CREATIVE WRITINGS

  Welcome to the Creative Writings page! While it may seem somewhat unorthodox, my intent for the following content is to provide a sampling into the creative writing process while also securing a means of self-publication and exposure to unfinished works. My fear is that, these pieces no matter how they might be judged, will sit idle or be abandoned for other works.  While the excerpts here are not necessarily either, several of which are actually ongoing and in production, they are presented as they currently exist, knowing they will inevitably be revised several times over to their final result.

  Creative writing, as this novice interprets it to be, is a journey who's destination is altogether unclear - both rewarding and revelatory at times while frustrating and desperate at others.  For me, inspiration comes in bursts, usually when not writing at all and (more than I would like), over the course of several projects all at once. I would like to say that I will eventually become an organized writer, where I've clearly taken the steps necessary to provide an outline or framework before adding color.  Still, there is something said for diving directly into an individual scene to realize it as an anchor for future work.

  These pieces represent just that - portions of a greater cause, that hopefully illustrate not only my writing style but offer a window into creative storytelling that most don't explore.  Each excerpt will be preceded by a brief explanation of the story from which it comes, offering insight to the intent of the work and the words beyond.

The Only Door 
Conceived by Russell R Cera and James Lincke
Written by Russell R Cera
Copyright 2011

   The Only Door was created and conceived in 2011 as a poignant, supernatural thriller about a young girl, who after losing her parents to a tragic accident, is sent to live with her despondent grandmother in her haunted victorian farm home.  Upon the out-lying grounds rests a mysterious, forbidden forest that immediately attracts the girl, who above all longs for escape from her own reality. Stealing away one night, despite the ever-watchful eye of her grandmother, she discovers within the thick overgrowth of bamboo, an old burned out structure with only one doorway intact. Little does she know that someone or something, still resides within. Yet the girl becomes enchanted with what lies beyond the door - an unseen presence who's life was marred by tragedy, much like herself. As they consort, evoking  unrequited love amidst their terrible consequences, a mystery begins to unfold with her increasingly suspicious grandmother at the center of it all.  A mystery that begs the question - what secrets lie beyond the Only Door?

  The following excerpt is actually the opening to The Only Door, in which the protagonist flashes back  to the events of the story.
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   I sit and stare into the mirror in utter disbelief. There, an old woman looks back at me, her sunken grey eyes robbed of their fire, her pale spotted skin erased of it's youth; her lips turned downward bereft of their joy. I'm barely a reflection of who I once was.

  Who I once was. What was that exactly? 

 Most days I can hardly recall… but when the rain comes, I remember everything clearly as if it were yesterday…

 The mirror suddenly succumbs and I'm back - hunched motionless on the long black leather seat, my head resting against the cold glass of the car window.  The rain outside rages, as each drop bashes through my ears and into my brain like a bullet.

  Peering into the fog, I watch the shadows of other cars pass, carrying happier people onto far better destinations. I see amidst this backdrop, the reflection of a twelve year old girl, her innocence lost, who's unwavering gaze longs for meaning against the dense nothingness. The nothingness that I perceive to be my future.
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Twisted Earth 
Conceived by Russell R Cera and James Lincke
Written by Russell R Cera
Copyright 2011


 Robert James Aldrus' Twisted Earth is, and will continue to be the one tale that will haunt me until I can figure out how to put it all into words. The story itself underwent so many changes over the course of the last five years that it hardly resembles the original plot.  It's so different in fact, that many of my initial writings, while not adaptable to the present version, could more than likely be turned into a completely separate tale albeit with some minor changes.  This is actually quite fortunate, as I find much of what was created prior is just as viable as what exists today.  While I will not synopsize Twisted Earth here, as I plan to include a more in-depth feature under the Original Properties section of this site, it is necessary to introduce the many passages hereafter.

 There are countless excerpts I could include.  I have not determined (yet) whether the ones I do will follow a chronological order of creation or if these are merely for demonstration. I will however place a general date and description of the timeline and thought processes behind each.

  This first excerpt is a piece from the story to date, although it is written in third person as opposed to first (I am actually still attempting to determine what will suit this story better.) The style is elaborately descriptive, where I have begun to tone this down in later drafts, especially since (in first person), the story is told from the perspective of a thirteen year old boy.  THE CREST was the title for (approximately) Chapter Four, where the protagonist, Robbie (Robert James Aldrus) awakens to an entirely new and terribly harsh reality. This excerpt is from early 2012.



