Fictional Tendencies

Isis (Goddess)

Your beauty
Transcribed across the stars
As you bathe
In the nebula’s of time
I trace
The curves of your silhouette;
You dip into your reflection
And I drown
In your timeless love.

The Island

The vast expanse
Of both the unknown
And the hope of
The Believers.

Where the King
Sits upon his throne,
A cupule adorning
His crown.

Somewhere between
The here and now,
Lost in meditation,
The quiet reflection
Of a man echoes…

I am an Island.

Natural Abstract Symmetry

The above featured image is titled “The Gateway” and it was taken and created by Carl Garrard.

Fictional Tendencies is the place that I go to when I want to share poems, ideas, characters, short stories, eventually a novel and anything that I create. I think it’s important to find a hobby or passion project and feed it your energy in hopes that it can and will grow. Sure, there will be failures along the way, hopefully I’ll learn from them. Hopefully, we all learn from our failures. I also believe that we learn through others. That other people’s creations or hobbies inspire us in one way or another. I hope that whatever I write inspires someone to do something.

Carl Garrard over at Natural Abstract Symmetry has inspired me. His previous work inspired me but not in the way that this new project of his has. Please do yourself a favor and check out his blog, it’s definitely worth it. When I write I tend to write with the intention and mindset of “I have an image in my mind and I want to put that image into words.” I want to type a picture. I want to create. Carl has done something that I cannot yet bring myself to describe.

Hopefully you enjoy Carl’s work. Hopefully, you become inspired, I know I have. Thanks for the inspiration.

Let’s make this journey called life a little more tolerable by pushing each other to become our very best, both personally and in whatever avenue we so choose.

Thanks for reading. Get out there and create.



This liquid sarcophagi,
Adorned in hieroglyphics,
Home to mummified
Or perhaps,
An homage to Khepri.

The sky and lake
An endless
Kaleidoscopic reflection,
As I sit and ponder
Life’s true meaning.

And as Ra
Traverses the sky,
His creation
The body and soul,
And the scarab
Takes flight.

In Honor of Black History Month

It’s been a week, almost two, since I last posted here at Fictional Tendencies, I was eager to return and create, write and share (as I have an image or two and some words). But something inside me told me to stop and learn something, use your words for purpose. So, being that its Black History Month, I googled “Famous Black Authors” and scrolled until a name stood out to me. I didn’t have to scroll for long as the name Jupiter Hammon instantly stood out.

Born in 1711 into slavery in  Lloyd Harbor, New York, Jupiter Hammon became the first African-American writer to be published in the present-day United States. He was a fervent Christian and while he wasn’t emancipated, he participated in Revolutionary War groups. At the age of seventy-six while addressing the Spartan Project of the African Society of New York City in his Address to the Negroes of the State of New York, also known as The Hammon Address, he said, “If we should ever get to Heaven, we shall find nobody to reproach us for being black, or for being slaves.”

A Poem for Children with Thoughts on Death by Jupiter Hammon

O ye young and thoughtless youth,
Come seek the living God,
The scriptures are a sacred truth,
Ye must believe the word.

Tis God alone can make you wise,
His wisdom’s from above,
He fills the soul with sweet supplies
By redeeming His love.

Remember youth the time is short,
Improve the present day
And pray that God may guide your thoughts,
And teach your lips to pray.

To pay unto the most high God,
And beg restraining grace,
Then by the power of His word
You’l see the Saviour’s face.

Little children they may die,
Turn to their native dust,
Their souls shall leap beyond the skies,
And live among the just

Like little worms they turn and crawl,
And gasp for every breath,
The blessed Jesus sends his call,
And takes them to his rest.

Thus the youth are born to die,
The time is hastening on,
The Blessed Jesus rends the sky,
and makes his power known.

Then ye shall hear the angels sing
The trumpet give a sound,
Glory, glory to our King,
The Saviour’s coming down.

Start ye Saints from dusty beds,
And hear a Saviour call,
Twas Jesus Christ that died and bled,
And thus preserv’d thy soul.

This the portion of the just,
Who lov’d to serve the Lord,
Their bodies starting from the dust,
Shall rest upon their God.

They shall join that holy word,
That angels constant sing,
Glory, glory to the Lord,
Hallelujahs to our King.

Thus the Saviour will appear,
With guards of heavenly host,
Those blessed Saints, shall then declare,
Tis Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Then shall ye hear the trumpet sound,
The graves give up their dead,
Those blessed saints shall quick awake,
and leave their dusty beds.

Then shall you hear the trumpet sound,
and rend the native sky,
Those bodies starting from the ground,
In the twinkling of an eye.

There to sing the praise of God,
And join the angelic train,
And by the power of his word,
Unite together again.

Where angels stand for to admit
Their souls at the first word,
Cast sceptres down at Jesus feet
Crying holy holy Lord.

Now glory be unto our God
All praise be justly given,
Ye humble souls that love the Lord
Come seek the joys of Heaven.



Warrior Horse

Time laughs

as I sit and scroll,

reading what I’ve written

a dozen times already.

It’s good, too good.

(It’s probably crap.)

So I’ll stare at this image,

my attempt at photography,

and contemplate some sort of meaning.

What does it mean?

Nothing. It means nothing.

The rear “Warrior Horse” design looks great,

that’s what I get for liking pretty things.

And the Joker, who’s the Joker?

I’m the Joker. Tossed out, by my own doing.

No one really wants it or likes it. The Joker was only made cool

because of Heath.

(He, The Joker, was great before Heath and he’ll be great after him, except for Jared Leto’s version.)

Out of the entire deck I pick these two cards, I like the “deck” stacked against me.

This mindless rant is making me hate myself, but

the show must go on.

Like the “Warrior Horse” I’ll live to see another day.

Time to play the hand I was dealt.

Time to write what must be written.


Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I tend to write only when I’m inspired. Writing this way prevents me from forcing an idea or story. But it also hinders my ability to complete larger stories. My goal for this year is to set aside more time to expanded on a story that I started last year, a story that I have slightly more than four-thousand words written. I was writing around four-hundred words a week. This is isn’t sufficient, sure it could be argued that at least it’s productive, but in the larger scheme of things (a book) it would take a decade to complete.

My goal will be to set aside at least three nights a week to write. Hopefully, this will be both productive and inspiring.

What are some of the ways you develop stories, ideas or characters? I would love to read about them. Or do you have any suggestions? Please let me know.

And as always, thanks for reading, get out and create and enjoy!


Took a Wrong Turn

I remember this land,

when the desert laughed at the rain

and the hills danced

under the sun.

Long ago, before

the trees were uprooted

and urban decay

scarred the valley with pox.

When the cactus

chased the rabbit

and the Raven conspired

to murder its brother Crow.

As the tortoise yawned,

time played on,

a game of Chess with man.

The Rook took the Queen

as the Pawn took the Knight

while the King lost his crown.

Yet, I remember a time

when the tumbleweeds

gossip was the only

news in town.

Untitled #1

The shadow on the mountain

kept the rain away.

The valley thirsty,

eagerly awaits.

The lark sang

its last song,

as time

wasted away,

and the sky got lost

as it wandered


into the night.



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