The Orbital Review
The Orbital Review is a literary journal under Orbital Press that delves into a wide range of topics. Featuring insightful book reviews by D.J. Hoskins, the journal also includes chess analyses, personal essays, reflective pieces, and poems, offering readers a thoughtful blend of literary critique and creative exploration.
Essays
"You could destroy all the other Harvard buildings and, with Widener left standing, still have a university." G.L. Kittredge
If the above is true, do I live in infinity?
I have always wondered this. Is the night sky beyond... farther than what man can comprehend?
Kafka's only problem far as I can tell, was his reluctance to resign.
With every writer, there is the fact that they're inherently doomed to obscurity. Whether it be today, or tomorrow. This moment, or next century. They will rise, and they will fall. For the world is destined to forget us all.
After writing 30 books, l've become completely unrelatable.
When I was young, I used to believe that intelligence was everything. That anything could be overcome with enough thinking, enough effort, and enough hard work.
Too much, or too little always proves destructive to an organism overtime.
My intellect has become obese. Too large, too copious to handle. Crushing from the outside in, it's suffocating. For its gravity is too strong, a powerful implosion of force increasingly compressing inward.
All you need is 5 minutes a day. If you can find a way to write for just 5 minutes every single day, you’ll begin forming a bubble of thought.
What school does to crush a persons creativity is called, “flooding.”
Because the pen, commands.
Within every organization, policies are written, doctrines are crafted, mandates are created, and orders are executed. Without the written word, the sword is useless. For its power is deemed null and void without clear direction.
When it comes to writing, working out is heavily integrated into the process. At the minimum, I'll cut out time to go at least twice a week. Why?
Well, because health is wealth. Meaning that if I fall ill, my writing productivity will take a substantial hit. Something of which is an absolute no, no, if I want to continue pushing my ideas out into the world.
I got the idea about a week ago to write a book called, “My Life as Time,” wherein Space, Time, Mass, Light alongside several other abstractions talk to one another and discuss/demonstrate how time dilation works. So far, I’ve managed to complete chapter one. Which basically personifies time and mass within the singularity of a blackhole.
We are trembling under the burden of success. The desire for success, the beg for want of resources, for status, and perhaps most of all: respect. I remember looking at a co-worker once, who was quite the insidious individual when he could get away with it.
I feel my story is one of triumph and expectation. The expectations were a call to adventure, a challenge to start on the journey of a thousand miles, despite the bloody callouses that have accumulated on my feet.
Artificial intelligence is the ability for computer systems to independently develop strong frameworks, knowledge bases, and ideas whose complexity surpasses the understanding of human experts in a singular or multitude of fields. However, what does this mean exactly?
If you want to be a genius, they’ll use you like one. It may be better to live a simple life and portray yourself as useless so as to prevent yourself from being used. What is a genius but a vessel for creativity?
I am an ebb of melancholy. It is sweet like lemonade, then sour like squeezed juice. It doesn’t help that I enjoy the sound of violins. The agonizingly slow rise and fall of their tunes fill my room in gentle serenades. My heart brims with their emotion and pours into my books. I am endlessly inspired, and yet I feel immortally quiet.
“The higher you climb, the harder it gets.”
At this point in my life, strategy has begun to fail me. I’ve fallen for traps, ambiguous legal snares, and institutional sieges.
It happened, they finally got me. Sitting here, no beer, full of fear…
In my little cubicle, scurrying to and from the bathroom. Acting like I’m making a difference, changing things, going somewhere…
Shifting right, then shifting left, the chains slapped metal. Crashing the cabin as the giant crates held firm. A hum from hell filled the cabin as the pilots threw the plane into a nosedive.
Holding my breath, I dive. Hitting the water, I do not swim, but sink. Down, down into the chasm of thought. Reds and pinks, violets and golds form, giving birth to a realm within. Colors shifting, worlds are born, characters are torn, pulled apart by the treachery of their environments.
Book Reviews
The story of someone’s life has always been complicated. Pressed with ups and downs, trials and tribulations despite being born into a royal ancient family—or indeed because of it—Prince Harry’s memoir Spare is a painful, open, and honest rendition of a life explicitly lived under the public eye.
I ended up reading this book shortly after watching the movie Oppenheimer. Since I was curious as to what Einsteins involvement with the atomic bomb was.
Poetry
its strange those moments
when I take a break
where homework creeps
and time goes out of window
I sit here stolid, so sad and frail
Reality is far darker than I once imagined.
When you are a child, you believe you can have the world
that you can have anything
Can do anything
Be anyone and perhaps too, run the world
I am chained to life
Tethered by the weight of family
Tied down by expectations that never end
it is boredom that plagues me
and haunts me
and follows
in day to night
It approaches again
the seed of doubt
the rain on my parade
the insinuation that I am not right
that I cannot write
and tumble as I please.
