The Prey.

Been some time since I have posted anything. However, I have been working on this piece of writing for the last couple of months. With this time of year and with Megan and I’s love of horror/thriller movies — I wanted to take a crack at my own horror story featuring one of my favorite creatures. Would love to hear your thoughts on what type of creature it is. I assure you it is generally not the most obvious of one that comes to mind. Though it should be fairly obvious to some.

Not sure how I feel about this piece yet. As usual though it’s not about how I feel about it. I want to know what you, the reader think of this. Please, let me know your thoughts. Would love to know if this evokes any kind of emotion, I have not written anything like this before. Not with the purpose I did here, at least.

The Prey.

They’re out there. It’s far too quiet for them not to be.

Candles burn as I sit at a lone cherry-wood table in the only chair within this cabin. The Moon has waned deeply and there is little light aside from my small beacons.

I cannot see the creatures, or is it creature? Heard so many noises on my way out it’s difficult to tell. I can remember only singular breathing on the back of my neck when I found this journal within the nearby mines.

Looking down at my leg I can see that my wound from the fall has not bled through its dressing. Before continuing with my find I contemplate ripping off the other long sleeve but decide against it.

The book is so burned, dry, and ashen that pages just crack and fall out as singular leaves. Few can be read but one actually catches my attention. It’s barely legible chicken scratch but the point gets across clearly:

It’s true. All of it. Every word.

Many more that could have served me more information are damaged into obscurity. I frantically shift all the loose pages around the table searching for something else to give me any kind of clue what owned that hot breath with stench of rotten flesh. There’s a stain on my left shoulder. A yellow-brown mucous that has hardened and fused to my skin. I refuse to give thought to what it could be doing to me otherwise. There must be answers within the journal. There must be.

Another legible page, though this one is sketches with notes. One of an appendage, curled and many-knuckled. It is sparsely haired with a rough rock bespeckled hide and a long, curved, bulbous black stinger — at its end.

I can’t be bothered with details like those right now, it’s the mucous, what about the mucous?

In frustration and desperation my hands fling the majority of the papers flipping & crashing into the rotten wood floor beneath my feet. Many of the dry pages break into multiple pieces on impact. I can’t be bothered with them any more, just need to wait until the light comes and the doctor will have a visit from me.

Besides, if there is anything about this shit on my shoulder in there it’s not like I can do anything about it until the morning anyways. Just need to calm myself down and try to sleep for the night. The feeling of being chased seems to have gone. It’s not so quiet out there now.

After blowing out the candles, I lie down on my back with my hands clasped over my chest looking straight into the ceiling. For a moment I second guess myself and look back over at the table. Won’t be much use to myself getting to the doctor if I’m too tired to walk in the morning. Gotta go through with it.

Giving an exhausted sigh I close my eyes and focus on the wind.


I can tell it is light out because it is shining through my eyelids. They’re just proving quite difficult to open. If I could move my arms towards my eyes to find out what is going on it would be useful. That’s just it though, I am completely immobile.

Through what seems like an hour of effort I am able to pry my eyelids open. They crack slowly, painfully. It feels as though I have eyelashes pulled out and stuck to each, other lid. With eyes open it’s noticeable I’m still positioned in the same spot lying on my back staring at the ceiling.

It is morning, and the sun is out. Nothing more can be discerned because I cannot move my neck and my eyes can’t see any part of me other than my nose.  That’s when I cross my eyes and see it — the mucous. It’s spread from my shoulder to everywhere on my body, like an infection.

My mind goes into panic mode for a moment but logic kicks in almost immediately. I literally cannot do anything. Can’t jostle myself or move in any way to attempt an escape, entirely immobile and vulnerable. The only thing to be done is hope that the spreading is over and given time the substance will break down and weaken enough for me to break free.

As the waiting goes on and time passes I begin to feel the wood underneath me shift. Though I am unable to move myself it does not seem that I have fused to the floor beneath me.

The panels on the floor move all around me. From head to toe, and left to right. Almost as if the cabin is sizing me up and down — feeling my weight and shape. There’s a discomfort rising from my gut and into my throat. I swallow loudly. Though the mucous has hardened all over my entire body it is porous enough for sweat to make it through. My senses are hyper-elevated, ears hearing the fear-sweat from my head dripping onto the wood.

