Tales of the Writer

Here’s to quiet joyHere’s to good friends and warm nightsTo conversations stretching...

nslayton — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 10:28:28 -0700

Here’s to quiet joy
Here’s to good friends and warm nights
To conversations stretching into the dawn
With bonfires burning low

Drinks that are bottomless, and meant for fun
Comfort without despair
Bring on those fresh starts,
Those new opportunities

Find what brings you peace,
Clear heads, a touch of luxury,
Smart women and their enthralling wisdom,
Treasures worth falling into

Give me wine
Give me love
Give me oblivion with bells

Happiness.

The cabin in the winter

nslayton — Tue, 25 Dec 2012 20:42:42 -0800

The snow fell lightly on the lake. A small breeze whipped through the trees, sending streams of white into the air. The lake was frozen, or perhaps it had never thawed before. A low fog stretched out across it into the horizon. Where the ground ended and the gray sky began was a mystery, it was simply an endless gloom. Winter had not only come, it perhaps always had been there.

The man moved slowly across the snow. He wasn’t an old man, nor was he a child eager to run and play. His shoulders were white from the snowfall, and his red hat drooped over his face. He was tired, he was weak. The man had worked, worried, and wondered when it would end. And it showed. His eyes downcast, his long red coat worn and frayed, he walked.

The cabin was hard to see. It wasn’t a large house, and the snow kept it well covered. The windows were frosted over and the door was met with a wall of white. The man kicked away, clearing a path and opening the door. He slipped into the cabin and close it behind him.

It was a simple place, and in almost total darkness. A small cluttered kitchen sat in the back, while a fireplace stood in the front, accompanied by a worn and overstuffed chair. A blanket-covered bed was on the far side, covered too deep in the shadows to see in detail.

The man pulled off his hat and removed his long coat, hanging the damp red items on the back of the door. The man knelt before the fireplace, grabbing the poker to jab at some logs. From his dark vest he pulled some matches, igniting one and setting it into the grate. After a moment the logs caught, and a warm glow filled the cabin. He rubbed his hands together and went to the kitchen and lighting a small stove. He filled his kettle and put it on the fire.

He pulled out a small bottle of cream and a shallow bowl. He set down the bowl in front of the fire, filling it up. As he capped the bottle two furry shapes woke up on the bed and hurried over to the hearth. The man pet both cats and watched as they lapped up the cream. Sighing deeply, he set the bottle down and sat in the chair. He leaned back, at ease for the first time he could remember. It had been a long Christmas, and one without much cheer. But now it was different. The man smiled.

He was home.

I have not forgotten this blog

nslayton — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 01:37:05 -0800

I don’t like to post things beyond my writing here, but I wanted to offer an update. I’m currently eight days away from finishing college, where I have been very busy these last few months. Once I finish I’m going to dive back into writing, partly poetry but a lot more prose. Expect updates in the coming weeks.

-Nicholas

A is for You

nslayton — Sat, 06 Oct 2012 12:41:17 -0700

A is for you
Because it’s you that I miss
I never put it to words,
But I guess you figured it out

You’re the one who got me,
Who helped me feel like I wasn’t alone
You’re a friend, a confident, and someone I care for
Shame I never got to show it

Why was it so hard for me?
Why couldn’t I just say it?
I guess it’s because I wanted you to be happy
With who you were with, with who you loved

Isn’t that how it always is?

Now we’re apart,
I don’t know if you know,
How exactly I felt for you
Or how that night left me thinking

But now when I think back
Of all of what happened to me
A is for you
Because you’re what matters most

#ShortShortStory

nslayton — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 10:17:00 -0700

The @WriteRCastle Twitter account (set up for the fictional author Richard Castle from TV’s Castle) recently put out a call for six-word stories, using Hemingway’s famous story as an example. Here was my entry to the #ShortShortStory hashtag:

“He loved her. She left him.”

Find life. Find love. Find an escape. Find an adventure. Find your friends in the crowd. Find that...

nslayton — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 23:50:12 -0700

Find life. Find love. Find an escape. Find an adventure. Find your friends in the crowd. Find that one old album, find that secret spot. Find something worth dying for that’s even better to live and enjoy. Find your own path. Find meaning. Find a way away from worry. Find life.

Let's take a walk

nslayton — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 15:00:44 -0700

Let’s take a walk
It’s only just pouring
And now it’s sunny
But we’re already wet

Let’s travel around
See what the city’s like
All the nooks and crannies
Full of people and place

We can go,
To the trees in the hills,
The dunes at the beaches,
And the alleys downtown

Let’s go explore
Come on, it will be fun
We’ll run from the crowds
Or sneak into that show

The sun will start to go down
As we hike to the top of the hill
We’ll see the city turned ruby gold
As we dine on a picnic

The last bus will drop us off a few stops too soon
Just as the rain starts to fall again
We’ll laugh and splash and run through it
Too happy to worry

When the clouds part and the moon peeks out
Let’s stroll home together
Arm in arm,
It will just be a few blocks to go

We can do all of this,
See anything we want
Let’s make it an adventure
We don’t know where it will take us

Let’s take a walk

Love and lust

nslayton — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 20:17:42 -0700

What happened to love
And why do we end up in flings?