And I am battered and criticized
My limbs ripped apart —
Torn flesh bleeding from my corpse
bones shattered, splintered,
dripping with blood
He wishes for self-sabotage
A do-over, a new beginning before
the sudden end.
I am Icarus in silence
it is my skin that is burning
as I stand in the light
climbed too high
And therefore I must walk back to the beginning
Back to my beginning
And retrace my steps like a dancer
Reintroduced to walking
Poor child in the castle
Poor child flying high
she is cloistered and sheltered
and hidden in walls
I wonder, ponder, think back
at the girl I was; so frail
and fragile -
Who are we in this world
Where are we going
And what lives do we live
And I can feel it,
The sudden mandate approaching
the routing aisle
The roadblock in the way
Women drift like flower petals
Twirling and spinning onto the next
The next lover
The next trick
The next outfit
i am attuned in my heart
with the word and words
Thick books and snide looks. They hold an air, a sensibility, a snobbery.
Shakespeare, Van Gogh… they'll never know; they'll never have it, never know their pain.
Leaves fall and twirl
spinning like life fallen,
into death.
I didn’t ask to be born into this world
I was forced into it
Like a seed planted
Watered and blessed with sunlight to sprout
we who were lost
we who were abandoned
lost in the cold, stumbling about in the snow
without friend or guide to find you
Go ahead, scream and shout. Let it all out… I don't care.
I hated how she made me feel. That hair, that touch, that lust… her unrelenting fire, persistence, passion…
How could I forget; I cannot… and that's the problem.
I refused to give, to trip… to fall in love with her.
Red fire pours across a flowered field, licking to blaze all
It does touch. Ravens caw above cindered ashes, coal wings surfacing
On air. A young girl stares, pale-eyed as clouds, blinking against the fall
Of rain. Flutter of yarn - whisking, wispy soul along the wind; how does
Your story end?
It widens
it peaks
in its spread,
stretching from corner to corner
Love is that little thing
that people say
when they wish to use you,
and then abuse you.
Chess
Slowly but surely, it's taking over. There's no doubt about it.
The longer I play, the more illusions I see. It starts with the little things. You wonder if you locked the door, shut the blinds, left the light on.
The first book I ever wrote about chess was called, "20 King Pawn Endgames Explained." Originally my idea was to write this book in order to improve my play, since I knew relatively little about these types of endgames. At the time I was living in Guam, as I was sent there for an exercise with the Air Force.
This is a Rook and Pawn endgame. It’s here to serve a short example of how complicated chess can become from a seemingly simple position.
Every move and every line… is incorrect. For everything I see, is a mere shadow of the truth. A falsification, an aberration, an illusion.
Of what to make of myself? Am I to ever become more than a fraud? A dreamer? A charlatan?
Chess is an incredible tool for solving IQ problems, not for weighting EQ questions.
Short Stories
Water ran steadily in a hush. Ebbing in a stream through the tunnels. Walking over wavy metal, the sewer pipe was caked with rust and debris. Worn industrial belts, shredded tires, fragments of split concrete, alongside rebar sat gray beneath a pale light.
Breath. The air fogs in the autumn air. My eyes flick and watch it swirl and then be blown back into me. The vapor dissipates, and I blink slowly, wondering where the time has gone.
Fingers passed over the smoothness of a doorknob and, clutching cold metal, turned it. Light flooded in to blind as Luna stepped out of the restroom building and onto the grime of cracked concrete. Red brick crisscrossed in a myriad across the low building’s outer wall, sprawling vines of ivy splayed along its sides.
Peeking around a corner, Amma held her shredder at port arms. A short rifle, it was twice the length of a conventional handgun. Pulling back the bolt, she took a quick look inside the ejection port.
A long black needle rested there. Powered by magnetic propulsion, the anti-material spike was built to penetrate armor. Pushing through before fragmenting into an adversaries body.
Trillions of hypertransistors crowded Amma's skull. Buzzing in an array of atomic circuitry, they illuminated the translucent casing. Revealing a dome of grayish blue light from a distance.
To the clear skies with wide eyes, I used to stare. The nights used to be quiet, silent upon the hilltops. Little birds with muted words, clung to air. High above, they could feel it, could see it. The truth, the coming carnage of which we'd been warned on the news.
Activating, hollow eyes lit blue; dimming intermittently before continuing to flicker. Hesitating, Amma's core steadily awoke from its slumber. Warming up, processing units began to access files. Swapping memory, records blazed a trail of data through her mind.
Book Samples
"Maria Castus, Age 22, Car Accident."
Closing the notebook, the man slips it into his long black cloak.
"I always find those who die tragically, the most amusing." Death mutters, standing on the side of the road.
A dim light flickers in the middle of the highway as the firemen go about their work. Emergency vehicles litter the area, while traffic is escorted around the accident.