That’s when I feel and smell that hot breath again. Coming through the floorboards directly underneath my head. Long, slow, hungry breaths. The stench of death overpowering and many layered, all that much stronger than the night before.

Whatever it is beneath me stays for what feels like an eternity. Nothing but that oppressive predatory breathing — smelling of rotten animal carcass left on the road. A pattern begins of three short breaths in quick succession followed by a long inhale and then low, rumbling exhale from deep in the throat.

I hear scratching start on the floor. Can feel the movement of the boards again but this time it is different. It feels more impatient than inquisitive. It’s everywhere below me and sounding a bit violent.

Experiencing this wakes the panic in me again. It’s been a number of hours since the morning and I have been attempting to gain some range of movement in my head and neck. As I suspected the organic mucous encasing me has been worn down from time and all of the sweat that I have been producing throughout the situation. Everywhere else it is too thick around me to make progress yet, but I can feel the encasement finally crack under the strength of my neck; able to look around at the cabin again.

Then I see it.

Just the small tip of a needle. Jet black, and glistening in the disappearing daylight. Darting in and out of the spaces between the rotten boards. All around me, and from what I can hear… taking little picks at the mucous covering my back.

Starting to get very rattled now. Need to find some way to get out of this situation and get more information out of that book. The mucous only seems to be a way to immobilize prey — do not think I am in any inherent danger from the substance itself anymore.  Danger however, is very close. At this point I am almost certain it was only one creature chasing me out of the mines and that it was only ever one creature haunting this region.

Head has full range of movement now and am starting to be able to shift my shoulders a bit. All activity below me has ceased for the time being and outside of the cabin is quiet. The sun is nearly below the horizon. I’ve begun to be able to use my neck and shoulders as a lift to rock back and forth and flip myself over. After a minute my rocking has enough momentum for me to get the full one-hundred-eighty degrees. My shoulder slowly rounds the apex of the rotation until my chest falls flat onto the ground with a thud.

I hear the hardened mucous on my stomach and knees crack and buckle.

Under the new weight, my arms have increased freedom within their prison. As I wriggle them under me I see that my nose lies between two of the rotten boards and there is a sliver about a quarter inch wide through which I can see blackness. There is little light outside and unless I can free myself there will be none inside shortly.

Carefully scanning the sliver of blackness to spot my tormentor I work my arms free of their trappings. The flakes of the broken and removed mucous rap lightly on the floor like rice shaken in a glass jar. Some fall through the space between the boards but make no sound to be heard. Now that my arms and chest are free I’m able to flip over again and begin to pull the cocoon off myself. Starting with my face I rip off flakes of the stuff, scratching all over and rubbing off as much as I can. As if shampooing, my hands frantically run across my scalp. I use as much strength as possible to dig my fingernails into the crust and rip it off.

There comes a point where I see my black hair come off with it, flakes at a time. Then a sharp pain near my forehead and the drip of blood off my brow which I see land on my still encrusted legs. When I bring my hand down from my forehead I can see more blood covering it, and with this newest flake — skin.

So that’s it then, it is truly fused with my skin.

Upon swallowing loudly It feels as if my throat goes down into my ankles. My chest empties and I am struck with the paralyzing fear that if I survive, this disfigurement could be incurable. What would it continue to do with my body moving forward? What is it doing inside of me even now? Forcing logic to kick back in I work my legs free, as much as possible until getting to my jeans.

I am lucky to have been wearing clothes. The mucous fused to my clothing, but not as much my skin underneath it like with my face and head. Though it takes a layer of two of skin with it to start, I am able move within my clothing and not have it injure me by ripping me apart. I leave as much of the shit on me as I can otherwise, just to protect myself and my skin until I can find a doctor. I must look like the thing, made out of what can only be described as rotten Butterfinger flakes. I dare not work my mouth free — and am surprised with all the mucous coverage that my nostrils were mysteriously unaffected.

