Annotations of my Imagination

The Demons Will Charm You

My short story was published by Landescapes Literary and Arts Journal! Thank you Peter Chilson for all your help.

Here's an excerpt from page 1.

September 2012: Present Day

     I find the diversity of noises in the city fascinating: Car alarms, 

sirens, the gears clicking on bicycles, the tick of the crosswalks, 

espresso machines pouring shots over ice as soymilk bubbles 

onto the counter… noises overlap and build. But, never from the 

people. People are quiet – plugged into their iPods and carefully 

avoiding eye contact. What I find most interesting is that here I 

feel completely invisible. I can blend into the environment and get 

lost within the people and actions around me; let the city of Seattle 

cover me in its sounds and shroud myself in a jarring silence.

     However, as I sit beside the small tombstone in Lakeview 

Cemetery looking back on my life, there are no sounds. But there’s 

something tangible about this silence that I cling to. The way it fills 

your ears just the way music or voices do, the way you peel away 

layers of quietness to get at sounds beneath it. Layers that suffocate 

the senses; a heart beating on the eardrum – the same ominous 

tone with no decipherable pitch. I suppose I like it because I am 

always searching for noise — sitting up at three in the morning; 

the creak of the house and the metallic clack of a dog’s tags outside 

as his owner takes him for a pre-dawn walk and the wind against 

the glass of my window. It is interesting though because we never 

actually reach it. Silence is like being in the dark: we find shapes 

and sounds when we expect nothing. And silence means much 

Taken from: "Aren't You Going to Say Thank You"

Method or Madness: Intensified by Stage Lights

By Duke Sullivan

  Preface: October 25, 2012

Only musicians of the arts understand the process: caged by soundproofed rooms – the ones that can never fully hide the moans of dissatisfaction from the still and worn pages that loom over us, unbinding and never blinking from atop their platform. But we keep marching forward while metronomes click like bayonets against bone, practicing to the point where fibers tear in the tendons of our wrists, vocal chords rub together into unnatural nodes, and the simple force of gravity takes hold of the upper vertebrae and pulls down while the rest of the spinal column remains intact. But through the pain, we cling to it because even though the shallow progression of development is maddening, in the single inch we gain, we can breathe.

Over the years, some of us make progress. Others don't; it’s a simple game of survival of the fittest. But it is in this progress where some performances begin to come alive: stirring an emotional connection and portraying an extension of the performer’s personality. And that’s it. The connection to music that grows within us with each note and dances on our eardrums as two ideas become one cohesive unit. However, while the fear can dissipate, the battles never end. Within all of the arts, comes a risk. All of the talent in the world can’t stop it. A simple accident can destroy any dream; years dedicated to performance can be taken away in seconds and never reclaimed.

Yet, these risks are known from day one as if those willing to sacrifice everything sign a contract giving over the right to their talents. What is never mentioned throughout the process can slide into your consciousness like the hazy darkness of a cloud covered sun sweeps across the streets before a storm. Nothing prepares you for the moment when the love you held for the arts disappears. What happens when performances begin to lack the life they once did – when the time you spend on stage becomes a countdown for when you can walk away rather than a moment where you can share an extension of the beauty of what you do… and who you are?

Tomorrow marks the beginning of my last semester in college. Yet, I've only been back for a day and I'm already stressed out: stomach is in knots, overwhelmed, and all I feel is alone. For the first time, I'm debating whether or not I can finish. Four months is all that separates me from where I want to be, but for some reason my mind doesn't see it that way. 

No one ever tells you what will happen if you overwork yourself, yet they encourage you to do all you can. So you grab hold of every opportunity available: internships, clubs, extracurricular activities, musical ensembles, take charge of an organization, attend city counsel meetings, enroll in 25 credits, write freelance articles, maintain a social life, go on dates, stay fit... and no one ever tells you it's too much.

The Greatest Symphony

By Duke Sullivan

His Deadly Dissonances

         By, Duke Sullivan 

         They told me not be afraid of the dark… That it was a place of peace and rest; somewhere I could close my eyes and enter worlds of my own creation.  But I remember the first time I had been left home alone as a child. I could not force myself to sleep. I felt something, and it throbbed with each beat of my heart. And I was right to be afraid. I remember how his knife hovered above me, how his veins pulsed under his taut skin, and how the cigarette hung from his lips; smoke lingering around his face as his eyes pierced through mine. Yet, I will never forget how little force it took for him to slice through my covers and into my skin.          The smell of smoke and touch of steel linger in my scar, but every time I slide my fingers across it, I only see his blood.

