Aramis' Workshop

  • A Bard’s Folktale
    • Roaming Cadenza
      • Chapter One
      • Chapter Two
      • Playlist
    • Dustland Requiem
      • Chapter One
      • Chapter Two
      • Playlist
  • Tales of Emarosa
    • Sea of Dragonfire
    • The Willow in the Wood
    • Feathers and Thorns
    • Those Who Remained
  • Short Stories
    • A Lesson from Elly
    • Okami, the Grey Wolf
    • Broken Angels
    • The Vices and Virtues of Sera Ryan
    • Sam
    • Killing Dragons
    • Snowfall
    • Sand Castles
  • Poetry
  • About Aramis

It’s Been Some Time, but This Time Ain’t Even

Thursday, October 17th (2019) @ 21:36 EDT

Graduated and certifiably done with school for a bit.
Finally. It’s been way too long since any writing’s gotten done.

“Untitled”

If I could tell you everything I know would you listen?
Would you take in the mysteries with the horrors?
The triumphs with the catastrophes?
Would you revel in that moment I learned to hear a smile?
Would you turn away from the visceral repulsion of racism as you walk down the street existing the wrong way?

Rubies. Succulent. Like the ripest pair of wet lips ever just out of reach.
Hair. Your hair. Always everywhere. In my teeth as much as my eyes. The scent intoxicates.
Just the thought of you makes my heart race and I wonder: may I think of you any time I please?
Never ask ‘cause you’ll never know, but what if you did?
How quickly that image might change.
And they wonder why every thought’s a secret.
Memories a forbidden reprieve.
If you stay they’ll keep you, but they’ll never love you.
So often I wonder: is today the day the lie will be enough?
Defeat and victory weigh heavier on each shoulder the longer that question lingers.
But who could judge when they’ve never seen the glint in your eye as you walk in wearing that silken dress?

It felt like reality, thinking of the future lying ahead–the future I’m laying.
The sun rises, the dog is healthy, and bellies are full.
Whether the faces hold expression I cannot tell, for it is not my place to impress intent upon them.
A millenia ago couples wrapped in repose remained coupling;
today they are much the same, and for that we can be grateful.

Tags: life, poetry
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Can You Still Feel the Butterflies?

Sunday, April 14th (2019) @ 14:51 EDT

I wrote a short story for a creative writing class several years ago that I’d never really done anything with.
It was one of those things that means a lot to you as a writer, but doesn’t really have a place in the greater scheme of things.
I’ve thought about re-writing it several times in varying fashions, but each attempt seemed disingenuous.
Even if they were technically proficient, the drafts and revisions lacked the heart—the candor of the original.
Instead I decided to leave it as is.
Besides, sometimes it’s good to just get things out and let them go.

A Lesson from Elly is posted.

Tags: life, writing
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Every Story Must Grow Old

Thursday, January 31st (2019) @ 17:27 EST

“Ecce Romany”

She wrote a letter to her perpetually wasted youth, scoffing as if it could be done “right.”
The page lie lain with litanies of love, ballads and trysts too scandalous to exist beyond paper (but they did, once).
And oh that sweet boy, unaware and reckless with the charisma he couldn’t keep in.
The look of his eyes when he whispered, “I never understood why your mother didn’t name you Grace.”

Empty bottles, pill and alcohol alike, weathered as they’d been strewn across the floor.
The now bare walls seem discontent, mere shadows of her former elegance.
She sank within the warmth of him, the abhorrences of the world gently breezing by.
The frigid edges of reality bite harder at first, until they settle into a perpetual gnaw

If you’d only just met her she might be the most alive person you’ve ever known.
Her long-forgotten friends mourn who she’s allowed herself to become (when they’re being honest).
But her parents remain proud.
So long as she wants for little that she can’t find in stores.

Her gaze draws across the dirty carpet, lingering where drugs and sweaty, sticky sex used to be.
Her paramour kisses the back of her neck, congratulating her on yet another glorious achievement.
She sighs. She might kiss him back.
The you-shaped hole remains.


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