All posts by Christian Ashliman

A Dog’s Lesson

For the past week or so, my beautiful dog Mia has been having some health issues. Nothing serious—starting with a bit of a stomach bug, and then moving to some constipation. She has handled it like a champion and is feeling a lot better today. Continue reading A Dog’s Lesson

In His Image

Across the table, where there stands no mirror
I see myself—sitting and staring through my own body
Feel the beams of vision pierce through my sternum
Pressing into matter that pumps blood through my beating heart
Meandering around bones and fibers that carry my being
Shooting out of my back, into an unknown corner of this room
Continue reading In His Image

June 6th, 1944 – D-Day Remembrance

I think of the water—crashing and reaming against the sides of their boats, rocking the steel platforms that they had their feet planted on. A frothy, foamy excursion through wailing winds and raging ocean waters. The spray would plume up and over the sides of the boats, misting them with a salty shower that seeped into their cuts and sores, chapped their dried, burned lips, and singed their swollen tongues. The unforgiving water would cling to their jackets, soaking through into their shirts, chilling their cores to a shivering edge. It would bleed into their boots, coating their socks in the freezing ocean rain until their feet were frozen and wrinkled, covered in blistering wounds that ached with every step. Continue reading June 6th, 1944 – D-Day Remembrance

Hurriers Wall

What’s the hurry? If we always hurried to the next moment our lives, would we ever actually stand to experience the moment we are in? Or would every passing second slip through our fingers, losing it’s meaning because of our rush to prepare for this unreachable future, ever eluding us, ever being chased over fences to greener pastures, ever dangling just out of grasp. To fully live the present in service to the future is to live both pieces half-heartedly. Continue reading Hurriers Wall

On Strawberry Muffins

I ate a strawberry muffin
That was so dense
It seemed to fill my shoes
With every teething bite
Thick and grainy
As if to chew on memory foam
Chomping and mulling
Into paste between my gums

I ate a strawberry muffin
Plastered with leaves of crimson
Skin curled up round edges
Slashing the bread in berry red
Blood—sweet and tart, dripping
Oozing across rose petal pockets
Flecks of orange zest squirm
Cheeks to bitter-sweet

I ate a strawberry muffin
A fusion I hadn’t tried
I found I much prefer them
As strawberries
And muffins
Than blended in a baker’s tie

3,004.8 Miles

20190528_082836.jpgI have traveled 3,004.8 miles on this little adventure of mine, up to this point, sitting just outside of Bend, Oregon. Or at least, that is how far my car has driven—I could probably tack on a few extra miles to the overall count if I added in the nature hikes and city walks I have been on. It doesn’t feel like 3,004.8 miles—for some reason, it feels like a lot less, which could be due to the length of time I have spread the mileage out over (roughly 3 weeks).

I have traveled 3,004.8 miles, and what do I have to show for it? Continue reading 3,004.8 Miles

Free-duh-m

Being on the road is such a strange experience–and not because of the obvious reasons, like having to figure out where to sleep, where to piss, where to get a snack, or where to get some free WiFi. Although, these things are all aspects that take more consideration when living on the road. I’m referring more to the mental game of transitioning from living in a house with four walls, to living in a car with six windows. From a place where I had any luxury I needed–heat, internet, memory foam bedding, a couch and T.V., people walking around, filling those spaces–to this point, of balancing the car battery and fuel bill for heat and power, paying close attention to data usage for mobile hot spots, eating out of the Rubbermaid pantry that sits in my back seat, and pit-stopping every day or two for a new bag of ice to keep my passenger-side fridge operational. Continue reading Free-duh-m

The truth of it is…

I have spent too many hours trying to define what this blog functions as in my life. When I began it, I was thinking it would be a portfolio, a collection of everything that was my ‘best work’, so that when I applied to jobs, I could easily shoot off a simple link that pointed critical eyes here. The only issue with ‘self-publishing’ your ‘best work’ on your own blog, is that it becomes just that: published work. It sounds completely absurd to think that writing some blurb about your feelings and posting it online counts as ‘published work’, I know. Continue reading The truth of it is…

bildungsroman – issue 1

To read through the first issue of bildungsroman, download the PDF by clicking below.

bildungsroman – issue 1

bildungsroman is a wildly random journal that aims to explore and entertain the spontaneous thoughts, ideas, emotions, and stories that dance through my head. It also serves as another training ground for me to practice and toy with style, design, effect, and voice.

Some work that is included in the bildungsroman journals has already debuted on this portfolio blog as well—so don’t be surprised if you see some familiar pieces.

Thank you for taking the time to read my writings, I deeply appreciate it, and look forward to continuing work on more issues of bildungsroman in the future.

Sincerest wishes,

Christian J. Ashliman

Throbbing Heels

Creative Nonfiction Written By Christian J. Ashliman

Cleats pound the smooth cement that paves the floor of our musty, humid locker room. Vibrations from the repeating bombardment shakes the lockers and rattles the sealed doors leading outside. Football cleats are sturdy and forceful, sometimes having little metal pins shoved in each protruding spike on their bottoms, in order to add more durability and strength under the pivoting weight of the player. Metal or not, thousands of half-inch pikes slamming into the ground creates a thunderous boom that rails against my eardrums. The sound is familiar, yet still surprising, bounding through my head every Friday night, ricocheting and echoing off the cinder-block walls that encase our manly den. Continue reading Throbbing Heels