THE  CREST

    "Perhaps, It may have just as easily been overlooked, undiscovered, unfinished, but just like all discoveries, great and small, it was not destined to be so."

     In the very moment of his rebirth - breath, was the first of his functions to return and he struggled to inhale the thick, uncomfortable air before anything else. It was harsh, constrictive and heavy... terribly uneasy for him to accept; each gasp producing the sensation of coarse grain sand invading and filling up his lungs.  Nonetheless, against a horrific struggle, he was taking it in and out, but this was the first awful sign that he was somewhere else and that something had gone terribly wrong.

     Then followed the senses, all together crashing in like a malevolent wave of awareness upon the shore of an uncharted isle.  Touch - brought a cold biting sting that began in his fingertips, slowly creeping across, outward and over the entirety of his flesh.  Sound - produced a painful ringing in the ears, powerful and frightening like dissonant voices in a chorus blaring in unison.  Taste - the next visitor, was just as unwelcome as an uncleaned mouth on the morn off a long night's sleep - pasty, stale, disgusting... like eating dust.  Then there was the smell - which was the worst offender yet, and not even worth mentioning. It was utterly as unappealing as the stench of rotting flesh.  Finally, came sight - the most arresting and loathsome of them all.  He saw before him a complete darkness that reluctantly surrendered to an impenetrable smog that hung like a restrictive awning in every  direction. 

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This excerpt is also a piece from the story to date, written in third person as well and meant to (in some ways) mirror the passage above. You may note the descriptive similarities. EVERYTHING THAT ONCE WAS WAS NO MORE takes place in the third act of Twisted Earth, where protagonist and antagonist become adversaries again.  Within the story, the two lead characters begin as enemies only to find a friendship that evolves into a bond of brotherly love. A key plot point severs their kinship to formulate the climactic showdown between them.  The environment they exist within (Twisted Earth) has undergone drastic changes for the worse and returned back to it's former self with the digression of the relationship between the characters.  Written early 2012.


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EVERYTHING THAT ONCE WAS WAS NO MORE

  At last, there was nothing left. Nothing recognizable. Nothing remotely indicative of how the landscape of Twisted Earth had been transformed from the wicked and the awful.

  It had returned to the very beginning -  a cold, violent, indomitable world overrun by unmentionable things of ill-nature,  now further mired in utter squalor and despair.  

  Everything that once was; in that one brilliant, shining moment, was now no more.

 The deep greens of the tall grass fields that miraculously grew upon the whims of the brotherhood had regressed to lifeless plains. The blossoms of pink and white they painted upon newborn trees - all fallen black and withered, while the vacant branches contorted under the strain of crushing winds. The turquoise waters - those streams and pools they filled with tears of joy, had dried up to dusty cored beds.  Glorious distant ranges, once hosting caps of fresh fallen snow, now belched forth fire and smoke from the bowels of the underground. And those skies - the ones dreamed upon at dusk, went from brilliant blends of gold and purple hue to an all too familiar grey muck, that hung listlessly in every direction.


  Through the blanket of cold clinging death, amidst a vicious blast of light and thunder, came a winged creature, carrying a lone rider upon it's back.  The foul circled and darted a few times over an  incredible crater, skillfully evading a horde of gaping maw bats in desperate pursuit.  Yet, those horrendous mouths would find their prey in certain places, and one such instance threw the Crow completely off it's course, ejecting it's master onto a ledge of cracked stone that hung precariously over the destruction far below it.  

     Here, only the day before, stood the great spire - upon which the cradle once rested, and a bond of friendship was born out of hatred. All of that became a distant memory, when the enormous trunk crumbled in the battle, the mass of it toppling down onto itself, burying the dreams of two boys in the measureless well from which it birthed.  The vault at it's base that planted the very seeds of treachery was no more, and all the horrible things imprisoned down there had already escaped, reclaiming Twisted Earth anew, seeking vengeance for their betrayal.

  Abandoned upon that broken ledge, barely clinging by one hand off it's side, was Friend - clad only in his brother's tattered clothing, his black robe and beneath the hood of it, the mask, which had cracked and shattered upon impact.  Portions of the boy's face were now exposed, including his left piercing cold eye, which darted to and fro to the skies, frantically seeking his steed.

      

  "Crow!"  He called out. "Help me!"  

  But the bird was too far off, struggling to overcome it's hunters in a vicious aerial stand off. It did not hear the master's plea.


  "What's the use? Why would you come back anyway?"  Friend thought, as he recalled how terribly he had treated the creature from the day he found it.  "I'm on my own, again."

