Spatial Trepidation: A Story and Writing blog

Post 56- Progress has been made! I-WORLD IS COMING.

2012-02-14T21:16:00.000-08:00

These are some new poems I've written, everyone. There were more, but they were too experimental in structure to even type up. SO. Enjoy these! And I'm terribly sorry it took so long. Sometimes you have to just wait for the inspiration to start writing.

Once I finally decided to sit down and actually

write something

I was confused at the new list of

priorities

my life had established to far remove the pleasure of creativity and instead

convert

its entirety to a sort of 'dish-washing' chore,

but moreso it was that that idea itself was merely a fabrication,

because all I wanted was to sit inside and dream.

Why do we torment ourselves?

Where

Am over there

Perched neatly above

Flower Petals

and

Cherry Blossoms.

Because I want to be.

There isn't much to actually starting a journey

Seeing as how we're all one existential example

But are we supposed to love life along the way?

"All about the journey" but scared little girls

And bullied teens won't agree

The definitional phrasing seems to be independent

Of subject or context and more akin to

A sublimation of perception.

C'est La Vie.

So it goes.

Every student that walks by keeps

OgGlinG

At my pages as if I'm

(hiding something)

Or about to REVEAL who they are.

I wish they were more concerned about the

Sustainibility-y-y-y-y-y-y

Of noiseless shoes

That keep interrupting my simple scrawls

By thwomping or scuffling over the stairs.

But next they'll be complaining about how

I rap my knuckles when in thought

And we can't have that, or society will surely buckle.

Must write more poetry

Who is I?

Why do we make him write more

God-Forsaken

poetry...

There's plenty

POETRY

P Of Poetry

oe Poetry look here! more poetry!

try poetry

But perhaps it's just

He who has to do it.

I think it's funny how words themselves paint

a picture in that clouded

vestigial

membrane

called the MIND

that's neither here, nor there.

To think that little spark of neurons going on

Right now

Popping off one by one

Is literally just a brain-gasm

As you connect bits and pieces together like

So many jigsaws gnarling oaken branches.

And when something doesn't make sense it clutters

And sp-p-p-utterrssss

For a second

Before some little thought

Fixes it, changes the oil,

And sends it on its way.

Carting the mail of afterthought.

Some thoughts.

Rukeyser's Roads...

What sort of country do the 'roads' in

'Well Then There Now' represent or portray?

A twisting, winding, boldly defining but carefully depicted and fragmented visionary piece of our emotionally charged and altogether explanatory everyday.

Or that's how it seemed to me.

A sensory experiment in combination of syntactical revelation and their dictionated counterparts all in lieu with one another, one driving the van

the other tossing the money next to the spare.

In truth the precise nature of an entire country

(through her work)

seems more related to the individual's flavoring,

their hypersensitive tuning to the smallest of details

in every place they've gone. What we get is that the

system is overly complex.

post 55-What am I doing...

2012-02-09T08:41:00.000-08:00

I'm so lost atm, everyone.

I say I'm going to post and go on my way worrying about my Club, my recently failed relationship, etc etc and I'm incredibly sorry that you guys, who have given me support for my writing and shown me that there's still positive feedback for poetry and writing, have been left behind in the chaos.

I swear, by the end of the weekend, something big will be on here. The saddest part is this isn't a new thing; I always go through dry periods because of my life/events that happen.

I hope you are all doing well!

Post 54- Cohabitate and I-World

2012-01-31T16:54:00.000-08:00

Enjoy! I got these ideas from my poetry class today (and environmental Lit...we got into some very meta discussions on what it is to 'be' and how poets attempt to toss a thread out to define the things in our world that are undefinable..crazy yea?)

Cohabitate

Populate that natural world
With a sensual ravishment of
Humanitarianism and leave the thinking
To the butterflies who flock to dead antlers
On a creek shore.

Just
Let
It
Be
And
Cohabitate.

I-world

We live in an
eye world full of visionaries who gave us dev
ices to power our too quickly distracted m
inds but what the
I-world is isn't qu
ite so simple...

I think in our own heads is an exc
iting realm of displacement, a n
icely gray area between reality and fixation that can get lost to the t
ides of t
ime if we don't watch where we're going. Dredge up that old pair of
i-glasses and sit down and read a book every once in a wh
ile, before they go extinct and the whole
idea of slowly and organically gathering information is lost to us ent
irely.

That's it for today! Expect more soon, as I work on I-world, my next manuscript. This one isn't limited by titles, but rather construction. It's an entire manuscript based around the idea of visual and tonal changes in poetry!

Take care everyone!

Post 53- It's been 5 days!

2012-01-30T08:44:00.001-08:00

I thought I'd let you guys know I'm not dead haha.

Expect some more poems tomorrow and the official start of my next manuscript!

Take care!

Post 52- Take a vote!

2012-01-25T02:13:00.000-08:00

Hey there everyone!
It's been one hell of a few days, so here's the gist.

I'd like to know what YOU folks want to read.

Are you content with my poetry? Or would you rather have short stories? Or even news?

This is your chance! Also feel free to suggest a topic that you've wanted to see done, such as a fantasy story or a poem centered on the sun, for example. And you can be more specific than that :P

Hope everyone had a good January!

Post 51- News about me! (And other stuff)

2012-01-18T18:18:00.000-08:00

So today for the most part i sat inside waiting to post something because i knew that it was the blackout day. I'm incredibly proud of the blogs that I follow that decided to do it themselves. More power to them, but i'm just too excited!

I am now officially the Club President of the English Club on my campus. In related news, for the third time in its entire history, my school is having a snow day tomorrow. How exciting that I was here for it!

Additionally I've volunteered at the Writing Center here as a tutor, with the prospect of working for the university to help students with papers and to teach group sessions.

I've also got a few new poems for you that I wrote in my Advanced Poetry course, so enjoy!

1 Thing to Find Out More About

Could just be
What I should remember
Because I always seem to forget
Exactly what I shouldn't.

If I knew what to cherish
I might make everything easier,
Make more money,
Bed more women
Or just live a better life
But since such an
Aloof mentality
Condemns me
I'm left with naught
But the
Nonsensical
Ramblings
Of my own head
Which can't recall the reason
For starting a poem
Based on stream of consciousness.

Nostalgia Box

You turn to something
In order to look back
And see
A name
A face
Some sort of cue
To let yourself know about
Important memories
Associated
With a scarf
Or a toy fox
But it really only goes so far
As to make you smile and
Feel the weight
Of an object that can
Transport you
Back
Like one of
Harry's
Teleporting Trophies.

Post 50- Almost a year of blogging!

2012-01-16T02:32:00.000-08:00

Although not nonstop. My bad on that one.

