Masayume Soto, The ArtistIf you are reading this, it means deep down somewhere you want to know a little bit more about this particular artist. Since this is the internet and you can't really meet him in person (easily, that is), here's a general autobiography...with obvious generalizations; this is the internet you know.Born in New Mexico, I was known as Alexander. I've been drawing since I was two, and have been a very voracious reader. When rifling through my stories, you may see some of my obvious references and influences of the incomparable Ray Bradbury. I also enjoy reading John Steinbeck, Michael Crichton, Takashi Matsuoka, Stephenie Meyer, Anne Rice, Susan Cooper, J. K. Rowling, Philip Pullman, among many, many others. I am a big fanatic about music and listen to almost everything, ranging from classical to cello rock to hiphop (occasionally) to metal to world. I listen to some stuff that isn't exactly "mainstream", such as: Apocalyptica, Mucc, Dir en Grey, The Faint, Nightwish, Lily Allen, A
Inviting Beds of AttractionMy heart skips past three beats...Come here to my pillowAnd bundle 'neathThe warm sheets'Til the sun wakes the crow,And I shall take the couch--'Lest you want me gone now;Press my lips to your mouthAnd confess love a-loud(Allowed)'For your eyes ask for moreI shall be Loved to death.Smothered against the floor,Laughing, sighing,GentlyLosing my breath.Copyright, January 2008Published June 2008 in Hole in the Wall, Issue 3, a student anthology.
The Last Week, Part IIts twelve sixteen in the morning. I know, because Ive woken up at that exact time every night for the past six weeks, ever since my seventeenth birthday. November 9th. I dont know how to explain it, but I just wake up exactly at twelve sixteen. Theres something in the air, some feeling that urges me to stir. The first few nights I got up and walked around the mausoleum-quiet house, restless and slightly freaked out. Now, I just lie on my bed and let myself fall asleep.But tonight is different. Theres something different about tonight, like theres something off. Almost a taste, halfway a smell, a faint sound, completely a feeling. The moon is barely peaking above the rooftops and its silver light is gently casting itself on the foot of my bed. All I have for warmth is my boxers and the thin sheets, and I can almost feel the moons icy light on my naked shins. Theres snow outside of course, it is December; but Im not cold. A faint cl
Literary Martyr, Part I"I have always been a good man, in my thoughts at least. Just as any man, I have grown since my childhood years. When I was younger, I had aspirations of being a director of movies involving aliens and dinosaurs. Years later, it was to be a famous artist for books. Not long after, my dreams were of becoming a writer. Thats one thing that has never changed, no matter how old I am: My love of books. So why am I now helping the government destroy such literature as Shakespeare, Ovid, Murasaki, Poe, King, Seuss, and many other countless writers? As I said, Ive always been a good man in my own terms, but now, Im questioning myself. When I was twenty, I flew across the world to see the world before it crumbled to pieces. Every one knew the War was coming; it was only a matter of when. The world had become an unsteady structure, threatening to deteriorate into chaos and bloodshed. I had never left America, never seen the world from outside its illusions and