   He struggled, desperately attempting to grab hold with his free hand. Yet he couldn't, for his strength was no more, and he felt himself slipping from the other, as a warm, wet sensation trickled from his palm onto the rock.  The predicament was unnatural for one who had so skillfully climbed and managed the landscape previous to this, bending it to his will when desired, altering the very forms of earth to scale great distances.  

  Now those abilities were far beyond him, as was his suit of armor - and while dangling there in desperation, just before letting go, Friend looked hard upon the hand that held him. Until now it was always covered by a glove of thick sinewy black matter.
  
  His skin - he noticed, was different; pale and fleshy like his brother's, smooth, without wrinkles nor deep pockets and only five fingers could he count.  Split at the side, up to the wrist was a gash, which spilled a curious black liquid running down his arm to the sleeve of his robe. 

  The sight of it horrified him, for he had never bled before and only upon Robert had he witnessed it prior.  Only one more moment could he hold on, until finally his grip gave way.  

  "This is the end of everything." Thought Friend, as he endured the tightening sensation of falling within his gut. His engrossing cape fluttered violently around him in a tumult of gusting gales. The boy tumbled, end over end helplessly, like a small pebble thrown down a massive well.  There was nothing more to do now but prepare for the inevitable. 

   "I'm coming to you my brother, wherever you are.  I promised to never leave your side...


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 The next excerpt is actually more recent and represents a less sophisticatd style, in the first person, written from the viewpoint of the protagonist.  Here, Robbie is about to secretly embark up to the attic of his home, where he believes there are clues to be found in regards to his father's whereabouts. The piece illustrates his apprehension and his propensity to wrestle with his own conscience.  Where he is quite determined and resolute at the beginning of the passage, he nearly talks himself out of the entire endeavor as fear and doubt begin to take hold. Written May 2013.

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 Standing at the base of the steps up to the attic door, I can't help but start to think about how crazy this whole idea is. Really, what do I think I'm going to find up there anyway? What if I went through all this preparation to come away without any answers? Or maybe worse, what if I find answers I'm really not prepared for? Still, there has to be something locked away behind that door I'm not meant to see. It frightens me beyond belief but really, I need to understand.

 I'm actually scared to death to be honest. It's like when you need to know something you really don't want to. Where did my father go and why? The questions haunt me every single moment of every single day. Saying he left us and shunning his memories aren't enough anymore. When I was little, the answers were  easy to conjure, so simple yet effective. Daddy isn't coming home. To the point, my mother always was. The pain was awful to me, but so easily fogotten by the slightest of distractions. And distract me my mother did, at least from anything that had to do with my father.  It's different of course, now that I'm thirteen. Mom's simple answers just aren't so simple for her to give anymore. I need the kind of answers that only the attic can provide, assuming they're up there.

  You see, the reason I believe they are is that my mother's life, at least since I can remember, has been solely dedicated to protecting me from hurt or harm.  I can't blame her, but still I resent her all the more for it when it comes to news of my father, which I assume isn't very good. I'm her only child she nearly lost and having been abandoned by the man she loved beyond words, I'm all she's really got left of him. Additionally, I can assume she doesn't want my mental health to digress even further, should I find out what's really going on with him. So she watches over me like a hawk. No... more like that horrible crow that sits outside my window.

 Why should me going up into the attic be anything different then? Maybe it is just filled with old boxes and this and that. Maybe it is in a terrible state of neglect like mother says. 
Dust, mold, you name it, I'm sure it's everywhere. Whenever I've asked about what's up there, it's my mother's quick and absolute squash to my curiosity. The elements are going to make me sick again or even worse, kill me. It's not like she's wrong about that.

 Then, my anxiety only tacks on more concern. What if there are animals up there? Rabid ones. Raccoons or worse, rats. Or how about spiders? Surely there are. Snakes? What if there are poisonous snakes waiting to strike in the dark? And what if, by some chance the crow from outside my window has a roost up there? That would be unthinkable. Almost immediately, I start to convince myself I'm just going crazy and I'm not going to find those answers I want up in the attic. I suddenly want nothing more than to abandon everything and just turn back.  

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  Next up is an excerpt from 2009 that represents Twisted Earth in what I like to call phase 2 of it's development. This is a first hand account in journal style of an adult Robert Aldrus, reflecting upon the events that eventually lead to his tragic flaw.  I truly enjoy this piece and I do regret at times with passages like these, that the story had taken a sharp turn in a different direction.