Now, able to move again I stand up and limp to the table to get the candles lit. I’ve noticed that it has been quite some time since any activity below me. With the impatience of the scratching earlier I find that perplexing. There’s no time to wonder, however. I light the candles to assess my situation and figure out what to do.

With light again filling the cabin around me I try to look at the leaves of paper scattered all over the floor from the night before. It’s no use, the only pages with anything legible are the ones I found already. For all the shifting below me throughout this ordeal the door to the outside hasn’t budged an inch. The windows are still boarded up and the roof still has rays of moonlight shining through.

Oddly, there’s rays I remember seeing the night before that seem patched up now. Am I remembering correctly? Easily could be not thinking clearly right now. I haven’t had any food or water in almost twenty-four hours. At this point don’t believe I have any choice but to brave the outside. Not spending another day with that creature below the floorboards.

After gathering my things together into the backpack and throwing it over my roughly encrusted shoulder I step towards the door and open it with a creak. On the swing of the door I hear an immediate whoosh above the roof and the rays of moonlight I remember within the cabin re-appear.

Now, frozen solid at the threshold of the cabin I re-assess my decision. Are there two creatures? One above and one below? Which is the better course of action? To die of dehydration? Or… whatever fate waits for me out there.

Deciding there’s no going back I step out into the woods. Small fallen twigs crunch beneath my foot on the very first step. I wait, nervously. There are no other sounds. Then I look up into the sky and see a cloudless night — lit by a crescent moon. We’re waxing now, it is larger than the night before. There’s slightly more light to go off of. Craning my neck all around I see no sign of the thing that made the noise above the cabin.

I start hobbling, slowly, towards outside of the woods and back to my car.


Eyes having adjusted to the night at this point, figure I have made it about half of the five miles from the abandoned mining town to where I have parked. The forest has stayed eerily silent this entire time. All I can hear is the shuffling of my right leg dragging behind the stomping of my left. Flakes of the mucous are still falling off me with every step. My skin dry, cracked, and in constant pain. Blood, seeping from where the joints bend.

Then, a shadow overhead. I feel it wash over me and watch it slink across the forest debris below. I can’t believe with my eyes the shape of the shadow itself — and when get the courage to look up at the place it came from, the forest is too thick above to see through.

This shadow had a great bat-like wing span, wide body, and lengthy pointed tail. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing about this makes sense. All I wanted to do was find out more about the mysterious disappearance of an entire town and mining operation. Gone over a hundred years ago in one night. None ever to be seen again.

Now I’m limping ever more frantically towards my car, maybe another mile to go? Starting to get more confident that I may get out of this and be able to get to an urgent care. Breathing heavily through my nostrils I can feel the wound on my leg crack open from the trek.

I fall with a muffled scream, something’s very wrong. Upon looking at my right leg I see that the mucous had found its way through the dressing and inside of the wound solidifying the flesh within. My leg has snapped in two just above the knee cap. Separated entirely from the rest of my body is my knee, shin, and foot. Just lying there. Dead and decaying.

Instinctively touch my forehead to feel the spot where I had ripped off some of my flesh with the mucous. It had already hardened again. Heart pounding in my chest I start to pull myself forward with my arms. Dragging myself across the earth and pushing with my left leg. Muffled grunting and screaming with desperation I see the glint of moonlight reflecting off my car’s windshield maybe five-hundred feet ahead of me now.

Then a crushing weight on my back. Enough to stop me in my tracks and make me cough through my nose. Five claws pulsate entering and exiting my lower back at once, in close proximity. Breathing on the back of my head again. Three short breaths in quick succession followed by a long inhale and then low, rumbling exhale from deep in the throat.

My chin dug into the ground I can at least see straight forward. In front of me is the appendage from the journal. Dancing around from left to right stabbing the dirt and leaves in front of my eyes, playfully. Now I know my time is up and have to look. Have to see, just to know before the end.

When I start to turn my head I hear a whoosh, and bat-like wings envelop me removing all light.

Next I smell and feel the wet stench of death, closer than ever before. Saliva dripping onto the back of my head, jaws envelop my skull.

It’s true. All of it. Every word.

 

Thank you for reading.