                                                                    ***

         Outside, I’m shivering, but I am alive. Icy fog and frost seep onto the cracked soil, and droplets slide from icicles, sinking slowly into the earth’s crust as they fall. I never used to think about the values behind a murderer, the way a blade could call to me… but it latched onto my back, and I can’t shake it off. If the dormant water in the distance can’t bring me back, there is no going back.          The chill feels like thorns as it presses into my forehead, but I am no savior. Yet for a moment, I am no longer suffocating from the emptiness that overflows from inside – but only for a moment. As thoughts of scarlet liquid trailing down my fingers enter my nervous system, I’m called again. Blood fuels my neurons. I walk toward the water. Cigarette smoke follows behind me and trails above the woman roughly making her own path in the dirt as her bodies drags behind me with each step. Perhaps another victim; this time, it’s up to her.          I’ve never forgotten the scenes themselves, the look in their eyes, they breathe within my blood; but I cannot recall the paths that lead me there. The memories within my mind are out of focus.          Hints of smoke and blood block out my ability to observe. The smoke’s feathery touch on my skin is exhilarating, enticing as it caresses my lungs like hands of a foggy goddess. The rest of the world is invisible now. In these moments, I cannot see the red woods or catch the scent of lavender and clovers; I cannot perceive the monstrous expressions or sounds of the victims as they screams and bellow, begging me not to kill them. There’s no going back. The girl stirs.          “Where are you taking me?” Kajika chokes out through her haziness. Hands bound behind her back, black hair tangled around her face, shallow cuts sting her arms as they mix with muddy water.          “Don’t you remember? To the edge of the Redwoods. Crater Lake,” I remind her.  As she regains consciousness, she remembers and fear grows in her.  When we met, she told me of Crater Lake and Klamath Tribe, her tribe. She said it formed as a result of the battle between the sky God Skell and Llao the God of the underworld. More importantly, she told me it could bring back who I was before.

         She told me that there was no lake in the beginning, just a hole through which Llao passed to see the outside world. One day, Llao saw Loha, daughter of the Klamath Indian chief, and fell in love with her beauty. She rejected him. Llao was angry and swore that he would take revenge on her people. He tried to destroy the people with the curse of fire. The Klamath Indian chief sought help from Skell.          Skell descended from the sky to the top of Mount Shasta. Skell and Llao, thundering and trembling the Earth, hurling red rocks, causing great landslides. A terrible darkness spread over the area for days. The spirits of Earth and sky took part in this battle, creating intense fear among the people. Skell fought harder for the native people. He defeated Llao, driving him deep down into the Below-World. He collapsed the top of Mount Mazama to imprison Llao forever beneath the world. Skell wanted peace and tranquility to cover up this dark pit, so he filled it with the beautiful blue water, and brought quietness back to the land.

                 I make my way to this blue water. The worn sole from my boots mark the dirt; footprints looking foreword as I look forward. Invisible scars bulge out from my chest but only I can feel them. The smoke’s sweet smell probes my subconscious like dissonant pedal tones, manipulating my body. This encourages me. I don’t have much time. Somewhere in the distance, there is another girl determined to catch me before the moon’s glow falls on the water. If Kajika is wrong, if I cannot regain control, her body will fade under the ripples, and her sister’s spirit will die as mine did as she watches her take her last breath.          Lightning streaks across the horizon capturing a frozen shot of icicles as the light collides with glass. Thunder and lightning. I catch a glimpse of the lake, much closer now. The trickles morph into torrents and gusts of wind. Brown grass and soaked leaves strewn along the ground. The winding path to the end of the valley glazed from the rain.  My cigarette falls to the ground and water rolls over Kajika as I walk. Her back is bruised from rubble; I imagine her wincing to the terrible pain that she may soon feel.

