or two.
In addition to that story, I have a few ideas I'm working on. I've always been fascinated by gothic and religious horror, and I have an idea for a very dark comic book involving cults, secret societies, hidden secrets, and the occult. I am also working on an adventure novel in the style of Clive Cussler; something with history, action, exotic locations, and a good mystery and sarcastic, slightly jaded lead. It's been on the backburner for a while, but I'm starting to revamp a lot of my previous pages in it to get back into the main plot.
It's not much, but it's a plan. Writing is everlasting, highly personal, tormenting, and fulfilling. Writing is my passion.
A writer's tale,
Nicholas
To say that writing is a happy exercise is a bit of a rose-colored glasses. So many famous writers lived tragic lives, and met nasty ends. Hemingway, suicide. Byron lived in constant depression before dying of a violent illness. Don't even get me started on the Russian writers of the 1800s. The Pulitzer Prize winning writer J. Anthony Lukas once said "All writers are, to one extent or another, damaged people. Writing is our way of repairing ourselves." That may be one of my favorite quotations of all time. I went through a very rough time a few years ago, and while I turned my life around, I have not forgotten my past. I wouldn't say that I am haunted, but I carry that turmoil in me. And it fuels my writing.
You may be wondering, what exactly is he writing? Well, my main project is one which actively involves my past depression. I am working on a novel about a group of people tied together by past suicide attempts. It is a romance and character drama, told in the fog covered banks of the Siene, where self-doubt and fear cast a shadow over everyone, and loneliness runs deep. It is an extremely personal project, and a way to come to terms with a part of my life that I want to purge. In many ways it's difficult to write, but at the same time, very fulfilling. I will try to provide updates on it, maybe even an excerpt or two.
In addition to that story, I have a few ideas I'm working on. I've always been fascinated by gothic and religious horror, and I have an idea for a very dark comic book involving cults, secret societies, hidden secrets, and the occult. I am also working on an adventure novel in the style of Clive Cussler; something with history, action, exotic locations, and a good mystery and sarcastic, slightly jaded lead. It's been on the backburner for a while, but I'm starting to revamp a lot of my previous pages in it to get back into the main plot.
It's not much, but it's a plan. Writing is everlasting, highly personal, tormenting, and fulfilling. Writing is my passion.
A writer's tale,
Nicholas
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
A Prologue of Sorts
"You know what I want to think of myself? As a human being. Because, I mean I don't want to be like 'As Confucius say,' but under the sky, under the heavens there is but one family. It just so happens that people are different."
-Bruce Lee
A few years ago, I doubt I would be where I am. To be honest, I did not know if I would even be around. I was a wreck, both physically and emotionally. I was always the kid other people picked on in elementary school, all the way through high school. So I was basically going through my childhood with a fear of society, little self-confidence, and no faith in my works. I had, and still have, amazing parents who were always there for me, but my peers and my self-doubt ruined my childhood.
Three years ago I decided to change all of that. I don't know what the catalyst was that made me actually take action, but whatever it was, I owe it my sanity. I found a way to beat my depression. I turned myself around, and improved, be it physically, intellectually, or socially. I found a way to not fear people around me and instead make friends with them. I was able to get the fresh start that I've always wanted.
At the same time, I discovered a passion for writing. I always loved to read. Book, comics, poetry, and screenplays, all had been my solace during my childhood. Now I realized that I too could make the stories that I loved. Writing was an accessible outlet, a way to share my ideas and make something out of my dreams, imagination, and fantasies. And it wasn't just fiction. I took an interest in journalism, and started writing for my high school's newspaper. That only helped to improve my state of mind further. I was in a group of people with a shared passion, and we were encouraged to pursue it. The newspaper became my outlet, and it still is, even in college.
I still write fiction, or at least, I still try to. I have more than a few ideas for stories, some prose, some comic books, some even movies. Some are very personal to me, others are fun and adventurous. I want to write them all one of these days. I'm going to try to. And that's what led me here.
So, what do I hope to get out of this blog?
Well, I want this blog to be my place to share my ideas, to practice my writing, and to keep myself focused on my passions. I plan on putting a bunch of different pieces of writing-poetry, short stories, novel ideas, comic ideas, etc, as well as some thoughts on life, college, and the writing process.
Life is an endless novel, and this is my attempt to document it.
The first of many tales,
Nicholas
-Bruce Lee
A few years ago, I doubt I would be where I am. To be honest, I did not know if I would even be around. I was a wreck, both physically and emotionally. I was always the kid other people picked on in elementary school, all the way through high school. So I was basically going through my childhood with a fear of society, little self-confidence, and no faith in my works. I had, and still have, amazing parents who were always there for me, but my peers and my self-doubt ruined my childhood.
Three years ago I decided to change all of that. I don't know what the catalyst was that made me actually take action, but whatever it was, I owe it my sanity. I found a way to beat my depression. I turned myself around, and improved, be it physically, intellectually, or socially. I found a way to not fear people around me and instead make friends with them. I was able to get the fresh start that I've always wanted.
At the same time, I discovered a passion for writing. I always loved to read. Book, comics, poetry, and screenplays, all had been my solace during my childhood. Now I realized that I too could make the stories that I loved. Writing was an accessible outlet, a way to share my ideas and make something out of my dreams, imagination, and fantasies. And it wasn't just fiction. I took an interest in journalism, and started writing for my high school's newspaper. That only helped to improve my state of mind further. I was in a group of people with a shared passion, and we were encouraged to pursue it. The newspaper became my outlet, and it still is, even in college.
I still write fiction, or at least, I still try to. I have more than a few ideas for stories, some prose, some comic books, some even movies. Some are very personal to me, others are fun and adventurous. I want to write them all one of these days. I'm going to try to. And that's what led me here.
So, what do I hope to get out of this blog?
Well, I want this blog to be my place to share my ideas, to practice my writing, and to keep myself focused on my passions. I plan on putting a bunch of different pieces of writing-poetry, short stories, novel ideas, comic ideas, etc, as well as some thoughts on life, college, and the writing process.
Life is an endless novel, and this is my attempt to document it.
The first of many tales,
Nicholas
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