New Blog

So as you know, I haven’t been glogging enough, so I’m going to start a new one, that way I can not blog enough in two places, hopefully making up for this, still not sure how to use the WordPress app on my new mobile device, but once I do blogging will be a breeze, anyways, thanks to my Google account trueecho22@gmail.com I now have a Blogger account, double echo power activate.
In any event, subscribe if you wish a link is provided below and will probably be added to the About page when I have time, the benifits of this new blog is the scant chance of some sort of income, though I doubt I’ll be paid any time soon with that google adsense threshold thing, I’ll be paid sometimes in the next ten years. Still a new adventure must be taken for that site just as the tales of Harmaony must continue for this site, it is the echoshadow way, I’m thinking something with a darker tone, what do you guys think?

http://trueecho22.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-dawn-of-new-echo.html

The Rusted Tomb

I was about to draft up a post about how I think I have zero real people following my blog and you’re all robots out to destroy me when I noticed a small blue set of words, stating quite clearly “inspire me.”  What an odd link I thought, I must see what it does.  So after clicking it, it brought up an image with the  phrase a picture is worth a thousand words.  Naturally I had no choice but to follow the binding contract I signed and write about image instead, sorry robots, we’ll talk about this later.

A picture is worth 1000 words. This safe has been through a lot. Tell its story.

Image credit: “safe” – © 2007 Paul Keller – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

 

He crafted art from what others labeled junk, it was a labor of love.  He never received payments for his work though large sums had been offered in the past, he even tried to remain anonymous at first though eventually they found him carting a freshly crafted crane (the bird) made from parts of a broken crane (the machine).  Naturally he continued this passion for years, he was well respected and would often be seen heading towards the abandoned district.  No one quite remembered why an entire section of the city had been vacated for so long but he was one of the few brave enough to enter, it was mostly him and foolish high-school students dared to spend a night in one allegedly haunted house or another.  On a dark cold night practically danced across the cracked street filled with the emptiness of potholes and abandoned cars, being around such destruction made him yearn for creation something fierce.  So he set to work welding bits of metal and cutting bits of wood to any passer by (of which there were none) he would look like a mad scientist in his refined insanity.   And then he saw it out of the  corner of his eyes, an old box, some sort of cupboard perhaps, maybe someone kept important things in a  tiny box in the back corner of it, either way it was now his, and he would use it in the name of art.  He went over to inspect this new discovery, and discovered himself locked inside.  How did this happen, he pondered as he banged on the door with all his might, causing it to fall over sealing him in even more.   He screamed for help which merely depleted his oxygen supply faster.

In the eyes of the public, there once was a man who made the ugly and useless into a thing of beauty, and then one day he vanished, and he did so without warning, his works left to collect dust in an art exhibit, his life was ended but his art lived on, no longer rubbish at the side of the road, but a source of inspiration for others, just as it once inspired him.  They didn’t know how he died in pain and suffering, but in the end it matters not, he gave his life for art, and his art lives on for him.

ECHO ECHO

The Art of Editing

Live to Write - Write to Live

As with most of the rest of my life, I have several ways I approach writing. I blog. I write grant proposals. I write fiction, both short and long. I write emails. All the same writer, all different skill sets. In some of these areas, I am comfortable with being my own editor. But with others, particularly those which are going to get some public airing, I need an editor, and a proof reader. And I understand more and more that these are not the same function, nor are they likely the same person.

In my non-fiction life, I need proof readers so that my reader doesn’t get sidetracked by an error that could discredit my work. Are the margins right, font size and type appropriate? How is the grammar? Am I making my point clearly? In these circumstances, I have editors who help me hone my message. Though I…

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Oh look an echo post

My god life get’s busy I feel like I haven’t written in ages, you know despite my offline projects, yes I call everything a project for the two or three of you paying attention. So my faithful readers (and the other ones too) did you miss the madman?
I’m back, (kind of) and with a plan I’ll draft up a wonderful piece on the existential nature of mankind, postulating that the thing that differentiates man from beast is man’s insistence that there is a difference. Or I’ll just rant about my day then talk about video games, and complain about not having a job, same difference really. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, to be honest but I have a plan, just not able to get to step two until I have enough capital.

Am I secretly old?

for So I received a new phone and, I have no idea how to use technology.
I’ve been gosling with the controls for hours, and I’m told they’re very intuitive.  Yet I find myself the next day still lost and confused.  What am I even doing?
Good job apple, I’m sure you made am amazing product I’ll be very pleased once I stop randomly taking screenshots and sending them to people I don’t even know, they’ll be pleased too.  Glad I got to keep the old phone too, since it is an echo.  And an echo I know how to use at that.

ECHO ECHO

Free Books – A confession with a happy ending

Live to Write - Write to Live

stewart library

I know I have a problem.

Everyone knows I have a problem.

It’s kind of hard to hide.

The moment you step inside my house, it’s obvious. The books are everywhere. They don’t confine themselves to the bookshelves. I suppose that would be impossible since the shelves are packed tighter than Depression Era tenements. There are piles of books on my desk, my daughter’s desk, the bedside table, the kitchen table, the dining room table, and the lamp table in the living room. Pretty much any flat surface in the house is game, including the floor.

The floor is where my latest arrivals are currently huddled – a half dozen paperback volumes of varying size and genre. When I got them home yesterday I realized that there wasn’t anywhere to put them. I stood in the middle of my house, cradling my finds in the crook of my arm while…

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random thing I wrote

see I can still do some creative writing, I haven’t lost my touch look a story has stated randomly, though more of a continuation of past stories, who cares.

 

The trees whispered as the winds brushed through their branches painting a barely audible melody, the kind of song one often hums but never remembers from whence it came.  Adding to this melody was the serenade of cicadas the world was not silent, yet easily ignorable.  As Jessica chased after her brother she did ignore this beauty, she had always ignored this beauty, which is exactly why she didn’t realize his reasons for running away.  In her mind there were two worlds, the practical world of humans and the chaotic world of nature, and she was no t about to let her brother throw his life away that easily.  The sounds of nature grew louder and louder the further she got from her home, and by the time the moon had risen above the distant hills she knew she was completely lost and that something was closing in on her, she could no longer hear the footsteps of her brother over the song of the woods.  There was only that annoying background noise, and that growling, as if some strange fiend was about to end her suffering.  Part of her welcomed this, not as something she wished for but as the expected outcome of leaving her peaceful home for the woods.  Then he appeared, as if a knight in shining armour.  He was a boy riding a giant wolf, obviously he had been completely swallowed by nature, and yet he still retained some traces of sanity.  Perhaps, she thought to herself, I can use him to get me out of here and with any luck track down my brother too.  “Hello good sir,” she spoke with a grin trying to sound friendly.  “Young girl, you’re in danger we’re being tracked by some scary beasts, Fang here noticed you and a similar scented human in this area, we came to save you from the vampires.”  Jessica was shocked, “No, you must have me mistaken, I don’t get attacked by vampires; I go to the stream to wash clothes and milk cows.”  She said too dumbfounded for anything more intelligible than outright denial.

 

ECHO ECHO