This is the work of Charles Delucie. Words are tools used to build roads. My attempt is to carry my reader to the place in my head. Sometimes the work is fantastic, sometimes not, but it will usually be fiction. Visceral is the quality I work towards, and the physical sensation that I would love to give my readers. Please feel free to comment openly about the pieces, but most of all, get your feet on the pavement and travel.
A film that I did for school. Enjoy!
She lay there in the dark chill of her bunk and tried to ignore the grating beep of her alarm. It had pulled her out of the deep dark hole of sleep a few minutes before but she always hated that damned sound. It might have had something to do with the fact that she slept so much better out here. No traffic noise, no birds to wake her, no sun coming up and invading her room through her windows. The sun was always up out here, but it only came in when she wanted it too. Continue reading
This weekend, we’re asking for you to sum up your own process with just three little words. Give us dry wit, pathos or otherwise. And remember, we like your blood on the page. Put it there. – See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.6NHEvbD6.dpuf
My three words are:
Flood Agonize Pare
Awkwardly haunting her back garden in the wee hours of the morning. Peeking through the curtains in a pathetic attempt to catch a glimpse of glistening pink skin.
She knows I’m there. She loves that I’m there. It excites her.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
The neck-broken tulips under my feet will serve as evidence later. They will say that I stomped on their corpses in anticipation. The delicate yellow heads crushed and battered. They deserve the same chalk halo.
She loved me in the end. Throat wrapped in precious silk. She loved me.
Word Count: 99
So I’m not quite sure I like the way this turned out, but it is what it is.
So it’s been a little while since I’ve written anything. A lot of stuff going on and I was honestly just a bit of a breather over the summer. Let’s get back to it shall we.
I watched them hack him into pieces that no longer looked like they came from a human and shove them into their mouths. Their tools were crude misshapen gouges of nearly black iron, and I knew by the grunts that accompanied their thrashing blows that they were not sharp. The jagged metal was tearing more than it was slicing. Continue reading
So I woke up this morning, earlier than I would have liked, and popped open my gmail account to find a comment and a like on my blog despite not having written in it for almost 3 weeks. Finals happened, then my Mom came out to visit for two weeks so it’s been a blog free couple of weeks, and because we are about to move to a new apartment, it might be a week or so before I get back to work.
However, in the space of time that I have been writing I have come across a few bloggers, or they have come upon me, thus expanding my writing community. One of the bloggers that discovered me, and by that act allowed me to discover him, is remingtonmoll over at think/look/write. Not only has this guy written some great stuff, he has encouraged and supported my work along the way. This week he threw his hat in the ring to give me the Liebster award for new blogs. I’ll explain the rules of the award and sort of get into what it means below. Either way, I would like to really thank Remington for the honor and the privilege. I will refrain from passing the Liebster right back, but I will send my sincere thanks and get down to the brass tacks of my obligations when it comes to the Liebster. Continue reading
There is house in central Vermont at the apex of a cul-de-sac. The address is 385 Champlain Circle. There are no other houses in that particular cul-de-sac. There are no other houses in that particular community. There are piles of decaying wood and plaster in each lot of that community, but they have all but turned into hillocks dotting a long abandoned landscape. In the basement of 385 Champlain Circle there is a staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, just to the right, there is a burlap sack hanging on a rusty hook. It is slightly green from mold, and if you were to see it at night, it would look quite full. This is where Morsel sleeps. Continue reading