Justin Rawlinson

Author: justinrawlinson

  • An Early Grave

    Authors Note: This is a break from my normal style. I had a song stuck in my head, and started writing it to that beat. I’m not much of a song writer, nor have I ever tried to be, but this one wanted to come out. Hope you enjoy it.

    It’s a false divide, the hate that we feel,

    It’s all in our mind, they paid for the right

    To reap what you think, and control what you love,

    But those thoughts aren’t yours,

    They create this in us, the hate that we feel

    Got us toeing that line, keeping us stuck

    Keep on spitting our hate, while we’re working our way

    To an early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies that they give.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    We’re hoping for a return, of a decent time,

    Or we yearn for a life, full of stubborn ass pride,

    But that life’s a myth, it’s one of their ploys

    We know we can’t get there, not while we sit by

    Being owned by the men in their suits,

    They’re running their shows and spitting out hate,

    Pushing us on our way

    To that early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies that they give.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    We can keep on living, buried in the past,

    Head in the sand, a foot out the door,

    Trying to make our way, to that made-up place

    Something beyond, but it’s all right here

    If only we’d choose, to unburden it now

    Instead we line up, giving them more

    Their hate is a burden, put down on our souls,

    We’re all just so calloused and sore

    If we give it up now, I think we’d just create more.

    Plotting our way,

    To an early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies they gave.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    Living in the past, or moving on past

    Trying to find a key that will open us up

    To unlock our heart and let loose our pride

    But our pride’s the root, of all of our woes

    It keeps us in step, raising our fists

    And fighting ourselves, instead of facing our faults

    We’re keeping the best parts of ourselves

    Locked in our vaults, all hidden away

    Until it’s time to go home.

    To an Early Grave.

    Marching in time to the lies they gave.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    And maybe there’s a point, where we stand up and say,

    Enough is enough, we’ve given all you’ll take,

    Or maybe we’ll continue, just like years before

    Until someone else has the nerve to push against

    An Early Grave.

  • Writing as Craft, Writing as Liberation

    Writing — both a craft and an art — liberates the soul. But it also makes my head hurt.

    I have no idea how other writers do this, but before I fall asleep, I find myself spinning scenes in my head. I think about what’s next in my story — what my characters will do and how they’ll do it. These nighttime imaginings are how The Rise of the God of War, my grimdark fantasy novel, was born. For months — six of them, though it felt like a decade — I lay in bed with the first scene echoing in my head. Eventually, I started writing.

    I had never written anything longer than a few thousand words. The idea of a full-length novel — 100,000 words or more — was daunting. Even as I write this, I still wonder if the words are good enough. The idea of someone reading my book, whether for feedback or enjoyment, often feels ludicrous. Why would they?

    And yet, I wrote. Slowly at first. Bits and pieces. Then, something clicked. I sat down and poured it out — 110,000 words over a few months. I had done it. I had written a book.

    Then came my first test reader. Notes. Critiques. I got defensive. My second reader offered more. I realized something essential: I wasn’t done. In fact, I didn’t even fully understand the process I had entered.

    So I stepped away. Life got busy — work, career, all the usual distractions. For six years, the novel sat quietly. I poked at it now and then, made small edits, wrote the occasional scene. But if I’m honest, I did nothing.

    The truth? I was scared. Still am. Fear has always been the loudest voice in the room — fear of rejection, fear of being mediocre, fear of putting in all the effort and getting nothing back. That no one would care. Or worse, that they would — and find it lacking.

    The other problem was belief. Or the lack of it. I had no solid evidence that I could do this. Not really. Sure, college professors gave glowing reviews of my essays. Sure, test readers gave positive feedback. But I discounted all of it. Ignored the evidence — because that’s what fear tells us to do.

    But here’s what I’ve come to understand: I’m not trying to be the greatest novelist in the history of storytellers. I just want to give shape to the ideas that live inside my head — to let others walk through the world I’ve created.

    If there’s a moral to this story, it’s this: if you write, write. If you paint, paint. If you fix cars, get out the wrench. Don’t let the fear of finishing stop you from starting. We’ve all heard that the worst thing someone can say is “no.” But that’s not true. The worst thing we can hear is nothing at all — because we never dared to try.

  • The Twin We Trust

    A note from the Author –

    Last night, after editing and working on my manuscript, I felt powerful.

    Ready.

    Ready to write more. To finish.
    I’m only a few key scenes from submitting.

    Submitting.

    This morning? I hesitate.
    Crafting reasons in my mind while I shouldn’t, why I couldn’t.
    Fear twisted in me like a poisonous barb.

    This was written inside that fear.



    The Twin We Trust

    By Justin Rawlinson

    Of all those things we have to contend with,

    Fear is the worst.

     Not external, a monster from outside

    Set against us in a pitched contest to the end.

    If it were, how many of us would be prepared for that?

    To have a nemesis which we could name,

    One we could identify so readily.

    Far easier to imagine ourselves the hero

    When the shade of our worst imaginings

    Is given flesh, presented before us.

    No.

    Fear is the worst.

    It gathers up all the things we say about ourselves.

    If your friends and family gathered around

    Telling all that they knew, for the world to see,

    Laying you out to the bone,

    It would only be half as bad as if you did it

    To yourself.

    And that is fear. Fear is presenting everything

    Down to the bone, cut to the marrow

    Done to yourself.

    Fear is the worst.

    It is invisible,

    Hidden,

    Tucked away and nestled in our soul,

    Waiting for the opportunity.

    To cut with knives honed by our own minds,

    Formless, muttering and cruel,

    Far more cruel than bullies, or families

    Monsters or men,

    For of all the monsters with which we must contend

    It is fear that gives us pain.

    Without it, imagine.

    Would we know?

