Past Projects
Everyone starts somewhere, and here is where you will find a collection of my first ventures into creative writing.
Hungry Skeletons
October, 2018
Concerned with betraying his own disorientation, the boy stared on a bit longer at the two skeletons, examining the curious practice they were currently engaged in.
Monsters and Giants
September, 2018
I’m fearful of the monster my mind has become. Of the empathy it lacks, of the emotion that has run dry. I’m fearful of how well it poses as something genuine and real, of how it takes on chameleon forms of those who are, only to hide nothing beneath its shallow surface but snow and sleet.
Revival Desert
March, 2017
A behemoth moves beneath shifting sands,
coursing passion through dried and dreary veins.
HUMANFARM
February, 2016
They bloat the air around them with an odor so foul that your tongue stings sour in their presence and your heart palpitates sweat out through your pores as they draw near.
The Diver and The Sea
May. 2015
My soul resonates with a silent energy, like
a swelling sea rising up to swallow the diver.
Unrequited
September, 2015
I write this for the hardening of character.
I write this for the growth and change we suffer as time marches on.
Of Art and Monsters
May, 2015
Our art becomes our monsters,
haunting our minds and plaguing us with fear.
Observer
June, 2015
Watch me bend and watch me break,
But do not lay hands down to mend me.
Do not call my name in the dark,
And do not seek me out at dawn.
Man or Machine
July, 2013
Tell me!
Which am I?
The Alive or the Just Barely?
Hello, My Name is Self-Destruction. Nice to Meet You.
June, 2012
I let out a long, tired, frustrated sigh which retained a special emphasis on frustrated as I attempted to openly convey my irritation with the person sitting on the other side of the eggshell-white table I had situated myself at, alone, in the corner of the In-N-Out Burger.
Desert Winds
May, 2012
She moves like air.
Cool breeze caresses his skin only for a moment before dissipation.
His body perks up, but he’s fearful of harvesting anticipation.
But aren’t never ending, the movements of the winds?