qsosnaspear's profile

Don’t ask me what I mean, just listen once more, and feel what I so desperately do, and as I say what I have to say try to listen with an open ear. Here I stand whether it be amongst the pulse of a roaring crowd, or in a dark corner only I know exists, what plagues my conscious, be only the visage of someone standing before me now. Listening to my words and asking what it is I’m trying to say. And how can such demon, reality halting fiend latch onto the inner holdings of my poor plagued mind,...

Characters: John: Restaurant patron. Male. Waiter: Restaurant patron. Male. Harold: Restaurant waiter. Setting: A restaurant, several tables sit along the stage horizontally. John, dressed nicely, sits alone at a table with a soup bowl in front of him and a glass of water to its side. Waiter walks past him also dressed well, but with a nametag pinned to his shirt, the name is unreadable. (Note: As the men speak they are completely stone-faced and serious.) John: Excuse me, Waiter? Waiter: Yes...

The Clock Talked Loud A Discussion of Time Travel Personally, it’s my strong belief Doc Brown and Marty McFly may have been full of shit. Of course that’s just an opinion, but it can be reasoned through rather simply and concluded that not only is time travel an excellent basis for a movie plot, but also completely ludicrous. It is highly unlikely that anyone in the future (let alone in the eighties) will have the capabilities of traveling through time. The first and most obvious argument aga...

I called out to her one day. It was unintentional, habit, but for the split second her name rest on my tongue’s tip, like an ember plunging deep to my stomach’s core, I truly believed she would once again run down the hall to greet me. In a moment the realization of such mistake thumped low in my chest, for no one was here not anyone, Just me. Standing forlorn in the heavy frame of a door— An entryway lasting far longer than she did. Leaving me alone, only to imagine what that damned carpente...

Meandering down a path of disturbed soil, lined in foxgloves, cast in nightfall. My eyes flicked up for the comfort of a moon from my childhood. A moon I would watch from a back seat of a Honda. While my baby sister slept sound, with her running drool river over my shoulder, peace-filled dreams overtaken the infant, coaxed by the lullaby of gravel and tires. Our mother lone in front asking God, Why it seems only the rhythm of tires and gravel can accomplish the unachievable. And now along a d...