If you have interest in reading anything else I have written please check the Table of Contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by littlenySTOCK edited by Trevor Elms ©2017

What I Write When Not Writing.

Really haven’t had the gumption or self reflection to want to sit down and write something that I find meaningful. Which are the things I want to post on this website for the most part. My last poem did enough for some time.

I do however find other ways to continuously write and one of them is watching & reviewing film. Recently I have been introduced to letterboxd.com and have created an account. If you have interest in any writing I may be doing in between things that get posted here then that would be the place to go.

Megan and I often watch a new movie together every day so the profile will be updated regularly with films I watch or re-watch. This is a way for me to keep myself motivated about writing without bogging my site down with things like movie reviews.

movie-collection-2017
The Elms’ movie collection as of 8/31/2017.

We have a lot of movies and the collection is growing every day, it is one of my very favorite forms of art & media. A form that my grandfather really spent a lot of time nurturing within me.

If you have interest in my thoughts and writing in general you may like this letterboxd profile.

Please check it out here.

Thank you for taking a look.

If you have interest in reading anything else I have written please check the Table of Contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms

August Update

Been awhile since I have posted anything. I have started a number of works but just haven’t finished. Been focused on work and other things. Did want to make a quick little post just to say that I am okay and things are going well for me. I just haven’t been using my free time to sit down and write — and I haven’t been heavily inspired as to push me towards it in a bit. That’s life though, I will feel the need to put down words or finish one of my drafts soon. I can feel it.

In the meantime, though — I wanted to post something a little different. One of my friends has been working on his own YouTube channel about all things geek for the last couple of years. Over the last six months or so him and I had been in talks about a new show for his channel about comic books. I absolutely love comic books and so was intrigued by the idea.

Fast forward to yesterday and the very first episode of Zero Issue dropped. It’s an episode about where to get into Batman if you have any interest and there’s a little bit of a book club discussion.

I really enjoyed myself and enjoy being a part of this channel that just wants to celebrate geek culture and the interests involved with it. So, check out the video below if you have interest and let me know what you think!

Thank you for checking this out.

If you have interest in reading anything else I have written please check the Table of Contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms

Of Worthlessness & Worth.

As like my poem “Last Time” I am going to let this piece speak for itself first — and allow whoever reads it to not have their perception of it affected by my own until after it has been read.

Of Worthlessness & Worth.

I forgive you.
Because you’re worthless.

You took something from me.
Because you’re worthless.

Something I can never get back.
Because you’re worthless.

I’m a better person now.
Because you’re worthless.

I have perspective and understanding now.
Because you’re worthless.

You are worthless.
I hope you become of worth.

This world needs more of that.
I hope you become of worth.

Bitterness is a poison.
I hope you become of worth.

My wish for you is to learn humility.
I hope you become of worth.

People do not need the pain you are capable of weaving.
I hope you become of worth.

I will never stop loving you.
I hope you become of worth.

Be worthful.

 

This poem has a bit of a double meaning for me. I have written it to represent my journey about a betrayal from one of my very closest friends of whom I cannot any longer give myself to. They hurt me too much, and in a way where as egotistical as it sounds; they do not deserve my presence. Ever again.

This poem also represents me speaking to the woman who molested me in pre-school. I have not been able to express anything about it in writing since I first remembered of the ordeal in high school. It has taken me this long to write something towards her.

As usual, this piece has given me great release and closure from these experiences. I feel I can properly move on now.

On a more positive aside — this is the very first thing I have written in my new book for poetry. It was purchased during a friend’s birthday at the Renaissance Festival this past weekend and is pictured in the featured photo. 100% handcrafted paper and hand treated bound leather. The mermaid on it made me think of Megan and how little girls regularly tell her she looks like a mermaid with her blue hair. The book just spoke to me.

I felt this piece was the perfect starting point for this new book, and for this chapter of my life where writing is once again a part of me. I feel whole again.

Thank you for reading.

If you have interest in reading anything else I have written please check the Table of Contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2017
Journal in featured photo made by Poetic Earth.

Shower of Love.

Sometimes going a good amount of time without writing is helpful for me to create a piece that I am truly proud of and means a great deal to me.