I know I’m
Shy
Clueless
Awkward
And I know nothing comes easily

But are we really giving up on love?
Are we settling for a bit of lust?
Intimacy is beautiful,
But devoid of passion
It’s a hollow joy

Why do we run around
Seeking hookups,
One-night stands,
Flings,
Or anything in between

I’m told romance is dead
And to take a look around
But I don’t believe them
How could it ever die?

I hope to find it
Maybe not now,
Maybe years down the road
But I still believe life isn’t a hollow fling

I am a traveler

nslayton — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 01:10:29 -0800

I am a traveler
Or at least I long to be
I yearn for the windy road
And the unexpected paths

I see it, you know
Just beyond those hills
Sunlight lands and shadowy plains.
Places I know not

I want to see the world
But I know nothing of it
My shoes not right
But my dreams so bright

Maybe I feel shut in,
Stuck in the land of fakes and faking
Or I just want to see beyond my life
And know the expanse of human life

I’m torn to shreds,
By wanderlust, by fear, by indecisiveness
By my own naive ideas
What do I know of the world?

Maybe I should just give up on this
And enjoy my own personal space
Maybe I should push this out of my mind
And focus on the now and the present

But I know I cant
I can’t shake this urge
This burning desire to just go,
To just run out of here

I want to see the world,
To be a traveler
To meet people, to go new places
And be struck with awe of the beauty of life

I want to run to my dreams
But I don’t know how

It’s cold to the touchAnd sharper than a thousand bladesIt cuts into me,Deep, drawing my...

nslayton — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 02:23:00 -0800

It’s cold to the touch
And sharper than a thousand blades
It cuts into me,
Deep, drawing my breath

No way back, just stagnation or the unknown plunge
The world in front of me leaves me blind
Is it dark because it’s dark and empty
Or are things so bright they drown my eyes?

It’s going to be a splash,
No quiet or meek escape
It’s now or never
The shackle or the dive

I wonder, maybe it could be better
But pondering maybe’s just another way of staying trapped
It’s time to take action, it’s time to dive in
It’s just

Life.

It's the little moments

nslayton — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 02:50:39 -0800

It's the little moments:

nslayton:

Where the weight falls away
When you know just for that moment
Who you really are

Moments when all the stress in life
All the clamor and worry
Of love, of work, of life
Just fade away
And you feel like it all just

Stops

It’s the knowing smile
And the dawning realization
That you can feel the…

Grow wiser. Seek out knowledge. Cherish every moment. Share a drink with a friend. Try something...

nslayton — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 22:36:38 -0800

Grow wiser. Seek out knowledge. Cherish every moment. Share a drink with a friend. Try something new. Get free. Live life.

I’m done with the second guessing,I’m done with feeling second rateI’m done with...

nslayton — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 13:40:29 -0800

I’m done with the second guessing,
I’m done with feeling second rate
I’m done with being distracted by cold comforts
And delusions of the mind

I am to grow, I am to be better
I’ve faltered and made a fool
Now I know what I need to do
The destination is not clear, but the path is

I won’t let my faults be my engine,
Not missed opportunities or failed attempts,
Missed loves or simple mistakes
I shall live on by what I love

I’m going to improve myself
I’m going to grow stronger and learn more
I’m going to try new things and make the leap
I’m going to better myself

New year. New day. New outlook.

New life.

Poem: I Pray in Cairo

nslayton — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 19:00:54 -0800

Poem: I Pray in Cairo:

I wrote this in my first week in Cairo this summer, overwhelmed by the history of some of the places I visited.

We are the Lonely Ones (inspired by Elliot)

nslayton — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 13:18:15 -0800

I was reading The Hollow Men and feeling a mix of wanderlust and hopeless romanticism. Just a quick piece.

We are the lonely ones

We are the loving ones

Crowded together

Heart echoing with love. Alone!

A Better Life

nslayton — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 15:46:37 -0700

A Better Life:

As promised, here’s another short story of mine. My friend, the brilliant writer Jeff Campagna, wrote an excellent story about identity, set on the beach. I loved the imagery and wanted to write a beach story. What spun out of it was an exercise in enjoying life. Of love. Of sundrenched beaches, crystal waves, passion, and more. Enjoy.