I have three things for you today: 2 poems, and a short story/creative essay. I hope you folks enjoy these pieces from last semester ^^

The Greatest Song Ever Written

Would have to reel you in, slowly at first, with rhythms that touch your heart, making it palpitate, bumping into the mind, leaving your skin crawling. It would be personally catered to you, telling a tale of a girl or a boy that remind you of the one that got away, before drifting into guitar and drum solos that touch at the very soul of youth. Certainly, the lack of any and all details in the song would brighten the very foundation of its subject, and all its intricacies, to a point that you forget the tragedies of your past. The singer would be simple in words but complex in reason, with an ensemble from your youth that takes you back in time to a simpler, childlike place filled with nothing but pure happiness and simplicity before the world robbed you of innocence in a way you could never forget. Indeed, it wouldn't be a song so much as a tale or every right, every wrong you had ever done composed into musical notation. It might feature copious amounts of lute play, synthesizer, black metal and bass, but at its root it will always be about YOU. It would never be played on the radio, and you would be the only person that knows about how wonderful it sounds, because it was written by that girl or guy that got away just for you, and as you listen tears might well up in your eyes. Without knowing it, you will be driven to action, to contact them, to ask them if this time it will work, or to forget them and carry on oblivious to the world, a bastion of indignation and a soloist exemplifying the very nature of the music to which you are currently listening. No one will like it as you do, no one will understand it in the same way, and you will be quite alright with that as you walk to class, drive to work, or continue living in the world forever lied to, a child told of all the great things they could have become, and you will contemplate your choices in the same way an old man cries, sad, and alone, for the song isn't a happy one; it is a tragedy of youth and of love, of original hopes and dreams lost but new ones made up, and its beauty will lie in its personal tragedy, tailored, again, to you, the most important audience of all. It will include no pity, no remorse, as it lays down with epic waves of sound-scapes that life will go on, that you will be alright, and that it isn't so much what you have done but what you will do that in the end, will satisfy your tastes, and you'll start up the track again, titled after some obscure thing that you love, and it will again get you beating, living, walking, thinking your way into the world's early morning as the sun crosses the horizon and the dew smiles happily at the dawn.

Fear

Isn't just a word but a feeling of remorse

Or apprehension as something wicked this way

Comes and you can't quite place a feeling like that,

Real fear,

Because when you try you only remember images or things

That caused you real fear.

It's funny, that generally speaking,

We don't feel it when we know something is coming,

But startle, or surprise us and more often than not we'll exclaim

'Oh you scared me' while you stand there in your scream mask and laugh

At taking advantage of our primal emotions.

And isn't it the scariest when there's a fear you can't escape

And are forced to ride through,

Like a bad dream or a nightmare where the cold dead hands of an ex wife

Come to pry you away from your peaceful life even if you never had one,

Or a shadowy figure asks you for change when you have none,

And sometimes even your pet dog souffle chases you through a maze and you have to run,

Have to,

Because he's frothing at the mouth and rabid from disease.

Or maybe just happy to see you.

And it's this unknown sense of what will happen interspersed with

The moment to moment present terror

In nightmares that really scares me,

Because that can happen at any time and you can't run,

Can't fight,

Can only hope to wake up and realize you shouldn't eat pizza before bed

Or let yourself think dark thoughts like that,

And instead just sit down and write a poem about

The thing that scares you long after breakfast.

Yea, just write a poem about it.

Poles of the Brain

It's a geometric piece I had commissioned

By a local artist so I could show

How sophisticated I am.

She called it 'Poles of the Brain'

And asked me questions beforehand,

So I can only imagine that the curious title

Means I have very opposite Personalities,

Or Thoughts, or Types.

But looking at the Black and White

Triangles on a sea of Blue, under a

Purple and Red sunset with no sun

I feel it is more at peace with me

Than I thought at first.

She really is a good artist,

I think.

Post 49 - Almost to 50!

2012-01-13T17:49:00.000-08:00

Expect a fun update this weekend. Here's a short story to wet your appetites!

The Marble Stairs

It was the cleanest building Steven had ever seen.

When his mother held his hand he could feel the sticky sweat clinging in between her fingers and on her palm; even his Grandmother seemed downcast, and she was always the positive person in the family. But it wasn't them that Steven paid the most attention to. The courthouse was decorated with giant pillars at its front, and bestrode 2 white marble staircases that curved sleekly toward the parking lot. Where the dark and dirty asphalt ended, law began.

For six months his family had anxiously waited for the day when Steven would be taken before a judge and questioned on where he wanted, or rather who he wanted, to live with. And while he had had no real opinion, something in his mother's eyes had told him that although she loved him dearly, she could not take care of him. For what it was worth Steven understood why, he knew that the small trailer amongst over mobile homes was sodden and decrepit; he knew that the kids he played with weren't nice kids; and he knew what money was, and that they had little of it.

So, six months later, Steven was holding his mother's hand gingerly, listening to their footfalls as they crossed the threshold onto the marble stairs, and up into the vast, clean building. Marble gave way to granite and brick decor, columns to offices. The lady at the front desk seemed to know exactly who they were and why they were there, and glanced down at Steven pityingly. The sheen in her eyes scared him.

It was the sheen of sadness his mother shared when they ate well, having Stouffer's lasagna instead of ramen for once, the knowledge of the next poor meal at the forefront of her worries. A sheen shared by the swinging metal door on their trailer, and the knife in the neighbor boy's hand as he chased him home.

She told them quietly, almost inaudibly where to sit and allowed Steven's mother to stay to finish some last minute paperwork. There was a long wait, and after a group of people walked out sobbing, they were told to come inside. Steven felt his mother's hand on his back as they funneled into the room, this time made of oak and carpet. It was air conditioned, unlike the room outside, and Steven felt a chill that gave him goosebumps.

This wasn't the first time Steven had been in a courtroom; his mother had taken custody years earlier, when he was just a babe, from his father. The man had not even shown up, instead deciding the battle was already lost when she took him across country to live with her near the family. So he had stayed. His mother showed more courage now, perhaps because this wasn't a fight, but a change of hands. A sort of giving up of her son.

So Steven, knowing what it meant, sat there and listened to these big people talk. He listened for his name and nodded when he ought to, and looked down when he felt the need to.

And when the judge, sitting high up on his seat with a big hammer at his side, looked down at him and asked "Would you like to live with your Grandmother, Steven?" he said what was expected in that long moment when everyone held their breath.

He held his mother's hand all the way to the edge of the lobby before he let go and walked down the white marble stairs alone.

Post 48 - A sad time

2012-01-11T17:48:00.000-08:00

It is a sad day indeed when we are forced to consider the SOPA and PROTECT IP Act as a means to combat piracy.

You've probably heard/seen the stuff all over the web about the issues they raise over free speech on the web, content generation, and creativity. But I urge everyone that follows my blog to take action and send an email to their state senator. It's really easy to do! Just go to the link below, and you can fill out a form to email your state's senators to oppose the bill. We all need to be heard.

https://action.eff.org/o/9042/p/dia/action/public/?action_KEY=8173

More information can be found here as well: https://www.eff.org/

Post 47- The Final Piece!

2012-01-09T22:05:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the late post everyone, had a busy first day of classes (and an unhealthy addiction to my new 3DS and Pokemon White). I certainly hope you enjoy the following poems, as they bring -B-ook of The End to a close.

Coming soon: A new manuscript. Which letter, I have yet to decide. Enjoy!

Break - Sec 3
Bourgeoisie - Sec 3
Behind - Sec 3
Beyond the Veil - Sec 3
-B-ook of The End - Sec 4/Conclusion

Break

There's a break before the plunge

A sort of washing off of sin

I think it has to do

With knowing that

This is it.

I won't make it out alive

What I've known

Is all I will ever know.

My life

Will

Break

Like any stone

To be remade

Grown anew.

Although eternity does not frighten me

I am still scared for the others

Whose tears will mark my passage

To another place that they

Too

Will ultimately join.

Perhaps such dark muses

Are but a method of coping

A contemplation

To calm my spirit as I fade away.

Bourgeoisie

The purpose of consumerism

Is to devour those who are smaller.

All the gold watches

And decor's of mountainous mansions

Are just the pets

Of an ideal

To eat

To succeed

Like so much else in the world.

