Vincent St. Quentin

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I wonder about the footprint I'll leave behind, I wonder about my legacy, I want to praise the human spirit. It might get lonely out there, but as long as you’ve got something to work on, there’s someone out there with you.

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Have you ever written or planned anything where the antagonist says basically nothing and is still i…
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  •  · I have been overviewing my decision not to write Science Fiction, in juxtaposition to the antagonist…
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This began from a dream, I think dreams are unfair on reality.Third Daughter – Samaulle EsunI was st…
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  •  · Thanks Pizza! I got the image of Pizza the Hut in the green room just then. Funny though, but not wo…
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I heard once, that the best way to plan, is to just do everything you can, chopping the draft, here,…
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  •  · I have been smoothing out the burrs. I feel like I’m rolling a stone down a hill. Have you ever had …
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In a profile, there is a "Posts" button, that is not working. Does anyone else have this problem, or…
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I wrote this, as an experiment. Could you please tell me if anything stands out as special, I would …
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  •  · Thankyou Julia. I did a little more experimenting, and found that this style I'm experimenting with …
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Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer....Are you tall enough for this ride?(And hello, nice to …
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  •  · Well... Some of the things I see on help wanted advertisements can be quite telling...Salary Commise…

A Trip through Time – Vincent Saint Quentin

Upon this French bench, I sat in recumbent silence. The food before me, a bagel, were not the article of such renown, as alamode. And the pigeons here, were just as agreeing as in any other city. I wore myself a scarf, and gazed upon the beauty of the carved face before me, a reticule, as it were, of chastity and vice. 

I were of a habit, of chewing my opinions. I talked, as if the doves had come home, and I were as rowdy as any other farce, bent upon the will of the bedside manner.

“Do you wish it upon yourself to betide, or do you, as a habit?”

“Do I as a habit what?”

I were on the edge of my seat, the edge of my toes, so to speak. The palaver, were fatty, leaning upon emeritus. It switched between tense, like it were a clockwork orange, and it sprouted before us, and died in its layman terms.

“But, isn’t it so cliché?”

The cross sections of opinion, were dualistic, and not fancy to mine ilk. I were crossing the boundaries, and we could talk as loud as we wanted, and assuredly not be overheard. The roar of the bus, the twang of their accented home tongues. 

“I believe in the righteous, but the factionless?”

The table, were bare of spread or doily, the smoke tray, filled with our butt ends, but no ash.

“I continue to see through you.”

Then, we dropped, and our conversation halted. At moments like these, two priests would talk of holy sacrament, of hope.

“I think…” 

The epic of our lives, flooded with fear, we were to stay in this city for numerous nights.

“But, about that kid, who lived.” And there the moniker stayed our fires, and the swells of mischief suddenly bonded the causes of the lions.

It’s all about body language. A butterfly flaps its wings in China, and there is an earthquake in Japan. It’s about puns and humour too. A cringing face, and you’ve already read the script to your conversation. The real trap is falling in love, then you start thinking about evil, and the end of the world. The real truth, is the lie. We are a complex machination of creationism, puppets. Magic is a personal experience. Problem solving is the basis of gossip. One may take the advice of the critics, or be the critic in the hopes of a final reprieve. All I mean, is relationship is about response not questioning. Because we can all fall into the trap of confusion sometimes, all we need to do is hold onto crime and punishment, rather than deception and ignorance.

We have been preparing for the pandemic to spread, the preparations have been hilarious, but let us take this on a universal scale. The study of viruses is close to the study of bio organisms, like prokaryotes and eukaryotes, one with equinamity and one with a minuscule brain, and one has to wonder at the habits of humans, and how it relates to their horoscopes. The likelihood of a nuclear weapon to take the Vatican is the level of hysteria that has gripped the world with the onslaught of covid 19, but who is dealing with the fallout? A blameless public, with the responsibility of organising beds and masks for their patients, is on the brink of death with this advent, but the donation of money might be bigger than the desire to throw all those toilet rolls into the sea. With the alms of fiction on our minds, one has to marvel at the rank and file that make these decisions behind closed doors, and the ones prepared to open them.

I want to apologise when I get nervous. Sometimes citation and gossip gets the better of a person, but that is no reason to put the ink down. The most special time in life, is just waiting around the corner, and you at least need to know both sides of the story. I also want to thank, when I get lethargic. The amount of time spent rolling over in bed, trying to sleep off the stupor, is no better to my health than The Gilmore Girls or Naruto, when I’m trying to eat my breakfast. I guess I just want to put my toe in the water with a differing crowd sometimes, and I know that hurts for some people, but this is a kind of home, and I want you to know, that is my intention with writing as well. Mostly, I am sorry for being a troll, but we can all pay the fair for the bridge sometimes, when there is a hero at our side, with very complex and conflicted machinations and emotions none the less.

