A Sonnet

This is something I’ve been working on. Don’t know what people are going to think of the form, but why can’t the form of a sonnet evolve and change?

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Titus Andronicus

Here’s a little bit of a new short that I’ve been working on. I’m really excited about this one. 

“Bound and gagged the brothers hang, meat in a larder. The girl, tongueless, handless, and broken limps from the shadows.

“‘Look, Lavinia,’ the General chuckles, ‘look your enemies are bound. Gag them. We do not need to hear their cries. They need to hear, and they can’t if they are screaming too loud.’

The ancient patriarch circles. Knife in hand, he waits as his men stuff the mouths of the pigs about to be slaughtered.

‘This is the spring that you have stained, this is the summer mixed with your summer. You killed her husband. And for that crime her brothers were condemned to death, my hand taken from me. To you all a joke, a merry jest. And, from her you stole hands and tongue, and worst than all combined her spotless chastity. Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment. How I will martyr you. I still have hand enough to slit your throats. But, before I end you, and end you I shall, know your ignominy will not end with your death. Between her stumps, my sweet that you have bittered, holds a bowl to collect your sick. I will grind your bones to dust, and with your blood I shall make a paste. Your mother will sup with me. She we will feast upon that which she gave life.’

A whimper as the largest brother feels cold steel on his throat. A gurgle as his life drains from his neck. ”

Pretty fucked up huh? 

Away from Home

This is just something I’ve been working on. 

 

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
Were’t not affection chains thy tender days
To the sweet glances of thy honour’d love,
I rather would entreat thy company
To see the wonders of the world abroad,
Than, living dully sluggardized at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
But since thou lovest, love still and thrive therein,
Even as I would when I to love begin.

Moving on

Last night was opening night of the Stratford Community Players production of my play The Comedy of Errors. It was a thrill beyond imagining to hear my words brought to life in that way, and to see the characters so fully formed and embodied by the actors. The audience, however, was tiny. It made me realize that if I want to be a success I need to leave this small town and find my audience somewhere else.

I’ve been accepted into Bankside University’s Creative Writing program, the same school that Chris Marlowe is currently doing her Master’s at. I just read that she’s been offered a movie deal for her novel Dr. Faustus. She clearly found her audience; maybe she can help me find mine.

It’s never easy to leave your home behind, but I feel as though I have no choice. As if my life is out there, waiting for me. If I’m going to be a writer ‘tis high time I focus on my writing.