Saturday, February 28, 2015

prose poem 6 | hypnos holds your eyes each night

Hypnos holds your eyes each night. He presses your chest and makes soft and slow your breath. He silently scatters succor over your mind.  Sweet silent oblivion awaits you each night. It is no accident that his brother is death.

Mother Nyx with her star-dappled mantle onlooks.

The sons of Hypnos will interrupt their father’s work. Omens and mysteries and memories and half-truths will pierce the perfect black behind closed lids. Still, though, we are prepared for the oblivion awaiting us all because of the blank spaces between dreams.

Thanatos, brother to sleep, is ever near.

Friday, February 27, 2015

to be named

Names are power. Categorization, the separating of one phenomenon from others, is the beginning of understanding. Understanding assuages fear. The understood may be overcome.

To be named is to be lessened.

I am not named. I am not some sad mixture of earthly things, no twisted lump of beast and man. I am not the darkness; I am beyond it.

I am that hard breath before your stomach falls to your feet. I am that sensation within your skull, which your mind refuses. I am the void. I am your doom.

I await you.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

perched above

She swept through the moonlit fields on swift and silent feet. The cold, wet air flowed in and out of her lungs, with no time to take heat from the knotted fire in her belly. Suddenly, Wetrock-salamander bounded into a dead tree’s branches.

She stopped. Her large, owlish eyes locked intently on a lonely cabin in the woods. No lights shone within, and it had been closed tight against the chill of early spring. Her mind, however, was hours in the future, dancing wildly with Swampfire-greymoth.

Slowly she crawled to the end of the lowest branch. The claws of her hands and feet sent showers of soft bark floating down to the earth. With a practiced toss, she sent a wet sheet to unfurl over the smoking louver. There was nothing then but to wait.

Wetrock-salamander’s stomach burned. She couldn’t stop fitfully stripping the bark from her perch. All around her, the worm-riddled wood lay exposed.

At long last, the smoke pouring through the tightly closed shutters began to slacken. Her body tensed. She ran her tongue across rows of pointed teeth. She closed her eyes and counted.

Only then did she drop to the dewy grass, draw a deep breath, and slip inside the smoke choked abode. Moments later she emerged with a fistful of silver forks and a half cooked leg of lamb. The food did nothing to assuage the burning nervousness in the pit of her gut. At least the silver would shine finely in her matted, moss-green hair. Perhaps, after all, Swampfire-greymoth would pick her.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

obviously i do not know how to properly format screenplays

Scene Opens with a push-in onto a bulky, tan colored monitor running Windows 95. Window in the forefront is an Internet Relayed Chat in Netscape Navigator circa 1998, Green text on a black background. All dialogue in this scene occurs in text within this window.

Dude,,. I mean have you ever really thought about it. like really thought about ti? I mean what if we like never invented shoes. Like what if thtat werent ever a thing. like what would that bee like????? I mean It’d belike wow, better I hink.

How drunk are you steve? Like what the fuck are you on?

Cursor blinks for a very long time.



Fade to black. Push back into shot of computer, lighting shift to nighttime.

            I may have found some mushrooms.

Smash cut to dancing bears. Fade to Black.

End Scene.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

best wishes, adieu

Gerry stood in the New Mexico heat, reading aloud the elegant English script off of a Grecian styled amphora.

Welcome, gentlemen. I have been expecting you, and made appropriate arrangements to ensure you an interesting journey through my little abode. I do so hope the riches contained herein have not been exaggerated to you three fine young lads.
Best Wishes
-          J. G.”

Tim, Jon, and Gerry squinted nervously at each. The sun continued to exert its pressure from above. The closed and ornately carved rosewood door, set into the sandstone ridge before them, continued to exude pulses of frigid cold.

“Okay. Fuck that, fellas. I said I was done with that spooky shit last time!” Gerry declared and hurled the heavy amphora to the stony ground.

While Tim and Gerry descended the twisting trail, Jon knelt down in the shade of the doorway. A flash of white amongst the black and orange remnants had caught his eye. He carefully pulled a fragment from the shadowed pile and into the light of day.

His eyes grew wide. Jon tossed the shard away like a hot coal and ran off to join the other two.