Just recently spent a lot of time with Megan’s family in Minnesota for the holiday. Had to work a decent amount (about a normal work week) while there. Whenever I did have free time it was spent with them, every moment. Even if it just meant reading while in their presence and speaking when spoken to.

Felt like I got considerable time with them, and got to thinking about what they mean to me and how they make me feel I mean to them.

I was inspired, and so wrote again.

Shower of Love.

This is about my family.
Not the one born into.

The one whom accepts me.

Sans blood.
They shower me with love and hugs.

Introduced into their life at first,

A former criminal.
Crazy.
College dropout.

Catastrophe.

Acceptance was not given immediately.
Rightly so, daughter hadn’t need more tragedy.

Respect from me freely given, they had something wanted.
Something prepared to earn.

Years later, different lifetime.
Feels as though we’re different people, together.
Family. Melded & complete.

Showered with love.

Often respect & love have to be given, in order to be earned.
Just thanking my lucky stars to be given a chance.

Benefit of the doubt,
after safety became non-concern.

Family is my strength.

I grow as it.
More comfortable. Happy.

This is about my family.
Not the one born into,
of which I cannot express gratitude in words — yet.

The one whom accepts me.

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

For showering me with love & hugs.

 

Thank you for reading.

If you have interest in reading anything else I have written please check the Table of Contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2017

 

Presently Present.

Seems like I’ve seriously slowed down with my writing, but there is only so much free time. I’ve been spending a lot of it with Megan and my friends lately. The buddies live across the country so it’s been online playing a video game. I consider that hanging out all the same.

I decided yesterday that too much time had passed and I needed to write something. Could finish one of the many drafts I have laying around now, or write a poem, as the last thing I posted was an article about balance.

So, I again found myself writing about time. I was supposed to get this posted this morning, but didn’t find the time yesterday to get it prepared. Had to do so this morning before work and get it out at 4PM. I really like sticking to specific posting times, at least. Gives me the nice illusion of a proper schedule I have set for myself.

Anyways, here’s my most recent poem about time,

Presently Present.

Tick.
Time.

There’s always so much.
There’s never enough.

Tock.
Time.

Looking ahead so far away.
Looking behind — just yesterday.

Hand.
Clock.

Staring, steadily sweeping.
Swiftly sacking all sense of certainty.

Tick.
Time.

Tock.
Time.

To live in the present.
Conquers some of the meaning.

Behind this rhyme.

 

I do want to continue pushing myself towards writing more regularly again. However really enjoy these periods of reflection when I build up that burning desire to write. I also enjoy consuming media myself and of so many forms that it is easy to get distracted. Trying to release at least something every week. That’s more than I have managed in some time aside from when I first started this site.

Thank you for reading.

If you have interest in reading anything else I have written please check the Table of Contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2017

Balance.

Been wracking my brain over the last few days for what I was going to write about. Needed to write about something but couldn’t get right back into some of the things I have written previously. Not feeling drained, more like released from so much that I have consciously or subconsciously been holding on to for years.

Decided that writing about balance, and my struggle with it throughout my life would be a good place to start. I am still trying to find a sense of balance within this website, even. I have begun typing this out on May Twenty-Sixth, Twenty-Seventeen. My last post was May Seventeenth, Twenty-Seventeen. Just one day short of one month — from the day this website was started.

In that time, one month; fifty-one pieces were published.

Balanced out to just about half old, half new. I cranked away night by night. So much that I caused a little bit of a rift in my marriage for a few days. I lost a sense of balance in myself and my life. Focused solely on this website and writing — I saturated myself in them. Like the true addict I am. Found something new and interesting, took my fancy, and I dived headlong in. Had it not been for Megan I may have run myself into the ground affecting me and us in all sorts of negative ways.

Balance is something I have always struggled with. Plenty sure there is an earlier memory about it that my parents could recall, but one that sticks out to me most is when Pokémon first came out for the Game Boy. I was in the second grade. Had a friend at that time, Michael. We would hang out after school every Monday before his parents got home from work — so he would have company and could skip day-care.