                                                                   *

         “Charley, it’s time to go,” my mother said lingering on the words knowing I would not be coming home.          “Okay, mom.”                   I left the back porch and made my way to the garage. As the engine to the Chevy Colbalt started, I could only recall the night it happened and how I felt before. The voice inside my head screams.          We drove without words, but I could see it in her eyes. She tried not to cry – I grew angry watching her. I looked out the window peering down at the lines trying to avoid my mother and the voices in my head. I counted the lines on the road. It was rhythmic.          Quarters 1, 2, 3 – 1, 2, 3. Triplets 1,2,3 4,5,6 7,8,9 I thought as each streak of yellow became crimson. A polonaise, the numbers danced with the voices in my head. All until the sign ahead came into view: “Alternative Communication next right.” The dance stoped.          The building was sterile, emotionless. Window after window, rusted bars, dull gray cement. The sign noted “Teenager Counseling, North County Community Health Center, Substance Abuse Counseling, Trauma Psychologist and Community Health Education Center,” in small print.  My mother parked the car by the electrical doors, but didn’t shut off the engine it. She couldn’t look in my eyes this time, only the scars on my arms. As I open the door, nurses come outside to escort me in.

                                                                 *

         With another crack of thunder, the ground changed from damp earth and mushy leaves to sand. We have arrived. Kajika, still weak from the drugs, cringes as the last light of day and rain flows onto her skin and into her eyes. Already battered up, skin tarnished with bruises and cuts, I pull her up.          “This is your chance,” I tell her. “You know what it means if you’re wrong.”          “We must be on the line between water and earth, and call to the spirits of the Earth and sky,” Kajika informs me. “I must chant. You must ask the God of the Sky for help.”           “I’m ready,” and so we begin.          “Agli an’petu kin he-ay-hee-ee wana quesa wana S'aba,” she says in a low voice.          I repeat after her, “To return to the day of one water, one sound, a call to the great spirit.”          The voices in my head grow louder as the chant grows louder. It hurts. I want to scream back. The need for the touch of blood is unbearable and throbbing down my spine. The water begins to move, waves stir – it’s speaking. Kajika stops.          “You have been touched by Llao,” she says. “You were marked by the other world.”          “What does that mean? “ I ask, my face hot, and my ears in pain from the sound.          “Skell cannot help you,” she begins to cry. “I’m sorry, but you have been touched by two worlds, there is nothing that can be done while you live on this plane.”          I look at her motionless, in pain and hungry for control.

                                                                    *

         “How are you feeling today?” the psychologist asked looking down at me as I laid on the sofa in his office.          “I don’t know, I feel like I’m slipping away,” I focus on the divots in the ceiling, trying to ignore the sounds.          “I see,” he responded, jotting things down in a notebook. “What you experienced would be difficult for anyone, but what led you to attempt suicide?”          “The feeling approached slowly, and I didn’t understand at first. It started with a dream,” I said as I tossed the throw blanket off the back of the couch. “One day I dreamt of the end of the world. I was standing in the street, just standing there, not doing anything, and people were running past me.  Running as fast as possible and screaming, but I didn’t move,” my hands were shaking; I take a moment to regain control.          “What happened next?” he questions.          “When I looked up at the sky I saw that it was opening.  I stood watching the end, or what started as the end; it was here that I decided to take control over the madness. I went after myself.”

          I think about what this means as I ignore further questions. I woke up the next morning after my first attempt, but I definitely relieved that I hadn't succeeded. I never told anyone, and for a while I was happy to be alive, that is, until I tried again. I lost count of how many times I tried and failed. I tried poisoning myself, an overdose of sleeping pills, hanging, suffocating – I felt trapped in my failures, desperate even to relieve myself of the pain. My mind would not stop screaming and I was going insane. It was in my final attempt that I found the truth in who I was becoming. I had a knife that time and it was sure to be a success. But I paused; I caught the refection of my eyes in the blade. My eyes’ reflection in the blade told me what my mind could not.

          “Charley, are you alright?”         I leaned forward and look at him. The voice in my head whispered to me, encouraging me. “Charley?” he asked again, growing concerned.          I understand now, and I’m stained with it. I could not kill myself because I was not meant to kill myself, but I needed death to live. I touched my scar and it pulsed. And then it was clear. I lunged toward him: mixed with blood, the voices grew calm.

                                                                    *

Hello all writers! As a part of English 357 at Washington State University, literary editing and publishing, we are putting together a literary journal and are asking for creative submissions from WSU and NON wsu students. Aurora’s Echoes gets its name from light and sound. We love creative works that surprise us, find splendor in the truly unexpected, and stay with us even after we put them down. Aurora’s Echoes signifies a new kind of aesthetic. It’s a delicate sort of light, without grand gestures and crafted with a sense of imperfection that echoes through us.   We accept any sort of artistic expression, be it poetry, fiction/non-fiction prose, music, and/or the visual arts. Prose must be between 500 – 2000 words, Poems are not to exceed one page, and all images must be High res (600 DPI).   Multiple submissions are accepted; however, no more than three per person.   Submission files & deadlines: Submission deadline is Oct. 28. Selections will be made by Nov. 5. Email your submission to [email protected]   Files must be saved as lastname.firstname.medium(poetry,fiction...etc).entry#

Those that are selected will be sent a copy of the publication when printed in December.

