snippets

Snippets is my name for all the little things I've written over the years, often with little context. They're not usually short stories or novels. They're the types of things you scratch out on a notepad when a feeling strikes you.

Imprisoned By Angels

snippets • 9 min read

If you pause to examine his surroundings, you’ll notice he stands in a prison. But prisons come in many shapes, many forms, and many minds, and we must allow that each of us, bringing to the table our own creative sensibilities, will paint a different image of the man and his world on the blank canvas before us. Because our histories differ, and because the quality and depth of our imaginations must vary, let us begin the story by adding several universal details to our many diverse constructions.

First, this is not a modern prison. No cold concrete. No

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A Devil to our Divinity

snippets • 1 min read

There are fires, my dear, in dark and lonely places. We rarely give them names. Yet they burn with the agonizing fury of Revelation, too hot for the gods to vanquish, too deep for the mind to calm. With anticipation they grow, and the flames send flesh into the sky, red embers like comets screaming toward heavenly bodies, soaring, streaking, foolish and fiery.

But expectation plays a devil to our divinity, and reality sees that comet crashing into our own uncultivated wastelands. Solitude then, after anticipation, burns with a much darker flame, until the ashes of a cooling universe blanket

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A Call to Words

snippets • 2 min read

We are the souls of damnation. We are the workers of magic. We are the demons and devils who seduce and entertain.

In times of longing, we call forth our minions, the words, the rhythms and rhymes of a world besieged by heartbreak, and we send them cascading across dampened cheeks to pilfer and ravage the infidels of sadness. Let our words ring in the hearts of children and dance in the minds of lovers, let them glide as the voices of minstrels to every lustful ear. We are the surveyors of the mind, the solicitors of affection, the charlatans

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Drifting

snippets • 1 min read

Fly closer every day, oh desolate lands of loneliness, and discover in each corner of this fragmented, delusional wasteland, on each continent of this dreary world, a leathery, beaten, wilted chunk of unmended heart.

Whither does one go? Here, dancing among the weeds of confusion, gallivanting among the aches of uncertainty, whither does one go?

To once again traverse the evanescing realms of passion, to reconquer the driest deserts of hope, one must accept a few inherent perils and gain the intimate acquaintance of Love’s greatest foe: Pain. For indeed, Pain walks on Love’s coattails, fully aware that

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Imprisoned By Angels

A Devil to our Divinity

A Call to Words

Drifting

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