    Or are we so enamored by our own reflection

    Distorted and cruel in the monologue of our minds

    That the lack of it would cause distress

    To know that our twin,

    Preventing the worst outcomes,

    Is no longer within, tucked away

    Keeping us safe,

    Safe from happiness and success,

    From reunion and love,

    Reckoning and confrontation.

    And that is the cruel irony, the twisted knife

    A perverse riddle,

    What is it we love while we hate?

    That protects from danger,

    And thrusts us from joy?

    Fear.

  • Tumble

    My racing mind, a million deep

    Functioning like an ineffectual cartwheel—

    One hand here, one leg there,

    The others landing where they will.

    Without thought or discipline,

    Their lack of training implicit in their wandering.


    A deep breath—another go. This time,

    Focus is the key, though it’s no more likely

    To be better than the last.

    Still, I try again. And again.

    My scattered hands barely catch me

    As I tumble and move.


    I progress, somehow—

    Forward momentum carrying me on,

    Though I often wonder how. My stinging palms

    And oft-twisted ankles are clear signs of the feelings

    That overwhelm me. And again,

    With more feeling, maybe. But feeling holds me back—

    Back again to the starting point, reeling

    And spinning on.


    Movements refuse to be deciphered,

    Though I often try to explain them.

    It is harder than I imagined—especially while moving—

    Because each movement is unique, each unfolding

    Like a symphony of chaos, unfurling its banner

    To ripple in the wind, and just as difficult to predict.

    So I ripple to the next, carried on and on,

    To try and explain what won’t, and move

    In a way that feels like home.


    A Note from the Author:

    I haven’t written a piece of poetry in over ten years. I’m not sure why—fear, maybe. Though if I’m honest, I couldn’t tell you exactly what I’m afraid of.

    When I write poetry, I don’t follow any specific form or method. I just write whatever I feel in the moment.

    This piece was written this morning, while I was reflecting and circling ideas for my next fantasy/science fiction story.

    Feel free to comment—negative or positive. Or just enjoy.

    —Justin

  • The Long Slow Song

    An excerpt from a book I’m writing.

    Trina sits, legs folded under her, a minor miracle at her age, a cup of coffee in her hand staring out of the window. People rush past, their cars whirring like contented housecats. Not so long ago this part of the city lay under a constant haze of smog. But then electrification happened. Everything ran on it now.  

    Even humans.

    Well, not humans exactly. It was hard to understand. Trina was not a foolish woman. Her expertise was education, but in literature and the arts. Concepts like engineering, quantum computing or artificial intelligence were all as foreign to her as she was to her neighbors. 

    That was the thing about Trina. Out of 15 billion people, she was the only one about to die.         

    Trina snorted, then took a sip of her coffee, the steam wafting up and steaming her glasses. Maybe not about to die. Compared to everyone else, maybe. But compared to a tree, or the planet, everything else was already dying. The comparison was an odd one and a large part of the reason, she was viewed as some sort of oddity by everyone she passed.

    The reason she stood out was simple: everyone else on the planet was immortal.

    Another sip. Not everyone, certainly. But it was still a lonely existence. If others like herself existed, she had not met them. Neither had the health services people, the government sent her house to “check up on her”, as if being mortal was a form of mental illness.

    She snorted again. Shifted slightly. Scratched her fingernails along her seat. A small meow answered, then Snobs, her gray cat, emerged from the shadows and jumped into her newly adjusted lap.

  • Fantasy.

    I love what fantasy gives us. Fueled by only our imagination and desires, we can experiment in a place that is entirely our own. Throughout history we have used fantasy to explain a universe we have difficulty understanding. Or to create a universe where the boundaries that exist in our own, no longer exist.

    Imagine Dragons, hiding beneath your covers

    invisible, until sleep claims you.

    Wings unfurl, the soft sound of wind

    rushing over clouds, finding your

    Kingdom.

    You’ll find my experimentation here. Enjoy.

    Justin

  • We’re programmed for stories.

    Grind the universe down to the finest powder. Sift it through the finest sieve. You’ll find not one atom of truth, not one molecule of justice. (Terry Pratchett, Hogfather)

    Most of what we believe is wrong. There is no moral justice written into the fabric of the universe. No cosmic ledger. No system by which we are judged. We’re here—no one really knows how—and we may never know whether it was on purpose or a cosmic accident until it’s too late to tell anyone else.

    What we know about right and wrong are stories. And there’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve always told stories—around fires, across generations—not because they were true in some scientific sense, but because we needed them. To shape behavior. To build a species. To say, “Don’t hit your neighbor and steal their food,” even if we couldn’t explain why.

    The universe doesn’t care if we do it. But we do.

    And that matters.

    Because we have the power of creation—not just of tools and machines, but of ideas. We’ve called into existence concepts so powerful, so embedded, that wars have been fought over nothing more than symbols inked on a page.

    We invent meaning.

    We evolve morality.

    And when we choose, we can rewrite it—sometimes in moments, sometimes over centuries.

    It’s natural to wonder, at the end of a life, whether we mattered. Whether we were anything more than a blip in an indifferent cosmos.

    And the truth is: we are.

    Not because of faith.

    Not because of gods.

    But because we can shape an entire planet—maybe one day a solar system, or a galaxy. Ours is a heritage with the power to ripple outward farther than any myth, farther than even the dreams of a disillusioned fantasy author.

    But to grow—truly grow—we must be more. We must expect more.

    We must examine our own failings, and stop mistaking comfort for truth.

    When someone presents an idea that challenges yours, don’t walk away.

    Don’t huddle with people who already agree.

    Sidle up to the one who disagrees—and stay there.

    That’s how we move forward.

    Everything else is stagnation.

    And we’ve stagnated long enough.