And civilization is but

A means to compete

With one another

In a more convoluted measure.

For us

Withholding basic need is an everyday affair

We make love to it for profit

Without a thought to the contrary.

Our stagnation is coming

And with it

The feeling of hunger.

Behind

Something to get

to want

a lustful thought

a denim's grudge

Lose it all if you fall into it

kick it when it's down

We all need to realize a leader

is just someone who has yet to be shaken by it

Truthfully it isn't so bad

We just put labels on everything.

Beyond the Veil

Out here

Your

Senses

Like to mix

You smell touch

Taste sound

And your limbs

Refuse to bend properly

Instead choosing to disembark your body

To float away on their own dreams

This mauve sensation is too removed

To be found familiar

Time is simply a hurdle to be jumped over,

Run past,

Skipped by,

And once done

You are paid the dividends

One would expect;

Immorality,

Vulnerability,

Conscience.

Beside you

Others swim through the mist

Searching

For their own answers to who they are

And where they came from

It is always the same:

There is no memory here.

Beyond the veil

You are left to your own desires

It is where all questions remain unanswered and curious

-B-ook of The End

I once grew a stench to see what the seeds looked like

I feared the end of my hobby seeking activities

When a woman of no minor importance

Deemed me worthy to read a particular

Book

Of no particular

Author

Which depicted a

Rather detestable

Notation

About the reasoning of all mankind.

It claimed

We harbored a sickness that had no cure

And that in its reality

Circular thought was simply the norm.

Chickens and eggs were revered for their

Resourcefulness

And the labor of a thousand men

Only produced two thousand more of them.

While I at once wished

For such a simple existence

The woman saw the glint

Of my eye and took it back

Before I had a chance to read the last few pages

Which

I hope

Was a tale of caution to any would-be reader,

Though I have no way of knowing.

Post 46- Part 3 coming soon!

2012-01-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately, I'm heading back to my College as my vacation is coming to an end. BUT expect part 3 somtime tomorrow or on Monday!

Have a good weekend everyone!

Post 45- Part 2 of -B-ook of The End

2012-01-05T14:02:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the late post, everyone. These ones are just a little bit longer. Really hope you enjoy these as much as I enjoyed writing them! :D

Better Not - sec 1
Buy Me - sec 1
Battle Corporation - sec 1

Better Not

We are all

keenly aware

of that simple phrase

'you'd better not'

and its implications.

That it is better

to not do this

than it is

to do that

is too difficult

to say

and as we digress

even more surreptitiously

into shortened phrases

and abbrev wrds

we may find

we lose pt of wht mks Eng

such a pwrfl lang.

It will become

gender neutral

unbiased

with twice as much of a learning curve

and may God help us

when that happens

because you'll be seeing the older generations

completely ostracized from the younger ones

who learn more quickly.

So as we all capitulate

that downward spiral of

-fuck-

-all-

-spelling-

texting

instant messaging

and A.D.D.

will create a new type of novel

(limited to 150 characters)

allowing us to burn what's left

Tolstoy

and

Angelou

in good confidence

just to watch the fire crackle.

Buy Me

Buy me a

Rosy red ring

With

Ruby studded feelings

And maybe

I'll consider lying next to you.

Buy me a

New generation

Of peaceful peoples

Who work together to save our planet

And maybe

I'll lead them myself.

Buy me

More of the same

And a typewriter to empty my thoughts onto

And maybe

I'll write something

You will cry over.

But buy ME

Buy me

And maybe

You'll feel

That little bit

Of buyer's remorse

Because I've done nothing of note

And people don't seem inherently valuable.

Hopefully the added effort

Of buying my typewriter

Will prevent anyone

From ever bidding on me at auction.

I'd much rather sit

In the bid house

And play with all the unwanted rarities

Than be the willing pet of some

Corporation or

Nationality or

Military or

Pimp.

They're all too similar to one another

Get that straight,

And first sign of a profit

You're back at that auction house

Playing with that unsold typewriter.

Battle Corporation

There's a man in a suit

Looking through your credentials

And all he can manage to say is

'Interesting'

Before throwing you back out on the street

And continuing on his merry way.

You weren't ready to work for him

You tell yourself

The job would have been too difficult.

But you miss that

Slowly shining sun

After pulling night shifts

At The Gap

And you wanted something more usual

Something to write mom about.

Perhaps you walking back in

Was just

What he was waiting for

The indomitable will

Of someone desperate for success.

So he lets you on

Introduces you

To a world in confidence

With all its darknesses.

He changes your understanding of Wall Street forever

Where the companies aren't just businesses

They're Nationalities

And every little clink on the sidewalk

Is a scrap

For the war torn street

Rat

Living around you

In the alleyways.

Climbing stocks

Are just rocket plumes

Money trading

Is the black market

And your suit of armor

Is just a windsor

Or ediety

If you're feeling fancy.

Your best weapon

Is your tongue

And your only goal

Is to pull ahead.

All this he tells you and you smell

The sterility

Of the linoleum underneath your feet

Before deciding that all you'd ever wanted

Was to be involved in the fastest

War

On the planet.

He hands you his card

And says:

Welcome to the Battle Corporation.

Post 44 - Man...

2012-01-03T14:33:00.000-08:00

I just woke up. And i am thoroughly hungover. A 40 of Malt will do that to you i suppose.

Expect more poetry, aka the second section of -B-ook of The End, soon. Likely tomorrow or later today. ^^

Hope everyone's New Year's Resolutions are working out!

Post 43 - Broken Society Special

2012-01-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

-B-ook of the End is making some interesting turns. As such, here's the new section 1 titles, and the theme poem, Broken Society. EDIT: Included is also the sadly missing The Book of W poem from my last manuscript...for some reason it's not shown on the older post. I didn't notice until now. Be sure to go back and check out Post 37, Another Big Project!

Section Poem 1: Broken Society

Better Not - sec 1
Buy Me - sec 1
Battle Corporation - sec 1

Broken Society

What we've got here is just another

Broken Society

Full of loser lovers who

Can't

Approach a dame

And free fuckers

Who'd stick it in egg salad if

The thought popped in their head.

The problem with these folks

Is that their general consensus

Of personal interest

Is in the investiture of nothing.

Were we really so young ourselves

Blinded too

When we led the riots into the streets

And called out the pope?

Now it isn't about us,

But rather them,

And how they try to ducktape those

Consumerist

Chauvinists

So they'll stop spending

So much

God Damn

Money

On useless crap like ATVs

Or ABC Family

Or the web.

What's the point of it all anyway

If they don't have a woman

To keep them warm.

That screen isn't going to smile back, you loser lover.

It's all just a slowly capitulating,

Blowing down and

Busting out

Broken

Fucking

Society

That will one day

Come to dominate the world

And piss off any

Interstellar travelers

Unlucky enough to fly through the radio waves of an episode of

The Real World.

And we're sitting here,

At the center of it all,

Trying to find our match online

When they're sitting out there somewhere

Suffering

From our Broken Society.

The Book Of -W-

The Book of -W-

Features only the most exclusive ideas

Of what and who we wish to be.

It is personal and unique

To every individual

Who braves the dusty tome's pages.

Inside the gold-leaf is a kinder ritual of

Self-impotence

Where you're all turned into gods

And told to run the universe.

Only thing is,

The Book of -W- pretends we're capable enough

Willing enough

To try,

When we'd all rather

Just look out for ourselves

In a universe

Consisting of singular perspective.