Inlaid in silver, on the inside of the long and elegant neck, it read, “Adieu, Jonny!”

Monday, February 23, 2015


Singing, she was singing when I first saw her. Like a songbird or a pastiche of some unknown Disney princess, Olivia warbled out a charmingly off-key rendition of “96 Tears”. She may also have been twirling about, sound-of-music style, too. I think she thought she was alone. It was rather early in the morning, and that overgrown park was rarely visited.

She wore a lime green sweater and a purple toboggan. Her smiling brown eyes grew wide as she spun about and saw me. The rosy kiss of winter on her round cheeks flashed quickly into a beet red blush. She wobbled a bit but regained her balance and grinned.

I’d like to say it was love at first sight, but I don’t think that’s true. I’m skeptical of such a phenomenon existing outside of fiction, but love did fall fairly rapidly into place. She was interesting and tended to follow her own odd ideas and impulses completely through. When the idea to turn a stone came to her, that stone could not be left unturned.

It would have been hard to imagine then what Olivia would become. She hid her mouth behind her hand and could not stop laughing in the morning sun.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

quiet underneath, they rage

We wait under the floorboards, silent and grim.

We used to dance under the sun and sup beneath the stars before the giants came. We use to be free and happy beneath the great blue sky.

They sunder the earth with their great feet, wrapped in the hardened skin of dead animals. They declared war on the trees and are winning with iron teeth. They cut into the ground and plant strange seeds from foreign climes.

Worst of all, they have built this strange temple and blocked off the sky. We have whispered in their dreams, but they do not heed us. We have left them subtle clues and potent wardings. Do they expect us to show ourselves directly?

Tonight, when the moon is high and right in the sky, we will sally forth. We will sing down the walls and call forth the thorns. We will water the brown grass with their strange red blood.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

eye-witnesses in space station tycho | part 2

Yah, sure, I saw him. Weird little bald guy, with a goatee? Dark glasses?

Little bastard came jetting ‘cross the corridor last night, Ring One outta the first 45° past Doxy’s. His velocity was nuts, don’t know how he was pumping that much thrust outta those little legs. Think he might have had a small knife. Craziest part, he clipped straight ahead, and I lost sight of him.

What? I know that’s a counter 45° across Ring One. Did you not hear me call it crazy? Hey, I was coming straight off of a full shift troubleshooting the back-up bearings and gyros. Hadn’t had time for a drop of gin, and I don’t use dry gin.

You know what? You can check my clock card, and you can even check my fucking blood, BUT only after I check with my U-rep.


I don’t know what else to say, ma’am. They body just disappeared. I don’t have any explanation.

No, ma’am. We followed full containment protocol. Yes ma’am, we checked the vid. It pops out between frames.

Yes ma’am, I know how many frames get cycled in a second.

No, ma’am. The blood in the alleyway has vanished as well.


Crime? Hardly. I destroyed only a piece of myself, a lingering nagging bit of violent self-doubt. Assuredly, the body is no longer here to haunt you, madam?

Really, this is quite tedious. Some parts of myself are simply dogged in their small pursuits.

God? Functionally, I suppose that qualifier is suited. I am the only actuality, madam; you are simply a smaller, distant refraction of my singular self.

And, I might add, you are a distinctly fashion abhorrent corner of my vast cognitive distribution.
I have entertained your terrible shoulder-pads long enough, captain. I bid you adieu.


You will find two reports in front of you, magistrate. One contains the truth; the other contains a conceivable accounting of events. Attached to both you will find my resignation.  

Friday, February 20, 2015

eye-witnesses in space station tycho | part 1

It’s real simple, fella. Met this girl, pretty thing with pink hair, purring like a single-drop Sally. Buy ‘er a few drinks, right. Asks me how I throw. Tell ‘er, “Price ain’t nothing. Good n’ flush from a long ride.” Must’ve lit her torch.

So anyway, we found a nice little spot, out the back corridor. I hears some hollerin’ behind us. I flipped around all hard-burn to tell ‘em to dock elsewhere. There’s this little bald man holdin’ a  half-meter bloody chiv; he’s standing over that curled up dead fella.