After booting up Pokémon for the first time, though. Hanging out with Michael didn’t matter to me so much.

Enthralled by this new world that took the gameplay style I had learned from playing Final Fantasy titles, added cute creatures to collect and level, and was portable. I could play anywhere in the house and get away from everyone to play alone if I wanted to. It was the perfect escape. Which video games have proven time and time again — are. For me, and many others I can only assume.

The first Monday after getting Pokémon Blue (Alan got Red) as a gift I didn’t take the bus to Michael’s. He didn’t take the bus either — Michael went to day-care that day. I had told Michael some nonsense about why I couldn’t be at his place. Couldn’t tell you what. When I got home I don’t remember anyone else being present, though the tiles in the kitchen or walkway had recently been re-done. Was in possession of a key to the house but don’t think anyone was expecting me home — so they weren’t.

Awesome. One of my favorite things in the world is a silent, empty house.

There’s something about it. I feel in complete control of my surroundings and in my element. In those times really nothing should happen that I don’t want to. You know, in the realm of a normal calm sunny day, in the privacy of my home.

So I did what my eight year old self wanted to do, and had been thinking about all day. I ran upstairs, grabbed my Game Boy, and plopped down on the stairs to play. Couldn’t have been very far in at this point, but it had its hooks in me deeply. Doesn’t take much for a video game, movie, or any creative media — honestly. A half an hour or more must have gone by before my mom walked through the front door and asked me what the heck I was doing on the stairs with my Game Boy.

Knowing me, some good ol’ baloney came out. My mom had already gotten a phone call from Michael’s about the bullspit excuse I spewed. So she was legitimately just checking to see if I would tell the truth or not. Mom is good at that.

We had a good long talk after that. About balance, and what is important.

What friendships can provide that video games can’t, and how doing what I did would make Michael feel. I abandoned something that meant a lot to a person because I wanted to play in an imaginary world.

Still have a lot of difficulty with balance, and priorities, and how to get them right. Not professionally — there’s an iron fist in life about that able to keep me in tow. Free time though, how I manage it, what I do with it. Still a daily struggle for me.

I am an addict. I have written about that a few times now. I like to get addicted to things. Now, I am not a twelve-stepper, nor do I adhere to the normal living style of recovering addicts. I still drink alcohol and smoke marijuana. Those are two substances I believe I can control myself with and be a functioning adult perfectly well. I have seen alcohol kill plenty of people I am close to or affect them severely negatively. I really just like a glass of scotch or a beer after a long day to take off the edge. I enjoy the taste, and I don’t often get a buzz, but I do feel better about life.

Regardless of how this living style is perceived by other recovering addicts or people who are not addicts at all, I don’t care.

My current personal and professional life give evidence to my ability to be a responsible adult with these decisions, so that’s all I need to provide if you want to question me. Barring a little coke after the death of my cousin, Paul (which is the only drug I have said I would not say no to if it was in front of me, though would not seek out), I have not touched anything aside from pot and alcohol in nearly ten years.

Well, there was that time where I did some molly, also not long after Paul’s death. My [redacted] [redacted] put it best when he refused, though. “There’s nothing else I can learn from it any more”. Lo and behold, I didn’t. Spent more time trying to figure out what the hell it was cut with that I could see in it and feel in my system than actually enjoying it. Done with that one for a lifetime now.

With that said, the things that I was truly addicted to: cigarettes, personal relationships with people brought closer due to hallucinogenic & drug induced experiences, the rush of trying a new substance, and opiates. Those I really do my damnedest to stay away from.

Opiates are a tough one, because our society medically just doesn’t think about it all that much. How it is literally lab manufactured legal heroin. How addictive it is, and how many lives it destroys without proper monitoring, after care, or an alternative. I have had pain killers within these years, struggled with them as well. I am glad to have family support around me when prescribed painkillers. Things would get terribly ugly otherwise.

Feel like I have lost my way on a few paths here in this piece, but both have to do with balance, and my struggle with it.

I was imbalanced even in the beginning of this website. Thinking I could legitimately handle forcing myself to put out two things per day after I ran out of old things.