And the goal:

It's yours to decide.

Whether man stay beast or banish their gods of fate.

Post 42 - Omg 42

2011-12-30T12:22:00.000-08:00

So, holidays are as relaxing and entertaining as ever.

How quaint.

In other news I'm going to publish part 2 sometime after the new year for -B-ook of The End. The goal is to have it all on here by the week of the 8th.

Happy Holidays!

Post 41- -B-ook of The End, Part 1 :D

2011-12-27T13:05:00.000-08:00

This is the second section of the manuscript, headed by section lead Bring Forth Brutality.

Bring Forth Brutality

Bring forth brutality to usher in

The next stage of my life

Which thus far

Was not nearly as

Violent

As I would wish.

Bring forth brutality

On the tips of

Blood-battered spears,

On the wings of shield

And arrow.

Tear down the peaceful urge and

Let me

Be taken deeper,

To baser metals,

Where the strength of my fist answers to none.

I will curb my appetite

That pension

For torture

When I

Bring Forth Brutality

Blaze

Ravish it

Purge it

Let that

Brightness

Die in their eyes.

There was a child

Recently

Who did not run from me

When I scalded the flesh

From her parent's bones.

I rewarded her with

Those same bleached logs

And sent her out into the world

Knowing only how it must burn.

Who else but a child could be trusted with no morality?

Bound

When a man is held,

Bound to rope and shackle,

He admits his guilt.

Lust for life is never-ending

Forever unappeased.

Few are ready to pass beneath

The wooden scaffold,

And fewer desire to burn it down

Than save their Precious existence.

But I bore no ill will to captors and executioners,

Befriended no knaves or scoundrels.

You may find me disagreeable,

But the satisfaction of a man's

Truthful and dead

Gaze

Looking into yours

Is a wondrous thing.

Calming.

A softening of mutual understanding.

Blight

Nature's trial

Finds its match in

The Blight

When Land

And Sea

Corrode and decay;

Mountains simmer to day heat

Cities bathe their inhabitants in

Soot-distilled air.

Such dark premonitions feign to reveal

The sense of knowing only

The Blight,

Having lived in it,

Desired anything

But

It.

You may find

In those bloody visions than pain,

Only to discover how very probable

Such a thing can be.

And let that distress

Slow

Down

Your

Speedy pointlessness

Heading in the wrong direction.

Treasure

Your life.

Enjoy!

Post 40- Update!

2011-12-26T00:45:00.001-08:00

I've finished writing section 2 of -B-ook of The End.

Expect it tomorrow!

Post 39- A taste of things to come

2011-12-22T09:17:00.000-08:00

-B-ook of the End is on its way. Here is a list of titles for the poems within.

Title Poem: -B-ook of The End
Section Poem 1: Born From The Anvil
Section Poem 2: Bring Forth Brutality
Section Poem 3: Beyond The Veil

Bust - sec 1
Burnt Forge - sec 1
Buds - sec 1

Blaze - sec 2
Bound - sec 2
Benevolent - sec 2

Buffer-Zone- sec 3
Bourgeoisie - sec 3
Break - sec 3

While several are title poems and clearly marked section headers, others are just titles atm.

If on of these sounds interesting to you, or you'd like to read it first, post away. Otherwise, the first poems will be published soon, but later than if you request. Consider this a chance at a free preview of the manuscript.

Of course, some of these may never be shown, or i may come up with better titles or poem ideas later. All is subject to change. ^^

Hope you are all having a good holiday!

Post 38- Start of Winter Break, and a New Manuscript

2011-12-12T05:33:00.000-08:00

Over the course of the next few weeks i'm going to be working on a new poetry manuscript titled -B-ook of the End.

In similar fashion to my last, each poem will have a title that starts with a B.

Looking forward to eventually having an ENTIRE alphabet!

Post 37- Another Big Project!

2011-12-08T07:01:00.000-08:00

Today i finished my work on a poetic manuscript. Inside are a few old poems i've posted the last few months, but there's also a lot of newer material.

Enjoy, comment, and $upport!

The Book of

-W-

By Howard Noggle

Waning Moonlight

Wither

Go to that Dark Place

It is where things go

To Waste Away

Be sure to pack

Something to warm you

Cold awaits

Go to that Dark Place

When you're in the Light

The chill of your bones

May be warmed by solidarity

A student packs his bags

And a maid cleans the halls

Sun glares through windows

Ignore the sense of self

Trick your mind to follow

Down

Into the pit

You're hopes

Are Simple

Compound them all

But forget sensibility

And devour instead

Any loose material

It may prolong your time

For you

Are only as good

As what you want

And when you drift apart

From the ones you love

Do not fear the

Wither

What's In The Fog

What is in that fog

That rolls over the San Francisco Bridge

There's a sort of fluffy consistency

That reminds you of marshmallows by the fire

Only wetter

Why am I enthralled by a natural occurrence

It might be related to the fear

Of something in the fog

Trying to hunt me down and find me

It half blind like me

Only able to look ahead

Perhaps the mist is meant to remind us

Of the unforeseen

The possibility

Of being hunted

The probability

Of what is really in the fog

Willing

I will to be

To see the combing clouds

Drift across the scalp of the Earth

I will to be

A man that doesn't smoke but meditates

In a shack by the pond

On our beastial nature

I will to hunt

Over flowing fields of grain

On top of mountains

And be seen

I will

Become what we forget

And run amok in the wilds

Through the books of wolves

Will

You join me?

Wild

Nathaniel Hawthorne sat next to a source of water

For quite some time

Pondering and writing

Providing for himself

What he discovered I learned

Over a year of smoking in all kinds of weather

Through ran that dampened the light

And wind that snuffed out the flames

We are Wild Creatures

In artificial jungles

We eat the souls of progress

And justify our means through

A curved sense

That lingers

The purpose of man isn't civilization

It is competitive in nature

In that way we have greatly exceeded expectation

If only in the blink of time it took to make us

Wilder

Where the wolf takes as it's spouse a fallow doe

Ghenghis took the world

He mounted it and rode it hard

And we all sweated blood for his conquests

Where river meets ice and mountain breaks sky

We look around and admire the natural beauty

And where shiny earthen metals protrude

We take and create the images we lust after

We are the powerful and wilder monsters

Cast into illusion

Left to consume at our whims

Who is Man to take what he did not earn

So it is that we connect with the planet

Biding time until a drop of water

In the vast sea

Dries up entirely

Waning Moonlight

Upon the eve of despair

Cursed by greed and gluttony

I stood and watched the sun rise

Shadows danced across every earthly construct

Beheld in the splendor of a tune

That I listed to

Leaning peons had no recourse

In the silence of a sunrise

While heat chilled the bones

I grew complacent

Comfortable

Until the night came again

And our bright and shiny moon

Continued to wane

Waxing People

Where We're Going

The end

Is entirely up to us

What we choose to do

Is reliant upon

What we think everyone

Else is doing

And why we do

What we will do

Is only as important

As the way

In which we do it.

And if we're not careful,

Then there won't be

Anything we can do.

Where we're going.

What We're Made Of

I found myself wondering this morning

And last night in particular

What we're all made of.

There's oil and water,

Dirt and grime,

Rag and bone,

Blood, snot,

Skin, nail,

Brain,

And instinct all wrapped up in us.

But we've got thought and we like to use it too.

And here's something a little less known;

The warm sense of beach sand against our toes,

The cool breeze of winter upon our cheeks,

A greater sense of knowing that we just can't place,

Something soothing and calming and understanding all at once.

