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For an ambiguous most, summer is the month of hedonistic partying and burning your epidermis to a reddened crisp on a beach by an active volcano. For others, it is the time to despise the season. For a handful of us folk, however, it is the month set to read. I would certainly hope, at least.

I ask you, wonderful sirs and madams, what books you shall plan to read over the warm summer months?

My own self shall be working away upon Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut and a few Kafka novels I may quite hopefully come across.

A current work in progress, I do hope you will all enjoy these first handfuls of bars.

Spoiler

(After attempting to play this masterpiece my browser subsequently annihilated itself as it clearly could not handle such an amazing work of musical mastery.)

A horrid and very short tale I scrapped up together and pasted with glue when I was in the process of awaiting the first onlookers upon my art at a school art exhibition. It is more of test with a new sort of writing style. Those who are familiar with my normal style are free to draw contrasts and comparisons, and everyone is permitted a free ticket to mindlessly bashing this tale and tearing it to shreds.

THE PEN IS DEADLIER THAN THE SWORD

The writer reared his head along great towers of adjectives and adverbs, twirling, dancing, rather oblivious – he fell upon such petty pronouns and proverbs with unaided fists, reducing these simplistic structures to a rubble of the alphabetic variety. Of course would a writer not only hold the power to create and bring to life, but to destroy! He sailed and swam among great seas of creative connotations, reduced to blank oddities with a radical disparagement. The writer would not stop; could not stop, no – his hands, wild and maddened, flew from page to page. Erase that! Cross out! Censor! Sabotage! His hands held minds, brains, of their own – thoughts they thought were restricted only to themselves, and themselves alone. Quick! Cut! Stop! Fragment! Destroy! He would win, oh, certainly, he would win this competition by now. The man laughed a dangerous laugh, forsaking such voices of death and philistine negligence. He extinguished those original, bellowing voices, the voices that had quite previously made their homes on living paper, communities of sentences and entire cities of paragraphs, and were silenced mid-syllable with only a premature life. All by his hand, and the man was certainly pleased with himself. Never would these words, these words that would destroy the writer, see the light of day, but instead the blood-like black ink of his pen.