Candace's+Space


 * >**[|Creative Writing Portfolio]

Multi Media Projects--

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 * >**[|Destruction on the Horizon] - [|Adagio For Strings][[image:http://s3.tinypic.com/k4dshs.jpg width="14" height="14"]]
 * >**[|Bizzare] -[|She's a Handsome Woman][[image:http://s3.tinypic.com/k4dshs.jpg width="14" height="14"]]

Poetry--

** A Dreary Day  ** It falls in sultry crystal sheets Holding a sorry Sun at bay A rhythmic pattern steadily beats Tenting the sky a hazy gray Mirroring the mood of this dreary day Toys abandoned under playful drops Misty shades of emeralds play Droplets hang from starving treetops All laughter and joy slowly stops Hiding flaws and secret fears Across a field, the scared rabbit hops Angry clouds pour loaded tears The sullen blankets of sorrow and pain My dear this is why I hate the rain.

Improves--

Surreal Prisma color marker walls and a heart shaped box-- Time and Space are empty vessels Ships sailing south of nowhere. As parallels pirouette, Ballerina daffodils sparkle and spin. Beneath warm lilac embers Of a sunken forgotten sun. Birds of words Flies of lies And we lie like lions under Drowsy daytime daisies. Somewhere a river runs gold, Cut through a sea of swimming Sirens. Raindrops like hearts Drop rain on hollow thought s. And thoughts are just clouds, Drifting along ivory skies. And the surreal never felt so right. For a nightfort he slumbered, Beneath velvety fallnight. In the silky shade of the sweet smelling canopy, His mind danced in the midst of the misty fallnight. The forestrain shade him and rocketskying dreams, Dropsrain glide off his satin skin And cling to his cotton hair Flowerwilds sing Warning him of the stormthunder creeping through the sky Rosey red robins flee the scrapersky trees, They fly as high as the boy’s sugar coated imagination. Creatures sdash and bound, Scattered and gasterflabbered. But he sleeps oin. With bushels of beanjelly flowersuns. Climbing the silvery treetops. And bulgarcat spirits flying aound his sleep laden head. Trapped in heavy sweet innocence He sleeps on.

4.8.08 What's It Feel Like To Be A Ghost?
 * unedited** [|verison].

2.21.08 Black Widow Insomnia **edited.** He strums away at loose chords in the night, long after waging a war with his sunken mattress for comfort. Dark circles tattooed themselves around the brim of lackluster hazels; all color and light stripped from the crystal orbs. Sleep hung heavy on his eye lids, stinging with the desire for rest. However, they seemed to find more solace in mastering a somber verse fixed on repeat, ringing in his head. A metronome meter was embedded in his brain from the face clock ticking away seconds of time. Sleeping pills lay abandoned and forgotten on the pearly porcelain of the bathroom sink. He remembers watching a black widow spider, in his childhood home, spin a glistening web in the middle of the night. Dipping and weaving, the creature painted its masterpiece in the darkest corner of the lonely room, ordinary. But the way the moonlight caught each angle of the crystal strands and shimmered in contrast with the raven sky created something beautiful in unconventional ways. So in the midst of his sleepless night, fingers danced across champagne fret boards, just as the spider had danced across the glistening web. You could say he spun webs too; catching the hearts of all his victims through words and E minor melodies with his guitar. He no longer despised but embraced his insomnia for what it was, productivity.