Some might call it being at peace

But I call it being beside Peace

Because we're not exactly a peaceful species.

Perhaps the most interesting part

Of us

Is that one particular spark;

Patterned

Like the web of constellations in us,

Spider webbed through our toes,

The toes of dancers that curl and know the feeling

Of a matted floor or a wooden high beam,

Or the fingers of a writer

That love the curve of a pen meant to fit

Or the click of a keyboard.

That twinge in our nose hairs at the

First frost

Or the warm feeling

In the after glow

Where she's rubbing your back

And you're both smiling

At one another

Like nothing ever happened

And you're just 'Happy to be here, folks'.

And every once in a while

A couple of little transistors

Up in that head of ours

Go off in just the right sequence

And we feel happy,

Or At Peace,

And it's all leading

To one grand thought

Blooming like a rose

In the middle of fall.

Odd, but not entirely out of place.

We've all got that spark:

A little light of brilliance

That puts even sunrise to shame.

Where We're Going

The end

Is entirely up to us

What we choose to do

Is reliant upon

What we think everyone

Else is doing

And why we do

What we will do

Is only as important

As the way

In which we do it.

And if we're not careful,

Then there won't be

Anything we can do.

Where we're going.

Want

I used to dream, but now I stay awake.

My body is rocking,

And I'm angry at my sheets.

'They're too tight' I keep saying,

'They're choking me'.

I used to dream, but now I stay awake.

My family doesn't understand.

They won't believe

I have real problems quitting.

All I want is to sleep.

I used to dream, but now I stay awake.

An itch festers in me,

Poking and prodding into my conscience.

'Sleep,' it says,

'Go to sleep.'

But my family says I can't anymore.

I used to dream, but now I stay awake.

When I can finally stand

I've lost track of time.

There is no one left that I knew,

And no comfort awaits me

In eternity.

I used to live,

But now I stay awake.

What Is Left

Wife.

Judy.

She doesn't want to live here anymore.

Judge.

Ruling.

Judy can take her life somewhere else.

Take.

She takes.

She's taking it all.

Kitchen sink.

Dishwasher.

Dryer.

Everything she's going to need in her new home.

T.V. Bank account. Kids.

Office chair.

Spare tire.

She doesn't forget to get a little greedy by the end.

The Mercedes.

My promotion.

She keeps taking,

Taking more than she can carry.

The house she rolls away

Down the freeway.

My soul she bottles up

Like a genie.

My memory she blows away,

The dust of a life.

She kicks my dignity down the street

And punts it into traffic.

She sucks out my words and

Eats my liver

Now I can't drink this away.

And then she slaps me to break my pride.

Anger is all that's left.

For that,

She offers to take me back.

I can't remember ever leaving.

Waxing People

We chose to wax our dog

when he died

thinking it would allow the sense of memory to return.

It's more real, we said.

Like he's still hear, watching over us

and barking in case

the neighbor's cat got out

or a burglar broke our glass.

He was always faster then us,

running ahead

speeding his way into the street.

I suppose waxing him to let him stay with us forever

is a bit cruel

considering he ran himself

to death before us.

I don't think we'll wax our parents when they kick the bucket.

The Book Of -W-

The Book of -W-

Features only the most exclusive ideas

Of what and who we wish to be.

It is personal and unique

To every individual

Who braves the dusty tome's pages.

Inside the gold-leaf is a kinder ritual of

Self-impotence

Where you're all turned into gods

And told to run the universe.

Only thing is,

The Book of -W- pretends we're capable enough

Willing enough

To try,

When we'd all rather

Just look out for ourselves

In a universe

Consisting of singular perspective.

And the goal:

It's yours to decide.

Whether man stay beast or banish their gods of fate.

Post 36- Horde Story Finished! Enjoy!

2011-12-07T04:15:00.000-08:00

Making Of The Golden Horde

Winter of 1237- West of the Russian Ural Mountains

With a voracious appetite, the Tatars, as they became known, had already pillaged and burned the countryside and holdings of the Bulgar people, who lived east of the Volga river, and taken the city of Sarai near its out-pour into the Caspian Sea. That tributary and its several bridges and roads leading west were a sign to the vanguards of Batu Khan and Subedai Bahadur that yet more rich lands lay beyond, filled with treasure for their Khans, pasture for their horses, and women for their men. They led their troops in the ways the horde had perfected. Miles apart large contingents were kept in constant contact through special arrows that whistled in the wind or by waving flags. There were couriers who bound their bodies in tightly wound silks and leathers, who rode their horses without stopping up and down the Mongol roads all the way back to the capitol of Karakorum. In this way the might of 120,000 Mongolian horseman, conscripts and soldiers pressed across the frozen Volga river. Ahead of them their many spies and scouts were fanned, into the Russian people's lands of Moscow and Vladimir, in the holdings of every Russian city. Their detailed reports told Batu and Subedai something they already knew; their approach across the vast forests of the Volga's west bank had gone unnoticed, and there was much land to be claimed. With an empire already stretched from Korea to the Caspian Sea, the Mongol army that was to become the Golden Horde entered the lands of Riazan and the Suzdal Russians, starting the conquest of Eastern Europe in earnest.

With such a massive military, the Mongols had to bring massive trains of workers and materials behind the main branch of the army. Each group of ten thousand men was called a tumen, and subsequently subdivided in factors of ten. The most prestigious of these was referred to as the Kashik, where the Khans themselves led. It was made up of all the men in the royal family, but every individual within the khan's household, from officers to servants, served in the Kashik. Any man other than this in the Kashik was there by appointment, having proven themselves capable of leading, and in the most dire of circumstances, even the most junior members were qualified to command any other unit in the Mongol army. From here Batu and Subedai led the invasion of Eastern Europe, with the Kashik's own participation in a battle occurring at the most decisive moments.

Having lived their entire lives as nomadic archers on horseback, the Mongol army lived a life of pseudo warfare until any able bodied man reached an age of 20, when they were trained and drilled constantly in the art of Mongol war. As such, they were the most naturally gifted archers and horsemen in the known world. This would come to serve Batu and Subedai well in the battles to come, where the speed and mobility, coupled with the range of their horseman's bows, would play a pivotal role in outpacing and out maneuvering the slower, more heavily armored troops of the Europeans. The Russians first taste of this style of warfare would occur just outside the Riazan principality.

1237- On the Cusp of Battle

Batu's tumen had already swept the hills of the Urals alongside Subedai's own unit, and in the process they had gathered more conscripts and soldiers for the auxiliary troops. The army was swelling with both old and new riders of the Horde. They passed through the forests on the Volga's West bank with speed, pressing through unobserved. The choice of taking the vassal state of Riazan was calculated; it was the weak point of the Russian's eastern front, and was strategically nestled between both Chernigov and Suzdal, the two stronger principalities. Riazan was governed by several princes, who looked after their own interests more-so than the needs of their people. As such, they saw the loss of the Bulgars as nothing more than another raid. The true plan of Batu was lost on them, and they underestimated the power of his massive army greatly.

When the long lines of Batu's military were finally detected by Russian peasants, they immediately fled to the capitol of the state for which it was named, Riazan. When they appeared on the doorsteps of the Prince's home, they were tired, bloody, and sweating. Their horses had died from overexertion due to the ride they were pushed through, and the Prince, for what it was worth, saw the issue at hand.