I RETURNED FOR MY MOTHER



Diary Entry: Ten  Date: 32 Days from my first entry



  Welcome back, my Friend.  You're still with me I see.  Good - I appreciate the company down here in this God-forsaken Hell.  And now that we both realize that my original plan to end this story my way has been mercilessly disagreed upon,  I might as well press forward in this diary knowing full well the consequences of what will be.  

  By now I'm sure you would like to know how it all got started.

    It began with my return to Philadelphia.


 I had reached adulthood - an awkward college bound young man, recently turned twenty years of age, seeking answers to the many mysteries my life provided me.  I had intentionally sought out and secured a communal residence in an old fourth floor apartment in Old City.  Ironically, it was located only a few short blocks from the very place my parents had made a home for me as a child, and then quickly fled from after my unfortunate encounter that I explained to you some chapters ago.   

 Go ahead, call me what you will; crazy, foolish, anything of that sort would apply.  Was it curiosity? A need for answers? A resolution?  Or was my decision to come back just a morbid obsession to look fear directly in the face again?  I do not know. for sure.  Regardless, I had made the decision to attend the Academy of Fine Arts - my mother's old Alma Mater, all on my own, and obviously, against her wishes. 


 There was little she could do to convince me, and even herself, otherwise.  Money was of little issue, as you might assume, and she knew that my talent, which far exceeded my piers at this point, deserved the very best art college to continue my studies.  But she tried so desperately to steer me in another direction, even keep me home, for she was terribly afraid to lose me a second time.  Maybe you might consider me selfish then, a bad son -  I recognized her fears, but I understood my own desire to face them all too well... and for both our sakes, I couldn't continue to stay with her during those difficult times.  

 Oh, believe me, I was destroyed as well as she, and I easily could have regressed into despair as well. Yet I knew that hanging around that old farm, watching my mother rocking away on the porch, anticipating each day her husband's return, would be unbearable.  I knew otherwise, but my mom could never come to accept it, his unexplained disappearance... and it was Philadelphia that took her love, on a day like any other, just as it tried to do to me so many years before.  So she fell into a deep depression, and alcohol had quickly replaced her companion.  

 She stored away all of her paintings - the very beauty bared by her soul - in the darkest corners of the attic.   It weighed upon me so terribly to see such a beautiful woman... so talented and successful in her day reduced to a rubble. 
  

  My own artistic goals had reached a stand still as well, and the progress on my illustrated story had come to a maddening halt.  The muse that remained with me - inspiring it's very pages had suddenly become unclear and distant.  My paintings that assisted the story began taking on a more ominous tone driven by necessity.


 My nightmares returned to me late into the night. Dark thoughts and evil whispers came to me swiftly upon the onset of sleep.  This place was destroying me as well as it was my mother. So my decision was clear, no matter what I faced.


  My aunt and uncle, along with their two children had come to live on the farm and take care of Mom while I would be away.  The farmhands continued to tend to the livestock and the daily duties.  Friends did their very best to visit as often as possible.  But the old cabin was empty, no matter how many bodies occupied it. Those last days, before my departure, were the deepest valley in a downward spiral that ended the final year of my teenage life.  I didn't want to abandon her, the pain, the memory of my father... but coming back to Philadelphia was my only answer.


 Why, you ask?  The answer to that was quite simple, yet the challenge that lay ahead was not.  I felt, there must  be a way, surrounded by the very best professors, artisans, colleagues, and students that someone could channel my ability that I discarded so long ago.  Quite possibly, if I toiled night and day, I could once again manifest my creations into reality.  

 As I drove away, down that dirt drive toward my destiny, I saw her standing motionless upon that porch in my rear view mirror.   I never did reveal that I wasn't leaving her... I was leaving for her.  I needed, above anything else, regardless of the dangers that might present themselves,  to find a way, to bring my father back home.


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The following excerpt is presented as a prologue to an earlier version of Twisted Earth.  This piece is more poetic and surreal and yet it also led to the original synopsis for the first draft of the tale.



The visions are terrifying, and when they come to me,
 they bid me to create awful things...
things inspired by an apparition of persuasive evil.
Yet, amidst them all...
there is still one faint glimmer of hope -
an image of lasting beauty that comforts my tortured mind.
While I cannot decipher the meaning, nor recall it's purpose,
I've secretly employed my talents to recreate this vision,
hidden under the guise of darkness from the One that seeks to unhinge me.

If my effort to do so prove successful,
I may still be saved after all....


