the Drive Project

Once I was promising writer. Now I'm past my creative prime and write this shit. Welcome to the Drive Project. Welcome to my shity writing blog.

[cottagecori]

I’m gay

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[cottagecori]

IT’S PRIDE MONTH REBLOG THIS POST TO INCREASE YOUR GAY LEVELS

[drive-daniel-drive]

A snip-it from a story i’ve been working on

Bambi Day sat bored inside his tiny interrogation room, waiting for a supposed detective Howman to finally make an appearance. He was in the middle of successfully, if slowly, unraveling his sweater by pulling on a loose thread he had found, when the door slammed open. Carefully breaking the tread Bambi looked up to see a very average woman, almost drowning in her oversized uniform and robe, walk in carrying several large folders.

“Sorry I'm late, there was a line at the records house and then stand still traffic on the way over here.” She babbled as she flopped into the seat across from him. Rifling through her folders before, finally, pulling out and opening the largest one. “So, Bambi-”

“Day.”

“What?” detective Howman asked, looking up for the first time since she arrived.

“Call me Day.”

“Okay, Mr. Day-”

“Just Day.”

Howman closed the file in front of her and rested her clasped hands on it. “Let's start, Day, by having you tell me why you think you're here.”

“Are you a Communis? I didn't know that they allowed Communis to be in the guard.”

“They don’t, I'm a Hereditas.” Howman paused. “Why would you think I'm a Communis?”

“You said you were in traffic. Most Magicians don't use the streets. A Hereditas you say? I thought they weren't allowed to be guards either?” Day questioned.

“It’s a new amendment created by Prince Vega, from my understanding there are about 18 Hereditas guards. Although,” Howman started to whisper, leaning in closer in a conspiratorial fashion. “I'm surprised it took so long. I thought for sure we'd be allowed into the guard after Shiva’s revolution. Just goes to show that equal doesn't mean equal.”

Day nodded agreeingly. “You're right, a bare few Hereditas are even able to get jobs without having to pose as a Communis. The fact that a Magician would even allow one to work in the guard, much less propose the idea, is a huge step in the right direction though.” Day leaned forward and rested his arms on the table in front of him. “Y’know I've actually meet Shiva.”

[drive-daniel-drive]

“If I was a flower, what kind of flower do you suppose I would be?”

“If you were a flower, you would be the flower that is picked right before it reaches full bloom. You would be a flower that strives to achieve perfection but hopelessly fails due to no fault of their own.”

[drive-daniel-drive]

Woe I feel for the many things I long for

For burnt lungs between my fingers tips

For amber delirium between my lips

For the body of a friend

Whose looks are too much more than just sweet

For the love of one that belongs to another

And for the charm of one that does not exist

[drive-daniel-drive]

When I smell warmth, it brings me back to long summers with my sister. Dying of heat stroke while playing catch with her son, listening to her shouts of newly created rules, and just when I was getting the hang of it.

Compared to the scent of salt water (which brought back unsatisfying images of piercings and tattoo parlors), I prefer the smell of dryness and the better memories of ten hour days cooped up in the library.

And whenever I dust the house I'm forced into memories of the cold, dark hallway I spent my days hidden away in.

The smell of crisp paper reminds me of books, I find that most things do.

And it's the reek of dog on my clothes that reminds me of home and how ineffective laundry detergent is.

But most importantly it's the smell of you, that reminds me that I’m safe.

[drive-daniel-drive]

sonnets suck

It makes you sick like cancer to the hearts

mind. Lying is predictable and kills

time. Lines are drawn in sand and depletes wills.

By design fakely destroying the arts.

Tip of your lips, told much a many untruths.

I'm guessing, questioning the choices you take.

I'm tripping, laughing over the moves you try to make.

Such humor exist in the lies you tell, each reeking of vermouth

A silly notion love is, tarr like rain

is easier to swallow than love potion nine.

Defusing, exploding your love like mine.

Your acid coated downpour starts to drain

and causes buildups, of your unholy lust.

So far gone is it I'm afraid you'll never regain my trust.

[drive-daniel-drive]

Before something happens that matters

you stop

you forget to breath

and the bruises around your neck reform

sooner than you know it, you're being forced to your knees and tears well up and boil over from past needle marks.

You're an experiment.

You're aware, you're comatose.

You can hear every bad thing they say, you can feel the drugs they pump in your veins.

You feel every incision.

You're a test subject mistaken for dead and you're forced to watch as the harvesting begins.

You're past the point of pulling the plug.

You are being buried.

You are being buried and you think it's alive, but everyone else knows it's not.

When you thought of the afterlife, you didn't think it would be needles and cuts and staring up, trapped at the bottom of a box.

[drive-daniel-drive]

For the first time since I had woken up I was able relax and look around. Although it was the same yard as it was the day before the view was still just as wonderful. Sure the grass was a little overgrown and a bit too yellow, and yeah maybe the fence was crooked and the gate rusted. But that didn’t stop me shaking my head and laughing at the trouble the kids were going to be in when their mom finally saw all the holes they had dug along the fence line. Or smiling  when I looked to the right and saw that the garden boxes that my sister had been slaving away at were finally starting to turn out nice—or cringing when I realize that the dogs had trampled one of her sunflowers. I even found myself enjoying the way the sun poured in through the trees and shined patterns across the cemetery on the other side of the highway. And the quiet sound of nothing but wind only helped to add to the whole picture. The entire view itself had a beautiful kind of realness and homey feel about it.

However, any sort of peaceful moment I was having was soon shattered when a ten year old boy with on oversized head decided to throw open the door and shout that breakfast was ready. I sighed again as I got up and re-entered the dining room, the smell of food that lingered through the house was the only thing that stopped me from running back though the kitchen and across the cold concrete to my closet. Looking around as my sister cut up food for her youngest demon (her eldest droning on about something or another), I had to smile because all-in-all there wasn’t anywhere else that I would prefer to be.

[vega-vagari]

The Drive Project

So in case anyone was wondering the Drive Project was one of the first things I had ever post online and shortly after that it got picked up by some long dead “promising young writer’s” blog. It was a collection of daily dialogue between a socially outcast gay teenaged boy (Daniel Drive) and his *spoiler alert* imaginary friend (Johnny). Anyways it was the first thing I ever wrote that I thought was worth writing and to this day I still consider it one of my better stories. What I will be posting on this blog will not be that quality and instead I will be using this blog as a stepping stone to get me back into the habit of writing and publishing. I will be posting anything from short stories, bad poetry and journal logs to poorly recounted dreams, one-liners and story webs. So yeah I guess that’s it. Welcome to my shity writing blog.