Summer

nslayton — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 13:40:57 -0700

I wrote this as the summer ended and I prepared to go home to Los Angeles. I did a lot of traveling this summer, met some interesting people, and challenged myself in ways I didn’t think I would. Enjoy.

We all spread out
To walk across the earth,
Some seeking a purpose
And others guiding a new breed

We go places we have never been
Both on land and within ourselves
We go to find what is missing,
To see if we can do something more

Our plans last no more than the first step,
Our expectations cast aside by reality
What comes is a wave of the new,
Both good and bad, and sometimes painful

But with this new comes insight
Not the kind we thought we would get
But what we needed most,
A new truth about our strengths and faults

Along these journeys we meet new people,
Friends, lovers, family
They enter our lives and leave a mark,
But sometimes fade as the time turns on

And at the end these journeys end
The trip cuts off, the moment is over
Reality resumes and our worlds shift again
Like the leaves on the trees

Looking back, life becomes brutal
It becomes bitter, sour and empty
The journey becomes memory
A tale, no longer an experience

But we need not be entirely bitter
For the journey changed us,
Gave flight to our dreams
And put new love into our hearts

As we look back and weep
For moments now passed
Let us also take what has happened
And let it push us into new directions

We are new
Reforged, recast, refocused
We are loved,
And our memories are to be cherished.

A Writer's Dream (a poem)

nslayton — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 13:39:23 -0700

An old poem, but I felt the need to repost it.

I dare not open the door
For fear of disturbing what lies inside.
Through the crack that sheds no light
A cry rings out into the night.

“Come, masochist, come martyr
Give in to your obsession and do not run.
Let my ink be your blood,
And my lines your veins.”

Standing breathless I watch
As my hand moves toward the crack
Responsibilities and plans fading as I approach
That grim and sacrificial void

But a void it is not!
I see now the truth
A raging fire burns beyond the door
Drawing me in, unable to turn around

I step forward to the flames
And realize the martyr is but myself
But my cause is not a fool’s
It is a burning desire

Oh my heart does yearn for it
My mind cannot escape it
That world of words and ideas
That land of my own creation

The fire consumes me,
The voice dies away
The moment passes
And I return to the world

My pen rests in my hand,
The pages barred before me
My mistress calls,
I write again.

The Remnants by Nicholas Slayton

nslayton — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 01:11:23 -0700

The Remnants by Nicholas Slayton:

Here is the first short story I ever wrote, published on the indie arts magazine Zouch. It was my attempt to write a Poe/Dostoevsky response to Hemingway. Here’s an excerpt:

The fog hung low over the hillside, resisting the rays of the morning sun. Instead of fields of green, only gray could be seen. A few farmhouses could be seen through the haze and the trees, blurred monuments to the pastoral French countryside. Ravens cawed from the woods instead of the pleasant cries of songbirds. It was not a dead morning, not entirely, merely full of gloom, as if the land was mourning a lost loved one than dying itself.

It was a far cry from Paris. It was even a far cry from Nancy and the Lorraine province, only a few leagues north. Charlotte Miller surveyed the hillside, lips pursed as she tried to see beyond the haze. The town of Aubellet was said to have spectacular sunrises, but the gloom of this morning made her doubt that. She had arrived in the evening, catching only a glimpse of the ruby sunset, and had hoped to meet the morning in its full glory. So far she had only been met with disappointment.

“Still as gloomy as it was five years ago. Shame really.”

Charlotte peeled her gaze away from the gloom to look at her fiancé. Geoffrey Dryden stood behind her, sleeves rolled up and vest unbuttoned. With his crossed arms and direct stare he was the picture of English severity. Yet, even with his focused look, she could tell that the gray morning had left a mark on him. She noticed things about Geoffrey that others missed. For all of his severity, there was something broken about him. Then again, she felt the same way about herself.

Read More: http://zouchmagazine.com/the-remnants-by-nicholas-slayton/#ixzz1by3Oszmh

I Fell For a Girl Once (first poem!)

nslayton — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 00:56:59 -0700

I fell for a girl once
A smart, clever girl
Who’s smile and kindness stirred the heart
And made the shadows retreat.

I wanted to tell this girl,
Spend time with her and her ideas
Have a laugh, share a day,
Maybe find a companion in the world.

But who was I kidding?
I am not one to be loved
I am the meek, the quiet,
The unsure friend.

I fell for a girl before
Smiling in the distant summer’s sun
And then life split us apart
Returning to separate homes.

I saw an old friend again
Who had grown distant in the years
She started me down a path of love
And reminded me why do this.

A broken man, the pieces scattered
Who’s put himself together over time
A man trying to do good,
To make others happy, if not for himself.

So I fell for this girl
And saw she’s too good for me
So I swallowed the sadness
And wished her well.