This piece was a long way of me talking about my issues with balance, and how I am doing this website almost entirely for me. I really, truly appreciate any and all audience, but also need to recognize balance and to keep myself grounded. I do not need to set precedent about how often posts will go live. I also do not need to feel guilty about when there is nothing new up some days. Nobody is paying me to do this, I do this because I desire it.

So, in the future, still expect my posts to come out at eight o’ clock in the morning. Just don’t expect them every day. Sometimes they will be, sometimes they won’t be. I am going to try and have a little bit more balance in my life, and keep things a little bit more realistic for my health.

As always, thank you for reading. The fact that I have an audience means the world to me and does push me to keep writing.

I was afraid that I would find it difficult to write again after over a week off — but as usual, the fear makes it a lot more difficult than it really is. Especially after getting started.

Thank you for reading and following. If you have any interest in looking for things I have written that you have not read yet. Please check the table of contents, here.

©2017 Trevor Elms
A name and relation has been removed from this piece for anonymity. It will not be added in the future.
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2006

 

Familiar Fortress.

NetherRealm Studios released their newest video game “Injustice 2” recently. It’s a fighting game with the DC super hero pantheon. As a big fan of comic books, the franchise is my bread and butter. Because it released just yesterday — I haven’t wanted to spare much free time for lots of words.

I played and played, then realized that I hadn’t gotten that feeling of accomplishment that I have grown used to before bed. When I get something written down and completed. So I wanted to write a bit of poetry about video games and what they are meaning to me in tandem with writing as I get older.

Familiar Fortress.

Moving pixels in three dimensional space
give unquestionable escape.

Hunting for treasure,
scavenging for leather.

Climing rooftops,
to collect a feather.

Sated.

Used to be the desires to create.
Polygons streaming across.

Ornate.

Clashing of plate and steel,
feelings easier to process.

Intake.

Moving pixels in three dimensional space
give unquestionable escape.

Eventually no longer,

sates.

Bake thoughts,
share the plate.

Fate.

Not one to believe in it.
Though writing is what it is instead.

Gate.

 

I do now have some sort of sense of accomplishment, and a release from the day in some way.  We will see if I manage to write a lot of words tomorrow, or if I will climb into my familiar fortress and end the night with poetry again.

Thank you for reading.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2017

Cigarette for Dave.

Feeling like the story about this poem is much more interesting than the poem itself. My friend Dave that I met in Hawai’i while we speak infrequently now, is like a brother to me. He ended up having to go back to Maine before our first semester completed.

A few nights before he left town us and the rest of the Ohana went out for a night of fun. Dave and I decided that we were going to hold on to one cigarette in each of our ears for the whole night. To see if we could make it last.

Both of our cigarettes made it — discolored from sweat, though his broke in half. I remember sitting on a log after nights’ end watching the sunrise. I believe we were all together at that time. Myself, Jack, Kainoa, Kisa, & Dave. Gavin & Neal were not a part of the festivities yet, unfortunately. While sitting on the log I pulled out my pen and wrote this poem on the cigarette that had made it through the night with us.

I read it then and there to Dave, and smoked it by myself fairly saddened — after he left the island.

Cigarette for Dave.

Here’s a cig from me to you,
It wasn’t the last, nor one of the few.
Just remember when it’s over, it’s not through.
Yo guy, hit me up when you need a true crew.

— To my Maine-iac in brotherly arms.

Dave and I chatted just recently about getting back together again one of these days, or in Valhalla. Whichever comes first. I can’t wait the give the asshole a giant hug.

Love you dude.

Thank you for reading.

©2008 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms ©2016

Ride.

Megan is an Extrovert — with introverted tendencies. I am an introvert, which I have written about a few times. This means that we’ve literally had to work with our marriage counselor about talking, and how much of it I can handle.

How to properly express myself when there has been too much talking and I need to take a break from it. Likewise, for Megan to see this as not being a slight against her and to be able to respond calmly with understanding in kind.

True communication. Recognizing, at base, who each other are as people so that the small things that pile up on a day by day basis do not tear us apart from the foundations. True love in that fashion as well. We love each other with such depth that we want to continually work to communicate better, and reduce the daily friction that occurs between people.

