Novel in Two Weeks Challenge

Yes, it’s true. I’m attempting to write a 40,000 word novel over the next two weeks. In all honesty, the story is not going to be well edited, and the chapters are going to be fairly arbitrary- mostly just to keep structure. Reason: Why not? Motivation: I want to be a writer because its truly a passion and a love of mine. Goal: Get as far as I can, and not give up. Easy enough right? This first post being the exception, I’ll trying to post 1,000 to 2,000 word posts. Without further ado, let it begin:


Most endings go like this: “the end.” Like a yarn ball unraveled into one linear string, so goes most endings. Most beginnings start the same way: “the end.” In those cases, the string is an invisible tightrope over a cliff, and, yes, you get to wear a blindfold.

We are born into endings: half-lived vacancies like set-pieces on a darkened stage, derelict destinies, and far too much hope. Most know themselves best marching in subway stations, reading expressions off the faces of strangers. It reminds them of mirrors—rather, of the illusionist’s mirrors reflecting misshapen fantasies, measuring false dimensions. They see some idle part of themselves in the eyes of passerby’s—some life they’ve felt they’ve lived and left behind—cherished in small eyelash beats forever glancing and receding.

Moments like these are reminiscent of those times alone, staring into the soft-spoken darkness from a foreign bed, feasting on the familiar shades of night, and sleeping only to awake not knowing where you are. We are no strangers to being strangers; if you’ve ever lied to yourself, you’d understand. Life is forever a game of understanding ourselves, despite never knowing who we are. Are we the endings? Are we the half-formed silhouettes looking in?

We wonder because the endings we are born into are the abstractions of our fate. A fate vast and uncertain. A fate of many endings, and so while we are born into these projections—these false potentials of our existence—we find that while most endings and beginnings were always lived to end, only some of us choose not to live them.

Chapter 1:

He enjoyed measuring life through goodbyes. The understated qualities of what someone meant to him—and him to them—always had a peculiar way of being realized through goodbyes. There was the stoic smile, quick wave, and passing remark that said, “Hey, I’ve known you, and you’ve known me. Let’s never know each other again.” There was the classic head nod that said, “You don’t deserve my words, but good luck anyways.” His personal favorite was the “let’s keep in contact” goodbye, which was the equivalent of saying “when the guilt builds up enough, I’ll reach out to you.”


The nights, spiraling down back-roads,
the silhouette bodies in the windows grown
from the dash-lights pressed against silent lips,
are reminiscent of you.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the silhouette looking in,
uncovering a history of past excursions—
like anthropology of the heart—that feel vacant:
It’s no wonder they call it a lost profession.


We are the sunset
Set before
The immutable sky—a canvas
Forever worked and reworked,
In scrutiny,
As if the imagination of God
Was progressive, revised, human.
A cloud shimmers where we pass—
Casting a vague shadow
In preponderance to the coming storm
Where lovers will first dance
In the rain,
What they’ve found of themselves
Won’t be lost in a torrent.
The sunset speaks by the will of time,
And though the horizon beckons
The earth into slumber,
Are we not much the same?
Who will outlast the fading sun
In the final day, despite the will
To stay, to breathe, to live?
Life is only the passing memory
Of a sunset we once admired;
Somewhere, beyond our place, the light
Has faded beyond our hope
Of reconciliation,
And the storm,
Where lovers once danced
In the rain,
Becomes our resting place.

Gatsby’s Hope

Where all light fades and draws below
The night, the green light stays aglow.
Forever lit before the sky,
It skims the water by and by,
And speaks of times we’ve yet to know.

Though you may find its solemn glow
As simple beauty there to show
The way to shore, still many lie
Where all light fades.

Search, as you may, the tides are slow,
But never will you find the woe
You’ve kept within, though you deny
The empty lights you’ve chased, and why
The rueful boat will always flow
Where all light fades.

The Shore

I walked the timid waters by the shore.
Footprints the memories, embedded in
The sand, of those who may have come before,
Yet only to be lost forever when
The ocean’s waves cascade in somber rows,
And so obscure the given path that had
Convinced us that our time, and where it goes,
Is safe, afoot the earth, in silken clad
Beads that falter so easily between
Strides—depressing the solemn earth in vain—
For while, presently, it may still be seen,
Eternity we cannot hope to gain.
And so, a mile stretch, I walked alone—
My former path, I walked, a path unknown.

Star Talk

We know the Earth
from concrete eyes,
reeling at muzzle-flash
stars bleeding from the snouts
of factory cannons.

At ends,
the spirit meets the flames,
anguish breeding in the smoke stacks,
challenged birthright to its ecstasy,
and muses of the destiny
to come.

To know is to want to forget;
martian soil, it’s been heard,
harbors the key to wilted dreams.
There, they planted dead seeds,
and they grew into dust.

In dreams,
the horizon bleeds crimson:
silver plumes, spreading
their rosy petals, dance
like decaying umbrellas
in a wild pirouette.

The spirit will retreat,
the flames ceasing to listen;
they will feed
until suicide stops
their lungs from reaching.
We are not so different.

In the ash of
its broken reveries,
the spirit will dream
of real stars:
searching the heavens
freely for their purpose,
enchanted by the
dance of true horizons,
left to the questions
of their own destinies.


If I’d thought it would be the last
Time we’d brush hands before goodbye,
I’d have held you close, held you fast,
And convinced you to stay; you’d sigh,
Unknowing then the reasons why
I looked so deeply in your eye,
Which I now look in from the past.

If only you could live that day
Again from where the living see.
I’d live the words I’d failed to say,
A better man I swear I’d be,
But fate has always held the key
To lost days—never given free—
Already come and those that may.

I should have seen your shadow wait
An extra moment at the door,
As if it were the golden gate
The spirit wanders through before
It grows its wings so it can soar
From Earth—this place now I deplore—
But now, I fear, it is too late.

Where you have gone my soul will send
Though still in lonely days I think
You may return, and so descend
Back to the place where once the link
We held was whole, not at the brink
Of vanishing, but then I blink
And know I cannot change the end.

If I’d known, I’d redeem the past.
There would be no final goodbye.
The lie of life—we will outlast—
We’d keep, but now alone I sigh,
Not sure why those we love must die.
For now, we watch, as two, the sky.
Unknowing it will be the last.

via Daily Prompt: Martyr