Word Prompt: Love

He doesn’t think it possible for his entire world to break and remake itself within the span of an hour, but after a few heated confessions, here he stands — not new, but feeling very much like it.

Love is a peculiar thing.

He can hardly handle the enormity packed into the word. It’s overwhelming, like a flood of sunshine after a long night; yet it’s small as well, as if the stars have all been fitted into one person to shower them in brilliance.


I’d been walking around, looking for something. I don’t quite know what, but by the time I actually stopped searching, night had arrived in earnest. True dark fell over me like a cloak to freeze my bones clean through. There were no people on this block. No soul but my own. It was odd—this solitary wild, where the evening chill continuously chased the hour. Bundles of gathered leaves and branches were haphazardly gathered on the far right side of the walkway. They were soggy; the leaves curled at the edges. If I didn’t already know that winter had gone, then I might’ve been fooled.

Lights from the houses that were lined up in neat rows around me all burnt out one-by-one, until all that remained was the streetlight standing sentinel thirty feet too far.  That was okay though. I had a lighter and a hand to block the wind. A single flickering flame. Shakable, but familiar.

It was late now. Everybody had gone.

I thought that maybe it was time for me to go, too.

Open Letter #39

Dear —,

I’m outside, swaddled in a coat worn thin with a hand around my lighter to block out the wind. Smoke escapes me, floating above like the tendrils of another’s breath. It’s freezing. The cold night is stinging my skin. There’s a pile of fallen leaves that extends two blocks down; the leaf painters are such an enthusiastic bunch, but I feel like sometimes they forget that leaves are fragile things. They color them in reds and oranges, rarely getting a proper balance, so they fall to the ground instead—soggy, sad, and gone too soon. I’d wish for them to get better, but I’m pretty sure that only faeries grant wishes and I haven’t found one of those yet. Besides, I don’t think I’d like to waste a wish on them if I did have one (maybe that’s why the faeries hide from me?)

Anyway, it’s late. I’m tired. The day hasn’t been kind, so I come out here to breathe. Breathe and forget. There’s no need to hold my head up high in a place like this. There’s nothing nice to see anyway. The city looks like its choking. Sometimes the people do, too. They dig for dreams in concrete graves lined with furniture. But I think the world is still in the lead (for now) because whenever dawn comes around the birds continue to sing their tunes. They sound happy, and I’ll take their sounds at face value only because I don’t want to dwell on the alternative.

I don’t quite know where I’m going with this. But I do know that I can’t wait until morning arrives. I can already imagine the cold kitchen, the warm coffee, and my boredom, despite the early hour.

I’m not thinking straight right now. I don’t like my mind. It keeps wandering to places I’m not comfortable with.

I want out.

I’ll probably leave here soon—everyone else has—but I’ve still got half a carton. And you always told me that I need to leave with whoever I brought with me. But I came here with someone I can’t reach anymore. He’s six feet too far.

What should I do?

-N. Rinth

Life Update of an Author

Dear Planet,

Happy Birthday! I’m sorry we’re slowly killing you with fireworks.

I’ve reached a brief lull in my busy schedule as a graduate student; it lasted just long enough for me to remember to make a post for this dusty blog of mine. I don’t get to write as much as I used to because of adult things that monopolize time as if other tasks don’t require it. Well, no, that statement is rather suspect in accuracy. I’ve written plenty over the last few months. But they’ve mostly been research articles, papers, academic manuscripts, and occassional fanfiction. For reasons beyond my own admittedly limited knowledge, I just don’t have it in me to write for my fantasy series.

I haven’t been good with posting or keeping up with those I follow here on wordpress either, but I’ve never been great at that to begin with, so I don’t think it’s fair for me to blame school and work completely… but I will do just that of course because this is one of the few times I’m allowed to blatantly skirt responsibility with little to no consequence. I’m starting my second semester soon and getting back into the life of a Teaching Assistant and a student researcher while I’m at it. Grad school is a grind, I warn tell you. But it’s enjoyable in its own way. It keeps me busy, if nothing else.

My winter break was filled with days of absolutely nothing, which was downright glorious. It gave my mind much needed rest, even if it did make me feel horrendously unproductive. I gained some holiday weight that I’m sure will be burned off once I start the semester and skip meals in favor of books related to immigration policy and american gridlock… my life is so exciting, I know. It’s mine though, and I’m learning new things, which is considered a win in my books. (A small one, but a win nevertheless.) I’ve applied to several internship programs with government agencies for the summer. Hopefully I get into one. I hope to wrap up my education by the end of this year and get my big boy job.

In sum, my life is progressing even though I spend a good deal of it seated in a chair. I will surely fail to remember to post on this blog again for a while, but I do hope you folks stick around. My third book is finished and just waiting for me to edit it. I hope to publish it in the winter. As for my fourth and final book in the Heartstone series, well, it’s there. Terribly neglected. But I have three or four chapters done. It’s more than most people.

I’ll get around to finishing it. Eventually.

Until next time,
Nicholas Rinth

Quote of the Day

by Richard Dawkins

“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people.

In the teeth of these stupefying odds, it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here. We privileged few, who won the lottery of birth against all odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred?”

Pass the time

The neighborhood dims, as I try to fill up the days,
Smoking on the porch, drinking off the cold,
Letting time pass, quite unsure what I’m doing it all for,
I keep hoping that once morning comes, I’ll wake feeling renewed,
But everything seems to disappear, blasted away from my frigid view,
Leaving me standing alone with nothing to hold onto,
Searching, screaming for the sunlight to return,
To dribble over my face, cure my ruined tongue,
And make this feeling pass — anything, please,
Come get me out of here.

The Garden of Proserpine



Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

Continue reading “The Garden of Proserpine”