One of the ways we do this is by experiencing things together in which we are not allowed, or cannot easily talk.

Something that we can then have an entire conversation about afterwards that I am not only engaged in, but am incredibly excited to jabber in detail. Movies either at home or in the theater, musicals, plays, and I’ve even dragged myself to some ballet with Megan as it was Swan Lake, after all.

We do plenty of experiences with talking as well, usually to a bar or a sporting event. I really like to listen to people talk in public. Some people call it eavesdropping, I call it observation. So when Megan and I are in a place where I feel like people could and would be doing the same to me, I don’t like to talk very much. I’m a fairly private person in public. Loud spaces make me more me — I’m willing to speak my mind more freely when the evidence in front of me tells me I am much harder to be heard.

Funny to write about being a private person in public, considering all this private information I am writing about myself for the world to see. Though, when it comes to representing myself in writing, I’ve pretty much been free with myself online since before my teens. Also at least, when it comes to who I am as a person — I don’t mind people being able to read it. My thoughts can be edited here — I’m bad at editing my spoken word at times.

Back to experiences, though. Ones where Megan and I don’t get to talk much. I’m going to write a sentence now that I think some people have a hard time understanding — or it will offend them.

Every time I get on my motorcycle I am comfortable with the idea that it may be my last time.

Megan and I haven’t spoken about it yet, though I am sure we will before this is posted in the morning. I am fairly positive she is comfortable with this now, too — and I never begrudge anyone who isn’t. You have to be to get on one of the things. If you don’t think about that decision before getting on one, you should.

Recently Megan and I truly started riding together. I have owned my motorcycle for four years and crashed it twice. Once my fault, the other not. It’s been two years since my last accident. I learn more through my accidents than anything else, and I learned a lot from those.

Don’t think I am a newbie, either. I grew up riding dirt bikes with my friend Jake in his back yard. Took the motorcycle class, got my endorsement, and then rode a moped for a significant amount of miles in Hawai’i before I got wasted and it got stolen.

Riding a motorcycle is like the rest of life, you can be cautious, but it is just as unpredictable.

So to have Megan finally comfortable, so comfortable and trusting she closes her eyes on rides, means the world to me. We do not ride dangerously, we ride extremely defensively and can count out by number when we get home how many accidents we avoided — as well as where we could have died had we not been aware.

We go on these rides together, sharing an experience that no one else will ever get. We see the breathtaking Colorado landscape and sunset — carving in the curves along it.

Knowing full well that if this is our last, it’s our last together.

That is one of the very best things about riding my motorcycle with Megan. It is an experience we share together where at any moment, we could both perish. I know that sounds terrifying to people — but I have have found that being scared of death itself is a great way to not actually live. It’s a great way to hold yourself back from things you want.

When Megan and I get on that motorcycle together, we are comfortable with the idea of Death taking us under its cloak and never letting go. We’re not asking for it, we don’t want it. We sure as hell don’t spend the entire ride worrying about it, though.

No, it’s that slight level of fear that is needed to ride and stay safe. The one that can be acknowledged but conquered. With warm air flowing all around, and a rumbling engine beneath. It’s that feeling of taking back some of the choices life makes for us, and making a choice for ourselves. Doing and experiencing what we want, because it makes our daily life more enjoyable and brings us closer together as people and as a couple.

Riding is one of the many things Megan and I do as opposites so that we can communicate better and enjoy each others’ company better. It’s quickly become one of our very favorite things to do now that Megan is so much more comfortable than she used to be.

Now we can go through this year’s catalogue to pick out a better seat and louder pipes for the highway — because the thing is completely paid off! I wrote about catharsis and football, how there are things that give me great release. I just feel better about life after a ride. Not even football compares to how happy and complete I feel as a person — when Megan is on the back of my motorcycle and we are riding through beautiful scenery.

I’m really happy that as the years go on we are still finding new ways to properly enjoy and appreciate each others’ company. I look forward to seeing what rides we map out next in life.

Thank you for reading.

©2017 Trevor Elms
Featured photo by Trevor Elms, Megan Elms Pictured. ©2017