  I see flowing waves of golden hair dancing softly over a gentle breeze.  The delicate tendrils frame the flawlessness of an angel's face, concealed partially by a half mask of pure white porcelain adorned with halcyon decor.  A pale sunrise spawns over a  landscape of rolling countryside behind her.  The grass amidst her feet,  caressed by the first kiss of winter's silver frost.  Her piercing aqua eyes - how haunting they are... vividly apparent from within their encasements, they sear into my own, causing an intense, unwavering gaze.  They seek answers... answers from my soul - to which I regretfully have none.  
     Her slight frame stands motionless as a statue, wrapped elegantly in fine white linen to it's end; a long and flowing train snakes away into broken stalks of overgrowth, still producing the sweet aroma of autumn's last breath. 
     Then, her blank expression changes, the crease of her lip turns upward to an apprehensive smile... and for one moment I am witness to a dream, warm and basking in that sudden turn, unashamed, accepted, yet strangely unaware of her identity.
     It is here that I wish for the vision to cease - yet it does not.  However, this one moment... is perhaps a sign... a beacon...  one saving grace, so minute against a backdrop of terrifying thoughts, yet so poignant... that I must somehow find a way to always recall it... or manifest it.  

...and then I realize, She is my daughter... my savior.

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Vampires As Monsters
Setting the Record Straight
Conceived by Russell R Cera
Written by Russell R Cera
Copyright 2011


 During the time that stalls befell Twisted Earth, I began, much to the demise of my completing one project at a time, tinkering with the idea of writing a highly erotic vampire novel.  I imagined an ancient rogue, who dissented against his structured order to ultimately be responsible for damning the human race as well as his own to extinction.  I wanted a vampire who, in his youth, rebelled against his destiny to take the highest seat amongst the noble few, being casted out and hunted over centuries.  For little was his want for power as he delved in the frivolous pursuits of personal pleasures, most of all an insatiable vampire who's unmatched beauty was bested only by her lustful desire for blood and personal satisfaction. As the story unfolds, the protagonist  eventually finds himself seeking meaning to his existence, answers that can only come through an act of redemption. The following, written in 2012, represents what I might consider an opening to chapter one, where our vampire delves into the many myths of vampires, setting the record straight on the truths and untruths.

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 I make no excuses for it. In fact, I accept it.
 I am a hunter; a killer… a monster - if that is how you wish to mark me then so be it. 

 I submit here however, that I am no more monstrous nor evil than mankind itself. We are one and the same in regards to dealing death, albeit through different means. For those that continue to suffer the modern human condition, it is voluntary bloodlust that determines their fate over mere survival. So it truly is a ponderous contradiction, is it not? You call me (a being that requires the consumption of blood for it's very existence) a monster, over they who shed life's gift sevenfold in the name of frivolity, greed, power, pleasure, a plot of land or perhaps an all-powerful entity of choice?

Evil monsters we are? Indeed I do make quarrel with your mark

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Noises from Above
Conceived by Russell R Cera
Written by Russell R Cera
Copyright 2011



I hate this old house.  It's cold, dark and it smells like death.  I'm constantly uneasy around every corner and I'm hearing strange noises coming from the attic in the middle of the night. There is something here that doesn't belong, I can feel it. My mother, when she speaks, tries to scold me otherwise; tells me I'm imagining things. "This place isn't haunted if that's what you're suggesting!"  Still, I can tell she senses something isn't right around here lately. Oh, she knows what I know, but she won't admit anything to me. 



  It wasn't always this way, but lately, I'm starting to think what really isn't right around here is her. My mother that is. It's almost like she's the one channeling all this dark energy.  First off, she hardly says much at all to me anymore. The only way to get her talking is to get her angry enough to have to.  After she's done barking out a response, she just cries uncontrollably. For a while it was only then that I felt really bad for pushing her over the edge. So I tried to comfort her afterward, wrapping my arms around her quaking body real tight.  I would shut my eyes and tuck my head under her chin, feeling her cold tears stream down from her cheeks onto mine. Maybe it was more for my own good than her's, like I was trying to recall some moment of tenderness between us from a childhood long passed. I don't do that anymore. not since the night she struck me to the floor.



  More peculiar, she took the little life this place had and doused it out behind sets of heavy curtains at every window. Each was a different color, until she got to thinking she would dye them all a deep dark crimson red.  That dye, whatever it was, smelled so awful I think it was what gave this house it's rancid stench. It may even sound crazy, but it's like she's turned into a vampire, afraid of light all of a sudden, cooking up her curtains in a pot of her victims' leftover blood. At least that would explain why she only sleeps during the day.  



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