It’s in that moment when you realize you’ve lost yourself.

And then you think about what happened to everything you were and where you went wrong along the way… But you don’t understand it – you can’t because you’re engulfed in the shadows of the city.

Neon pant covers your face and neck as the music pounds against you in the club, enticed by it not even noticing the people swaying out of rhythm against the vibrations around you. The repetitive progressions of over-processed beats mix with vodka and cigarettes, and eat their way up your spine like an acid trip you’ve never taken. But it’s there. You don’t know when it’ll relapse.  

You blink. Now staring in the bathroom mirror. Sweat dripping down the sides of your temples. Eyes glazed over. Yet you smile. You don’t know that you’ve changed. You might as well be blind; your white teeth shine back at you.  

3 A.M. and walking downtown with the faux celebrities and new friends. You are living the life, but how did you get there? You grew up in the ghetto knowing beauty within the shanks that were in the darkness of your neighborhood. But these people love you, and want to show you a good time. You go with it, not thinking about what will come next. Numb to the senses that used to define you.

You make your way up to the pent house suite on the top floor. The cameras are rolling but none of you care because the key card swipes and the doors open. Glass walls reveal a new side of the city; thirteen floors up. Then you turn around. Your friends have gathered around the coffee table. A dollar bill had been rolled up and white powder placed in lines. You begin to wake up, but it’s too late, but in those seconds, you don’t care.   

The sun beats down on your face prying open your lids. Head pounding and face smudged into the floor; the neon paint printed into the oak. Still you remember everything. The night replays in your head. But it’s not until you realize who you have lost when you comprehend what you’ve really done.

Sorting through the situation around you. The passed-out faces break it down. They slams against you. The ones that lead you down the debaucheries that will now always linger in you.

This is that moment you realize you’re lost. You hate yourself but not for the mistakes, and wonder how on Earth you got so far away from every ounce of who you were.  You left the people that were important for those few hours of fun in a new life.

Fortunately you aren’t dead, not even scratched. Sleep washed away the pain. However and regrettably not even dreams will bring back the people that you pushed away.

Intensified from Stage Lights

A Philosophy on Classical Performance

You learn the truth about yourself on the stage, even if the truth is a lie. Everyone else sees it too. Your attributes are more dominant under bright lights than they are when you look yourself in the eyes. I guess classical music is more like a war between the musician and the dictatorship of the notes on the page. The conservative prison of performance enveloped me before I understood what it meant. My battles began when I was ten.

Only musicians of the arts understand the process: caged by soundproofed rooms than can never fully hide the moans of dissatisfaction from the still and worn pages that loom over us, unbinding and never blinking from atop their platform. But you cling to it.  Because even though the shallow progression of development is maddening, in the single inch we gain, we can breathe. 

Over the years, some of us make progress. Others don’t. But it is in the progress where some even say the performances begin to make them feel something. Yet we always feel something flawed in them. Deep down, we understand that we fell a little short somehow. What would it take to play something note-perfect on the stage? Sometimes it’s infuriating. Performance is not based on how much time we sacrifice to it, it’s much more, and it laughs at us with each stumble.

So what is it that makes the greats of classical art music great? Audiences are captivated by the performance of those who truly capture the ink and intertwine it within their blood. Yet, no one really loves this performer, because he’s soulless. This is where I found a truth in myself and a truth about life on the stage.

I’ve come to understand that if you want to be an outstanding performer, you must become a lie. The moment you walk passed the curtains you must eat and breathe the sort of confidence that makes you unlikable under the lights, because arrogance outweighs confidence on the stage. It is in this arrogance that a performer will understand his greatness. It is in this arrogance that a performer can be perfect because it overwhelms who they are… and they need it to.

So, under the lights who will I be? Do I want to be a great performer? Arrogant and loathed for it, or just good but liked by those I perform for? Is it against nature to be great and humble… is this a contradiction? Is it impossible to achieve that surrealistic connection between the music and the audience without letting it consume you?