“My Lord, there...” One messenger paused to catch his breath, “...is an army. Mongols. Thousands. Only a few of us made it away from their scouts...the rest..” His voice trailed off and he began to whimper, remembering the loss of his friends and family to the swift horseman's bows.

Prince Yuri said nothing for several moments. But he was aware of the devastation the Mongols had wrought to not only his outer lands, but mighty empires such as Persia as well. He stood up, the weight of his decision weighing heavily upon him.

“Summon my brothers, Oleg and Yaraslov. Inform them of the situation. We will meet them outside the city with the entirety of our forces. If we take them lightly, I fear the fall of Russia altogether.” His stewards hastened to carry out his orders, and within minutes riders were sent to the other cities. His third brother, Roman, was sent north with his army to appeal for help from the Suzdal. Yuri knew that this would simply serve as a useful tool to the Suzdalians, but it was a worthwhile gesture nonetheless.

Within days, the combined forces of Yuri, Oleg, and Yarislov stood united miles from the city as the Horde poured from the trees in a never-ending torrent. The troops they had managed to assemble were green, and unprepared for such a vast battle. They were simple peasants outfitted in leather armors, and some held tightly to pitchforks with shaking hands. The Horde drew itself out in military fashion, the efficiency and maneuverability making the Russian's own lines look all the more pitiful.

“Is that the Russian force the scouts told us of?” Batu asked his messenger.

“Yes, my Khan. That is all they have assembled.”

Batu looked on as he signaled the light cavalry to encircle and pepper the comparatively small army with armor piercing arrows. The Russian's own bows did not have the draw to reach them, and any enemy cavalry that gave chase was quickly subdued by concentrated barrage.

Within a few hours, the naccara, the drum that sounded only when the heavy cavalry was to charge, let loose its quick staccato beats, and the Russian lines broke and fled in a single, audacious charge. The green army repulsed at the sight of ten thousand screaming horses.

If this was what was to be expected of the Europeans, their lands would be Mongol by the new year.

1238- Fall of Vladimir

In the few weeks following the slaughter at Riazan, the Mongol army had advanced hundreds of miles and sacked every city in their wake. The first army they fought had fled in a single charge, and each prince had taken what was left of his own men to guard their respective cities. This spread of force only hastened the slaughter. As was tradition, the city Riazan itself was burned to the ground and the populace massacred, it being the first to fall. The Mongols sacked and pillaged every town they found, burning holdfasts and villages and slaughtering all but a few who would spread the tales of atrocities the Mongols committed.

The siege at Riazan was one of the shortest the Mongol army had experienced. In only nine days a wooden palisade had been erected surrounding it to prevent any relieving armies from reaching the city and to protect the engineers and archers working beneath the walls. Only five days later, without the use of any fire, the Mongols broke through. The burned and slaughtered every living thing within, and paused only when it was deemed more terrifying to not outright slay the people. One group of monks and citizens who had taken refuge in a church were suffered through the systemic raping of every woman they had brought with them, before they were gutted almost to a man. Of all Riazan, only a few were allowed to live.

Batu and Subedai were pleased with the ease of their campaign. They had imagined a more unified front, perhaps a consequence in the coming months in the shape of a crusade. But as they continued, first surrounding and annihilating a relieving army outside the city of Kolomna, and then marching and taking Moscow as quickly as they had the city before it, they saw no sign of any true resistance.

The Mongol's knowledge of the European armies was not complete; when they had expected plated infantry and lines of massed cavalry, perhaps from Hungary, they got only peasants and javelin armed light cavalry. With such a meager army, the Russians had no hope of holding any territory.

During the siege of Moscow, a group of Mongol riders, several Mangudai, were treated to a great personal victory. They had personally seen to the death of the military governor, but had captured one of the Suzdal princes as well. Vladimir was their prisoner, and when his father heard of the fall of Moscow, he rode north with an army to appeal for assistance from Novgorod.

Batu saw this as an opportunity.

“Subedai, the cowardly Grand Duke rides north with his army, in the hope that he can bring Novgorod back with him. He believes the 'Golden Gates' will hold long enough for this to take place.”

Subedai only looked on, taking note of the men fletching arrows and brushing their unbridled horses. Slowly, he spoke:

“If the man seeks to bring another army, then we will give him no reason to return. The city of Vladimir is rich, and we have its named Prince. Taking it would serve us well, Batu.”

Around the Mongols there was always a constant air of tension. Even knowing every possibility they were careful to commit to anything too brash without proper preparation. As it stood, such a recommendation from his most trusted adviser told Batu that if he did not take this city, and take it quickly, the campaign would be bogged down.

In the span of a single morning, the entire army packed up its great tents and began the hundred mile ride to Vladimir. It did not stop. When finally the force came upon the city walls, the Mangudai who captured Prince Vladimir, as was their honor, took him before the city and demanded to know if the grand duke was still within.

They received only a shower of arrows as a reply, and set to investing themselves in the siege. The Prince was beheaded on the spot as the remaining brothers looked on, and Subedai sent a small vanguard to follow in the footsteps of the Grand Duke, to ensure the safety of his own assault on Vladimir. With the same palisade used to surround Riazan erected around this city in similar fashion, Subedai sent half the army to storm the capitol, Suzdal. The endless bloodshed that had followed the army so far was forgotten in favor of prisoners, slaves and soldiers. In less than five days, Suzdal fell, and that half of the army had returned with thousands of prisoners in shackles.

Subedai, the commanding general this time, had the catapults bombard the city for an entire day and night with rocks as ground forces moved battering rams and manned siege equipment into position. At dawn, on February 7^th 1238, as the sun crested the horizon and men began to see their breath again, Subedai ordered the city to be taken. All four gates were attacked at once.

Inside the citizens ran panicked through the streets attempting to find loved ones and gather whatever things they thought valuable enough to hide. Then they stowed away in any small space that could fit them. Some drowned in refuse attempting to hide in the sewers, or were trampled underfoot. With robberies, murder, and all sorts of lunacy occurring behind and below them, the fairly large garrison of Vladimir was distraught. They were caught between defending all the gates at once from the outside, or maintaining order inside; a stress that proved too much. By midday the Mongols were in the Central Plaza, and the Grand Duchess had barricaded herself and the royal family away in the choir loft of the church. When she refused to be coaxed down, the church was burned, her and her family's fate to match that of the hundreds of corpses below them in the sepulcher.

The assault had gone off quickly and efficiently, and Subedai, now pleased with the manner of his and Batu's understanding of the Russian's forces, split the army. The scouts who had reported on the movements of the Grand Duke and his force met with Batu and Subedai in private on the eve of the separation.

“My Khan...” the Persian scout began, bowing deeply, “...to our North lie three cities; Yuriev, Rostov, and Yaraslov. These are the supposedly strong cities.” He ran his finger briskly along a line that stretched from between Moscow and Vladimir north into the frozen wastes for a hundred miles. Then he stopped and pointed to the West of Vladimir, North of Moscow. “And starting here, almost in a straight line to Novgorod lie the cities of Dmitrov, Tver, and Torzhok. Nestled between both these paths, my Khan, is the Siti River, where the two last Suzdal armies lay in wait. For what reason we do not know.”

Batu and Subedai had not taken long to make their decision. Winter was fast approaching its end. He spoke cautiously to Batu.