Vincent St. Quentin
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Vincent St. Quentin
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Have you ever written or planned anything where the antagonist says basically nothing and is still in charge, based on the idea that he only wanted to kill the protagonist? Anyone who has read high fantasy, would know of this common cultural goal for the enemy to defeat the hero, without the hero having anything to his name other than the power to defeat. I was thinking of symbology for a while, after deciding how close Japanese anime got to representing heroes as beyond good and into the realm of altruism. It got to the point of being religious, as I thought in my mind, about how the Spirit of the Forest basically was the threat of Princess Mononoke, and Ashitaka with the curse mark, from the enraged beast with the iron ball in his heart. I wondered about Sauron, and how the ring seemed innocuous, but represented the all seeing eye like some kind of carnal marriage. Then I wondered about the other side, how an antagonist got their power, and what it meant to destroy the hero. The decision between the blacksmith and the wizard may represent a lot to a lonesome boy, but what would Fantastic Mr Fox think of the three farmers, or the Fool think of Fitz, when faced down with the decision of what to wear? It seems the closer one gets to antagonism, the further away they are from violence. Have you got any examples of this quandary in your readership or story telling? 

I was reminded of a place I always wanted to go. The new Trolls movie is bound to make waves. The first attempt at singing for Anna Kendrick was terrific, intimate song choice, full of self satisfaction. The next instalment, World Tour, will surely meet up to its predecessors glory, as the Trolls rock into the next millennium. If it’s a drag, then it’s a tailor made scrap book of all the things not to do in internet meme culture, if it’s a success, then we’d better watch out for the tooth fairy. Here’s looking to you, Branch.

The coronavirus is irking me. I saw the initial excavation of a hospital for five thousand beds and it reminded me of North Koreans marching to the Bee Gees. The trucks and diggers looked like ants swarming a toilet bowl. I have relatives in China, doing covert missionary stuff, very dangerous, and they weren’t allowed to leave the country. I hear it has spread as far as Afghanistan. My step father thinks he has it, and I told him he would be dead already, but he told me it doesn’t kill you, just gives you pneumonia. Why all the fuss, it’s like the koalas are being wiped out again.

This began from a dream, I think dreams are unfair on reality.

Third Daughter – Samaulle Esun

I was stationed at the Queen’s private abode, the mansion section that spanned ten acres, and sported Bentleys. The planet mars, had undergone strict military discipline, and whilst attending the Queen on dispatch, I grew close to her. As I came to know her daughter, the illegitimate princess, I could not help but consider courting her, though she were ten years my senior, and our missives were temperamental, but distant. 

The road had grown stark, and the Queen jostled in her seat. Gunfire had been heard up ahead, and it turned out the helicopters had missed a hub of sniper units from the moon patrol. In those moments, which could have been our final, we held each other close, and my captain could not help but spy his discontent, as I were awarded a medal of commendation, at the ceremony which lead to my post, as royal protector of the prince junior, Anabelle’s uncle.

In those moments, I could not help but wonder, as our relationship grew, over that three month stint across the water wastes of mars, that orange goo, traversed on hovercraft, as it were as dry as it were marshy, whether she were more attuned to the danger than I, as I kept a hold on my rogue pistol, as she kept her glasses pinned to a painting foldout. 

Annabelle were questioning, as her mother rambled on, and I tethered, looking upon the lass three years my junior, as she appraised the situation. She were royal by blood, though not by title alone. She were The Ghost Of The Marshes. She had some strict military training, and she kept her etiquette sharp, on the rabble of the surrounding mile. Her short stature, not fully grown, though not yet childlike, as she moved off, to sit presumptuously on a seat, moved as I were handed my papers across the glass, as I took my seat, when her mother left, my dear friend of all those three months, using the Queen’s dictator. She feared me, like I were an unknown. However, I were glad to have the prestige of a stint away from the battlefield, and away from my grades as a mech pilot.

She walked beside me, underneath the rustling peppermints. We talked of the ants, like it were a poem, and she described the food chain, and ended with me, as we passed the lavatory, and walked inside, to take our shower for the evening meal. We were alone, for the most part, cooking our meals, and cleaning the apartment. She spoke, like she taught, with swaying of her hips, gesticulating how things ran, and how later she knew to tell me that were why I must be prepared, to step in front of a bullet. 

The Ghost Of The Marshes, were expendable, and thus knew of the assault of the good that may pervade the mind in the midst of a battle. It were good, where a soldier failed, and bad, where a politician, of like mind, may find his reprieve. They were protected, by the likes of myself, and her team, though she were only a small link in the chain. She moved out of my apartment, and I were left with the days of that sweet summer, knowing her for the most part physically, and mentally not knowing her in the slightest.

I heard once, that the best way to plan, is to just do everything you can, chopping the draft, here, plot point, there. I am mystified however, because I don't know if I'm writing to style readership, or for fantasising. I am aware, that there is a deep censorship on writing, and a deep connection with grammatic device. So, I'm wanting to prevent my book from burning, whilst a the same time preventing it from reaching some upper echelon of sensationalism, but I don't know what is right? I'm looking for some maturity here, so the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

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