Kim Marvelle

A collection of thoughts from writer Kim Marvelle.

[kimmarvelle]

Whoa, 3/4 of the way to my weekly goal? Whoa. Holy molies. It's basically a novel already. This has been a fine example of hyperbole. Have a day.

[kimmarvelle]

457

That's how many words I wrote today. The goal is 400 words a day, 5 days a week, or 2000 words total for the week. It wasn't beautiful, flowing prose. It wasn't very unique. But it's there. It's there, and I've met my goal. Today, I am better than yesterday. Tomorrow, I will be better than today.

[kimmarvelle]

Invitation

The air was filled with the sound of temperate ocean waves. They crawled sleepily up the shore, reaching for us, their sighs quiet invitations to an embrace. "You," they whispered, and then paused for a tired breath, receding back into the depths. Each wave had its own pitch and level of urgency; each wave had its own voice.

"Come here."

In those moments between their slow pleas, it was easier to hear the quiet of the night; a different sort of calm than the lulling repetition of the influx of water. It was as though the world around us, too, was listening to them.

[kimmarvelle]

Skylights

[7u7-deactivated20150223]

[kimmarvelle]

Rough Draft to Upstairs Neighbor

Dear Neighbor,

It seems we have something in common; We both like music! It's an incredibly individual form of self-expression that can unite people across the world. It can make a bold statement, comfort us in times of sorrow, or get us pumped when we need an extra boost.

While I appreciate your attempt to share your music with me and the rest of your fellow neighbors, I must admit that I am concerned. As you play your music (loudly, with lots of bass), I must assume that you are desperate to make a statement to us all, that you are desperately depressed, or that you are desperately lethargic. In any of these cases, I would advise you to either join a worthy cause or seek professional help. With every thud of bass that vibrates my bed in the wee hours of the morning, I grow more and more burdened with the knowledge that you are wailing for attention. It troubles me when I hear it at 10, 11, 12 o'clock at night, and even at 1 and 2 in the morning. Despite needing to work early hours, I stay awake while it's playing, just thinking about what the trouble could be, and how I could possibly help.

So, neighbor, this is my cry to you. Perhaps I have missed the mark and you are a perfectly well adjusted person. If this is the case, I implore you to let me go to work and class well rested and ready to help someone else. If I have not, please let me put you in touch with someone who can help, or at least get you a nice pair of headphones.

Sincerely,

The Person Whose Ceiling Is Your Floor

[kimmarvelle]

So...

I've been putting way too much pressure on myself to write and, as a result, I've ignored this poor blog for a year.

Forthcoming: writing (if it happens organically), thoughts, observations.

You have been warned.

[tinyvolcano]

[kimmarvelle]

A new vending machine has been released which can print any book within minutes. The Espresso Book Machine has access to 500,000 different books - the same as 23.6 miles of shelf space - and can even churn out a fresh copy of Crime and Punishment in just nine minutes. Pages are printed at a rate of over 100 per minute and are then pressed, glued and cut to produce a pristine book. Users simply pick the book they would like on a screen and wait for it to be printed … it certainly is a novel way of getting a new book.

I... I... I'm so happy right now...

[lunaluv85]

[kimmarvelle]

lunaluv85:

Everyone remembers their first wave. For me, I was about seventeen years old. We had taken a surf trip down to Hatteras, and I was just happy to be included in the surfing plans. The waves in Hatteras were unlike any I had surfed before…they were long, clean lines of surging energy that came from...

Reblogged from Lunaluv85. Inspirational and well written! Bravo!

[kimmarvelle]

Snowflake

In the sky, high above where any bird dared fly, clouds began to form. Their moisture gathered and crowded, the fluffy white puffs seen from the ground turning gray and foreboding. In the cloud, cold past any living thing's endurance slowed the floating water, and minuscule droplets began to bump into each other, catching and joining, until many droplets were one and, as one, began to sink and fall.

As the first fell into the open sky and began to freeze, it's body became opaque. Small cracks appeared as it expanded into a tiny snowflake...

[kimmarvelle]

The following is a teaser from the Kim Marvelle novel-in-progress, as requested by Jamez Kelske...

A scream of pain stayed Lunathea's hand. She looked up sharply from her crouch, the stick in her right hand halfway to the bundle in her left. She sat unmoving, as still as the thick oak behind her. The scream echoed through the calm afternoon air; A cry of desperation, mourning, and mortality. It began in a low pitch, but as it continued, it stretched into a forceful, bleating plea.

Then, abruptly, it stopped.

[kimmarvelle]

Falling Stone and Soft Breeze

The trees whispered in the fading light. They spoke farewells to brothers and children, sisters and parents. They drank the last drops of the sun from the upturned goblet and sang their quiet songs. Birds nestled in, preening their feathers, while foxes became restless in their burrows. The bright greens and sharp browns of the day faded into moderate tones of gray and sepia, and the muted sound of water lapping at the bank of a river became steadily louder as the rest of the world faded. The Warrior, whose name was like falling stone and a soft breeze, listened in silence. He sat motionless at the edge of the river with his legs crossed before him, and stared into a calm pocket of its reflective surface. The water rippled lightly and shimmered when a tiny fish rose to the surface, sending small distortions through his still face. They made his calm brow look furrowed, and his smooth face look old and weathered. He took a deep breath and, moving at last, raised his head to observe his surroundings. Falling Stone and Soft Breeze was, like the river, a calm surface with a deadly undertow. On this evening, there was no Soft Breeze. There was only Falling Stone. The Warrior stood gracefully, as if he had not been motionless for several hours, and swept quietly over the river bank. He paced through tall grass, between dark trees, and beneath an open expanse of sky as the earth turned from dusk to night. Field mice scampered desperately away as they sensed and heard the Warrior's presence, forgetting even the owls in the trees.

[kimmarvelle]

The Rose Petal Stretches upward, arching its back; Part of a whole Reaching for the Light. The Petal yearns so deeply, it folds itself From right to inside out, It's ardor giving scent to beauty; Vision to sweet. Until the day Desire becomes all consuming, And it must have the Sun All to itself, And its bowed spine fragments With barely a sonance; Hardly a gasp for others To mind. The Petal falls, And as the cool breeze carries it, It is rolled and whirled So the warm Light, at last, caresses; Embraces; holds dear every void, Every vein, every silent sigh Of rapture. There is no thought Of finality for the Petal, Blushing as it is. Only joy remains As it settles blithely on the ground - For the Sun still shines. The Sun always shines.

-KM