“If the Russian Duke wishes to hide and wait for more troops, then we will flush him out like in our Great Hunt. We will surround their forces, and before the spring thaw we will own nearly all of Russia. Of this I can promise you, Batu,” he added before leaving the tent to gather his half of the army. Batu did not have the chance to refuse, but it was not as if he would have. The plan was solid. In Mongol tradition, every year the troops would conduct a Great Hunt. It was meant to promote strategic unity throughout the army. Along a vast track of wilderness the horde would spread out, flushing and pushing the animals before them. At the same time, faster cavalry would ride out ahead, sometimes by more than fifty miles, and push from the other direction. When the forces met all manner of wild animal fought and died with one another looking for a way out. Thousands upon thousands of deer, elk, wolves, and sometimes even elephant, bear and tiger found their way into such a trap. After the Khan took the first true kill, men dismounted and fought the animals in hand to hand combat or with their bows, the goal being to pick your prey and have it whole.

The Horde had already taught the Russians that encirclement meant death. But as the armies of Subedai and Batu departed in different directions, the Grand Duke and his remaining sons' forces stayed on the Siti River, waiting for a relieving army from Novgorod that would never come. By the end of February a reconnaissance of three thousand men was sent out to discover the whereabouts of the Khan's army. In a simple phrase that would be recorded for all time, the commander, defeated internally and visibly saddened, had few words.

“My lord, the Tatars have surrounded us.”

1238 – Summer and Rest

Batu cleaned the pheasant off his golden plates of Persian make. In the span of several months his army had taken central Russia and its capital. The Grand Duke of Suzdal's army had been crushed by Subedai in a textbook encirclement, but Batu's own forces had been halted for two full weeks by a courageous defense at Torzhok. With the thaw beginning, he had turned his army back only sixty miles from Novgorod when the cavalry was bogged down by marshes and running water.

It was now Summer, a time of rest for the Mongol horses and their enemies. Winter was a time for bloodshed, for riding and fighting in order to stay warm. Here, in the vast open prairie Southwest of where they had first invaded Russia, Batu and Subedai sat with their armies, replenishing supplies and granting rest to the hard working troops. Up and down the roads messengers heralded the new conquest of Subedai and Batu. Millions of pounds of gold, jewelry, goods and what remained of the sacked cities was being sent back to Mongolia to give Ogadai, the Great Khan, his pick of it all. And while he picked of the most prestigious treasure, the Horde itself bathed in the vast quantities of goods they had acquired. Every man was made rich by the conquest. The only remaining towns were now vassals and patrolled by Mongol guard, and had few people to work there. The sheer profit of the Russian campaign had even surprised Subedai, who had considered the wealth of the Europeans.

The Horde was becoming golden.

It was a bitter sweet victory, however. On the return to their camp from Novgorod's lands, Batu and Subedai had elected to pass by Kozelsk, West of Moscow and part of the Chernigov state, rather than backtrack through the places they had already pillaged. Fearing the fates of the other Russian cities, Kozelsk left its gates and engaged the vanguard of the Horde with its own force, which, in turning to face the new foe, took its full effect. Several thousand horsemen lost their lives, and while Batu and Subedai did not deign to blame any one thing as the cause, they made sure to avenge them. Kozelsk withstood the siege of the Mongol invaders for seven brutal, terrifying weeks before the walls were breached and the city exterminated in such a fashion that even the Mongols called it the 'City of Sorrow'.

Now, however, the fighting was behind them. The Russian winters were strong, yes, but they told the Mongols they were still alive, still breathing. When winter came again later that year, the goal was consolidation. Even Batu knew that an empire gained through war needed to be controlled. They rode West and Northeast, conquering the Cuman tribes of the Black Sea and what remained of the Bulgar tribes of the Ural Mountains.

The Mongol Empire now stretched from the Pacific Ocean to the Black Sea, its lands full of cheap slaves, rich military men, and burned cities.

1238-1240 – King Bela of Hungary

“A powerful military needs staunch supporters, Bela. These Cumans would seek to serve us, and in doing so, escape the mighty Tatar hordes.”

Bela hated his courtiers. They were shaking in their boots at the prospect of the Mongols, the most powerful, sinister, and hellish military the world had ever seen. But Bela knew that any army could be beaten through sound mind, and from what he'd heard of the Russian's faults in the Suzdals and Riazan, he knew he could not let them march unopposed. But then came the Cumans; they were an unknown. Refugee tribal men from lands to the East, over the Transylvanian Mountains. Their leader, running from the pillaging 'Tatars', had promised the strength of his forty thousand strong military, and full conversion to Christianity by all its men, should Bela only offer them asylum and a chance to retake their lands. But that was not what concerned him most. They perpetuated the fear that already smelled rankly in the court, and the citizens of his beautiful and powerful nation needed to stay strong if their men were to fight in order to save it. For this reason, he scorned his hand.

“Tell Kotian of the Cumans his loyalty is allowed, his men to become Christian, and his fears to be gone. As an added measure, any man I see who refers to this army as the Tatars, allowing the myth that they are in fact the devil's horsemen in flesh and blood, will be drawn and quartered in front of the court's full assembly,” King Bela told the sniveling wretch, as he scampered off to give Kotian the good news.

He despised courtiers, as they reached positions through means other than birthright, Godsend or strength. Pigeons serving hawks, he mused.

The Hungarian military was indeed powerful. While the Holy Roman Empire formed by Barbarossa fought for its right to self govern, both religiously and politically, the Papal States and the all-powerful (or so it seemed) Pope deemed them heathens and devil worshipers. The schism had developed with such voracity that every nation, regardless of true allegiance or will, had been forced into supporting one side. The whole of Europe was on the verge of a mighty Civil War and to compound matters more the Mongols dominated the Russian lands East of the Black Sea, the very entry to the Mediterranean. They threatened to pour over the Transylvanians at any moment, but Poland and Austria were especially vulnerable with such wide plains between them and essentially an army of horses.

Bela did not fear the Mongols as the Polish King did, nor did he mean to sit idly by and allow them a first move. With haste, he gathered every conscript and able bodied young man and trained them, drilled them for the time when such mass of arms would be needed. For even though Hungary held arguably the most powerful cavalry and castles in Europe, they could not hope to best the staggering numbers reported by precious few survivors of an already devoured Russia.

1239-1240 – Batu

With the re-invasion of Russia's remaining lands drawing infinitely closer, Batu and the many members of the royal family gathered within the great tent to celebrate what would be a glorious conquest. During his revelry, however, Batu made a grave mistake.

While the men cut their roasts and brandished their wine, Batu, inadvertently, drank first. As was custom the Khan and the princes were equal, and Ogadai's other sons, Kuyuk and Buri, stormed out of the tent temperamentally. They made such a scene that Batu sent a missive to his father complaining of their behavior.

The ensuing political fallout caused the entire campaign to be postponed for an entire year. Subedai, no more pleased by the disgraceful conduct of Batu than the Princes, held his tongue out of respect only, and the promise of the war starting in earnest again. Kuyuk and Buri, who had been stripped of their ranks as punishment for their behavior, were reinstated, and in November of 1240 the Horde was riding again.

Chernigov's lands fell as quickly as the rest of Russia. Novgorod, an old goal, was chosen to be left alone. The distance the army would cross was, in Subedai's estimation and Batu's consent, too far for too small a prize. They were, however, plagued by Teutonic Order knights looking for new lands, the 'crusade' that they almost constantly served in a useful excuse for cleansing the Novgorod's. While the city was not taken, the constant fight for its lands left it helpless to assist the state of Chernigov, or for that matter, the mother city Kiev herself.