"In war...death is what always happens." Private Eaton's words echo in his own haunted mind. Plagued by the memories of previous tours and dead friends, he strides, eyes closed and unwilling, back onto the battlefield — this time, on a rescue mission. Assault rifle in paw, he is pressured to hold the line for himself and fellow comrades.
Persecution: The 4th installment of the Dark Light Series.
“Chaos to chaos, and peace to peace. To think this is the end, you must first remember your beginning.”
Alex thinks he’s made it. Melissa hopes she’s safe. They will not find rest. Watch closely. The end has yet to come. On a jet, Alex has passed his trial. What awaits is Corpus, an academy that will guide him on the road to self-discovery. The only Oddity to appear in decades, his merit is expected, but an attack is not.
Having great power makes any mage a prime target."
Alex is beaten. Melissa is ambushed. Where do they go from here? Don’t let go. They aren’t ready. Alex is a coward and ignorance is all he knows. On him, Kaiga does not hold back. Information floods him and his mind is pressed for answers, does he have the one they seek? Or will he be deemed worthless?
Before there can be peace, there must first be war."
In a parallel world, war is brimming on the horizon, and in a generational conflict between two superpowers, only one can win.
Alex is an outsider, an ordinary teenager from Earth who travels by violent means into a parallel universe where nothing is the same, and everything is created by magic. His gift lies in his trauma, and unlocking it presents the key to unimaginable power he was never ready for. Pulled into the center of a vengeful struggle of hatred and despair, he is forced to grow up from a boy to a man when exposed to the cost of war. To him, what side he is on does not matter so long as the suffering ends.
Photography
Videos
The Walking Dead
And I am battered and criticized
My limbs ripped apart —
Torn flesh bleeding from my corpse
bones shattered, splintered,
dripping with blood
Institutional Level Scams
“The higher you climb, the harder it gets.”
At this point in my life, strategy has begun to fail me. I’ve fallen for traps, ambiguous legal snares, and institutional sieges.
The Twin Left Behind
Fingers passed over the smoothness of a doorknob and, clutching cold metal, turned it. Light flooded in to blind as Luna stepped out of the restroom building and onto the grime of cracked concrete. Red brick crisscrossed in a myriad across the low building’s outer wall, sprawling vines of ivy splayed along its sides.
Finally A Rat
It happened, they finally got me. Sitting here, no beer, full of fear…
In my little cubicle, scurrying to and from the bathroom. Acting like I’m making a difference, changing things, going somewhere…
Ivy Welcome
and my mind is in the state
Of processing
like a frozen computer
Overwhelmed and flooded
by a hurricane of information
Restart With Knowledge
He wishes for self-sabotage
A do-over, a new beginning before
the sudden end.
Brightly Burning
I am Icarus in silence
it is my skin that is burning
as I stand in the light
climbed too high
Daggered Intellectuals
And therefore I must walk back to the beginning
Back to my beginning
And retrace my steps like a dancer
Reintroduced to walking
Castled Girl
Poor child in the castle
Poor child flying high
she is cloistered and sheltered
and hidden in walls
Past to Present
I wonder, ponder, think back
at the girl I was; so frail
and fragile -
Soul Searching
Who are we in this world
Where are we going
And what lives do we live
Bastion - Chapter 3
Peeking around a corner, Amma held her shredder at port arms. A short rifle, it was twice the length of a conventional handgun. Pulling back the bolt, she took a quick look inside the ejection port.
A long black needle rested there. Powered by magnetic propulsion, the anti-material spike was built to penetrate armor. Pushing through before fragmenting into an adversaries body.
AC-130 Gunship: Iraq
Shifting right, then shifting left, the chains slapped metal. Crashing the cabin as the giant crates held firm. A hum from hell filled the cabin as the pilots threw the plane into a nosedive.
Infinite Sea: Imagination, Isolation, and Writing
Holding my breath, I dive. Hitting the water, I do not swim, but sink. Down, down into the chasm of thought. Reds and pinks, violets and golds form, giving birth to a realm within. Colors shifting, worlds are born, characters are torn, pulled apart by the treachery of their environments.
A Writer’s Duty
A writer’s only concern is the search for truth.
Mandated Entrapment
And I can feel it,
The sudden mandate approaching
the routing aisle
The roadblock in the way
A Writers Fate
As a writer, it is imperative to understand that you do not write for the current day but for the days beyond your years. Through the might of the pen, writers hold a singular ability. The power to immortalize others.
Playing Pretend In Class
I can't stand school, but it's forced upon me.
The infantilism, stupid group projects, annoying little kids…
I'm too old for this shit. Too old to mold, too old to fool into believing strange things.
Old Dog Inside
My teeth are worn, some are broken. The jaw mangled from tearing flesh and chopping meat.
The organs are old, but still working, Hearts still pumping, pushing the blood, flowing the mud beneath my skin.
Feminine Petals… A Poem Of Womanhood And Age
Women drift like flower petals
Twirling and spinning onto the next
The next lover
The next trick
The next outfit