2.18.08 Coffeeshop Altercations

“Jason! Jason will you calm down, we’re in Starbucks for Pete’s sake. People are staring.” The pseudo-redhead hisses across the table. “NO! YOU NEVER TRUST ME!” “Now if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.” She mutters rolling her eyes. “And what is that supposed to mean?” The livid man with the hood pulled over his head snaps. “It means you throw a fit every time I go out with my friends.” “I do not!” the darker man had his arms crossed defiantly with a pout on his face. “Oh please, you do too Jason and you know it.” “Well, //I// don’t go out with my friends every single weekend!” “That’s because you don’t have any friends.” She says with a smirk. The man’s face flushes with bright red anger while grabbing at his coffee cup. “Do you know who I am? I have plenty of friends.” He says through clenched teeth. His tone suggesting he was trying to convince himself more than the woman with a perked eyebrow in front of him. “Oh yeah, name three.” “Pa—“ “That aren’t in your band.” “… Travis, Bill and Nick. Ha.” He spits proudly, taking a sip of his coffee. The woman rolls her eyes, huffing sarcastically. “Honestly Jason, that stupid dog of yours is more of friend than any of them.” “DO NOT CALL HEMMINGWAY STUPID!” his nails that were buried deep in the Styrofoam cup now cut a deep gash into the side which proceeded to leak its dark liquidly contents. “Whatever. I swear, you love that dog more than me!” “You’re probably right.” The infuriated man whispers to himself diverting his gaze to one of the people trying desperately to ignore the argument carrying on behind them. “What?” “I didn’t //say// anything!” he retorts viciously. “I think we need relationship consoling.” “Are you kidding me? There is no way I’m going to pay to listen to some crazy old hag tell //me// what //I// am doing wrong in this relationship!” “Do you really think there is anyone out there crazier than you Jason?” He narrowed his eyes at her maliciously. “The point is,” he snarled. “I’m not going.” Silence. “You’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t go. I don’t think all the money in the world could buy someone who can put up with you for more than fifteen minutes.” She states shaking her head. “Oh yeah so why do you?” “Half the time I‘m not even sure.” She states matter-of-factly and grabs her cup before disappearing into the busy Los Angeles sidewalk. Wiping his sticky tattooed arm off with the nearest napkin, he bores holes into the Van Gogh on the wall with his eyes before reaching for his Blackberry in his sweatshirt pocket. “Hey ‘Trick? Yeah, me and Ash got into another fight.”

1.7.08 Black Widow Insomnia

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He plucked away at loose chords in the night long after losing a battle with his sunken mattress for comfort. Dark circles tattooed them selves around the brim of lack luster hazels; all color and light stripped from the orbs. Sleep hung heavy on his eye lids, stinging with the desire for rest. However, they seemed to find more solace in mastering a somber verse fixed on repeat in his mind. A metronome meter was embedded in his brain from the face clock ticking away seconds of time. Sleeping pills lay abandoned and forgotten on the bathroom sink. He remembers watching a black widow spider in his childhood home spin a glistening web in the middle of the night. Dipping and weaving, the creature painted its masterpiece in the darkest corner of the lonely room, ordinary. But the way the moonlight caught each angle of the crystal strands and shimmered in contrast with the raven sky created something beautiful in unconventional ways. So in the midst of his sleepless night, fingers danced across the fret board, just as the spider had danced across the glistening web. You could say he spun webs too; catching the hearts of all his victims through words and E minor tunes with his guitar. He no longer despised it but embraced his insomnia for what it was, productivity. =====

2 .4.08 ** "Electric Boy" **

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Cries echo on either side of my head. I block it out. Two miles, I am a machine. The smell of burnt dogs on a sunny Chicago day swirls around my head. Keep going. Five miles, my breath is ragged, beads of glistening sweat rolls from my brow. The sound of rubber soles smacking pavement is enough to tell me "You're still in it Chris." Eleven miles, there’s a fierce pain pounding against my chest. Each step another blow to my lungs. Fifteen miles. There’s a pain in my foot sending daggers up my spine. Twenty one miles, my water bottle is hollow, my tongue dry. "Keep going Chris. You can't give up now." Twenty-six miles, adrenaline coursing through my veins, pushing me forward to fruition and self worth. The finish line, my heart swollen with pride, my legs crippled with fatigue. =====

2.4.08  Water slices in half against the bow of the ship, creating clouds of foam gliding over crashing waves. I imagine my grandfather standing on the deck of the mighty vessel overlooking the clouds of smoke billowing over the horizon. I suspect he smelled the destruction miles and minutes before he saw a patch of the sullen island. The toxic stench of burning flesh and scorched oil synging the insides of his nostril and sinking their teeth deep into every inch of his starch pressed uniform. I picture the scene still, the calm before the storm. The loud crackling robust flames bursting over blankets of oil; //Arizona is burning to the ground.// The only other noise I can imagine penetrating this dismal scene is the captain’s distance cries, informing the well aware crew that they were approaching land. Validation arriving in the form of the utter lack of sunlight as smoke consumes them whole. That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach had to of been eating him alive. Shock, fear, sickness, all fighting for dominance in the front of his brain as the ship plunders through the sand of ashen beaches of Pearl Harbor. The prevailing though, thrusting all others to the back of his mind, I can only assume was, "I must get back to her." comment: Beautiful. Start the proofreading process.

1.3.08 ** Model Perfection ** = =