Kiev was to the Russians what any great city is to any empire. It served as the center of arts and learning, but more than that, religion. It sat upon the banks of a river that had traded with Byzantium for centuries, and its many golden church roofs stood out above the high walls. The Mongols lovingly dubbed it the 'city of the golden heads', and many who had seen Samarkand regarded it as a more beautiful place.

Kiev proved surprisingly difficult for the seasoned and rested troops. Even with the city surrounded they could not hope to break the walls with stone only, and the spoils to be had within would need to be protected from fire. Instead, the artillery was focused on the wooden gate of the Polish side, and within a day, after using millions of arrows to pepper the streets, Mongol cavalry rode into Kiev. But the sheer exhaustion of the attack forced the army to spend the night camped upon the walls.

From their many positions atop the battlements the Horde's men rested. The city itself was silent, as the army slept and the people hid within. There would be no counter attack and no slaughter until the following day, and Kiev was allowed to suffer through a night of fear. On December 6^th, the city was taken street by street, the horses clambering down the many alleyways searching for survivors and loot. The riders went in packs and fought the remaining garrison tooth and nail for their gloriously beautiful home, and in the end, Kiev was Mongol. In short order it was burned, torn apart brick by brick in search of Byzantine treasure. Tombs, homes, shops, wells, church roofs; all held gold, and held a lot of it. When they had finished, Kiev had been reduced to nothing but a shell and The Golden Horde had earned its name in full.

Within three weeks of the fall of Kiev, all of Russia belonged to Batu.

Epilogue

King Bela, the only monarch in all Europe who had seen the threat of invasion and acted upon it, sat atop his plated horse Cherry on a small hill overlooking the bridge. The forces he had assembled in the two years he knew of the Mongol's intentions were not fresh men. They were finely trained, and stood as the first real European army that Subedai and Batu had seen. When Russia fell, Bela bolstered the strength of the Transylvanian passes above his beloved nation. When those passes inevitably fell, he drew out the Mongols with the Cuman troops. When they had rebelled against him, they were fought in such a way to be caught betwixt the Horde and its city-conquering schemes. And now Bela stood with the best cavalry in all Europe, save the Gendarmes of the French.

But above all, he feared. A defeat here meant the loss of all Christendom. Their squabbles over right to rule, the Papacy's refusals to give aid out of the conflict with the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, and his own so-called 'allies' watching his country burn ate away at him. If he was to die it would be defending the nation he fought so hard to make relevant to all Europe. As his heavy cavalry crashed again into the lighter horses and foot soldiers of the Mongols, he smelled victory in the air.

All his hope for victory vanished when he heard the Naccarra and felt the screams of Subedai's horsemen behind him in the yellow plains of grass, and heard the firing of hidden trebuchet before half his army was shrouded in smoke.

Post 35- The Horde Erupts

2011-12-01T16:10:00.001-08:00

1237- On the Cusp of Battle

Batu's tumen had already swept the hills of the Urals alongside Subedai's own unit, and in the process they had gathered more conscripts and soldiers for the auxiliary troops. The army was swelling with both old and new riders of the Horde. They passed through the forests on the Volga's West bank with speed, pressing through unobserved. The choice of taking the vassal state of Riazan was calculated; it was the weak point of the Russian's eastern front, and was strategically nestled between both Chernigov and Suzdal, the two stronger principalities. Riazan was governed by several princes, who looked after their own interests moreso than the needs of their people. As such, they saw the loss of the Bulgars as nothing more than another raid. The true plan of Batu was lost on them, and they underestimated the power of the massive horde of horsemen greatly.

“My Lord, there...” He paused to catch his breath, “...is an army. Mongols. Thousands. Only a few of us made it away from their scouts...the rest..” His voice trailed off and he began to whimper, remembering the loss of his friends and family to the swift horseman's bows.

“Summon my brothers, Oleg and Yaraslov. Inform them of the situation. We will meet them outside the city with the entirety of our forces. If we take them lightly, I fear the fall of Russia altogether.” His stewards hastened to carry out his orders, and within minutes riders were sent to the other cities. His third brother, Roman, was sent north with his army to appeal for help from Suzdal. Yuri knew that this would simply serve as a useful tool to absorb Riazan as a whole to them, but it was a worthwhile gesture regardless.

“Is that the Russian force the scouts told us of?” Batu asked his messenger.

“Yes, Great Khan. That is all they have assembled.”

Batu looked on, as the light cavalry began to encircle and pepper the comparatively small army with armor piercing arrows. The Russian's own bows did not have the draw to reach them, and any enemy cavalry that gave chase was quickly subdued by concentrated barrage.

Within a few hours, the naccara, the drum that sounded only when the heavy cavalry was to charge at the apex of the battle, let loose its quick staccato beats, and the Russian lines broke and fled in a single, audacious charge.

If this was what was to be expected of the Europeans, their lands would be Mongol by the new year.

1237- Fall of Vladimir

In the few weeks following the slaughter at Riazan, the Mongol army had advanced hundreds of miles and sacked every city in their wake. As was tradition, the city Riazan itself was burned to the ground and the populace massacred, as it was the first to fall. While only half the Mongol army had laid siege there, Subedai had taken another contingent West to the city of Pronsk.

Post 34-First Update of 'The Golden Horde'

2011-11-30T15:16:00.000-08:00

Starting this story has proven difficult, as the balance between history book and creative fiction is more delicate than I thought. This is the last half of the introduction i already posted.

1237- On the Cusp of Battle to come soon!

Post 33-Cool News

2011-11-30T13:11:00.001-08:00

A friend of mine just finished his second book and it's available for purchase on Amazon.

It's based upon a tour of the world he did, and is a collection of short fiction. Take a look!

The World In A Suitcase

Post 32-Beginning of Golden Horde story

2011-11-28T01:52:00.000-08:00

Tonight i begin my story centered around the Mongolian invasion and occupation of Eastern Europe in 1236 through 1241. It'll read a lot like a historical deal for now, but i'll be posting updates through the process.

Here's the opening. It will be introductory like this for some time to help educate the reader on the going-ons of the area and period, as most don't understand the extent and severity of the Horde's invasion.

Winter of 1237- West of the Russian Ural Mountains

With a voracious appetite, the Horde, as it became known, had already pillaged and burned the countryside and holdings of the Bulgar people, who lived east of the Volga river, and taken the city of Sarai near its out-pour into the Caspian Sea. That tributary and its several bridges and roads leading West were a sign to the vanguards of Batu Khan and Subedai Bahadur that yet more rich lands lay beyond, filled with treasure for their Khans, pasture for their horses, and women for their men. They led their troops in the ways the horde had perfected. Miles apart large contingents were kept in constant contact through special arrows that whistled in the wind or by waving flags. There were couriers who bound their bodies in tightly wound silks and leathers, who rode their horses without stopping up and down the Mongol roads all the way back to the capitol of Karakorum. In this way the might of 120,000 Mongolian horseman, conscripts and soldiers pressed across the frozen Volga river. Ahead of them their many spies and scouts were fanned, into the Russian people's lands of Moscow and Vladimir, in the holdings of every Russian city. Their detailed reports told Batu and Subedai something they already knew; their approach across the vast forests of the Volga's West bank had gone unnoticed, and there was much land to be claimed. With an empire already stretched from Korea to the Caspian Sea, the Mongol army that was to become the Golden Horde entered the lands of Riazan and the Suzdal Russians, starting the conquest of Eastern Europe in earnest.