Look, here’s the short version. I’m licensed. I was working the bar when some half-witted asteroid hopper comes stumbling in, fresh-to-port. I smile at him, and the fool shoves a lemon-afterburn into my hand before I can wink. He’s buying the good gin, too so I figure, easy trick, right? I ask him how he throws; says he’ll pay anything for it.

I take him to my toss-down in the back corridor, it’s real obvious I’m in for a short night’s work as he’s pawing and panting on top. Catch a scuffle, all silhouetted from the Doxy’s Proxy sign. Hear a scream a few seconds later, and the John turns to holler. Must’ve seen more blood than me ‘cause he upchucked a whole lotta good gin. Little fellow runs off spindleward. Big fellow’s dead.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

mediocre metaphor

Dark seas, only port, an archipelago spreads before me. Islands of fire or mist surround. I must choose between obscurement and pain.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

piteous things

It was barely dawn, on a cold, clear winter’s morning. Her grimoire was at hand though she shouldn’t need it. Mirabelle once again drove her tired mind through the exacting series of images she would use to call forth the creature. All the other ingredients were artfully scattered about the room.

A vial of children’s tears rested on the rough-hewn sideboard, within a pink puddle of Aurora’s first light. A malformed and stillborn lamb lay on the table, mouth agape in a silent bleat of pain. Many dead lepers’ rags were strewn about and trodden down into the splintering cracks of the floorboards. Guttering candles of stinking tallow fumed all about the room.

It was time. The bait was well set.

She burned through the first dozen images and spoke the thing’s name. An idyllic field in the summer’s afternoon, bathed in blood: this preceptual scene Mirabelle held fast to as she spoke the name again. The prickling tightness in her bones and lightness in her chest increased tenfold.

Finally, she imagined a snow drenched village, with no fires lit, and a long, winding line of infants’ souls, filing their way forever heavenward. She spoke the lyrical name once more, slowly, and released the static tension filling her thin frame. In a rush of soft zephyrs and golden light, the blood-writ circle was suddenly filled with beatific beauty.

An angel of pity stood before Mirabelle, both tiny and looming, with large weeping eyes. In formal tones, Mirabelle offered forth her carefully crafted terms of release. The aspiring sorceress’s great vengeance was nearly done.

The angel accepted readily, and with a wicked grin. He would cause Mirabelle’s tormentor to become such an exquisitely broken wretch that the outpouring of pity ought to sustain the angel for ages yet to come. He so rarely had a chance to craft such a masterpiece.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

pain is

Pain is necessary. Without it there is no hope for growth. Pain is a primary motivator in understanding. Pain is a driving mechanism for survival. Without pain, there is no humanity.

I know this. I know this well. I have spoken these words many times, and I believe them.

However, pain is heavy. It weighs downwards like leaden anchors.

Pain rends and claws and drags backwards from beauty.  

Pain throws its angry red tendrils into otherwise pleasant scenes. It infects.

Pain also exhausts. Pain erodes. Pain degenerates.

Pain breaks. Pain pulls time apart, slow and viscous like sorghum.

At the very least, though, pain is hard to remember. Small solace, pain will not forget you.

Monday, February 16, 2015

twelve hastily written poems

(So this is a copy and past job from the RPG blog, but on this the Creative Writting blog, I'll give you a bit more on my method.

Rules for mimicking a hastily written poem:
1- Hastily write the poem while distracted. [I wrote these furtively at work.]
2- No editing. When pressing enter to go to the next line, that line is irrevocably finished. [I broke this rule. One mini-poem was immeasurably improved by doing so... I regret nothing.]
3- When in doubt, just go with similar sounds and see what happens. [Not every dead person in a cave or magical forest needs to be a great poet.])

The Poems:

The walls press in, like blunt knives,
I press past the corpses of so many wasted lives.

Honey-like, a kiss
Slip me past your waiting lips
Swallow me and make me whole

Broken, Blinking Tokens
Giving up on hopin'

I miss her, her bright brown eyes.
I made a poor choice,
When I gave my Drunken Voice,
Now in this deep black bloody cave, I die.

Feather, weather-blown
Whether ever found,
Nothing can be known.

Break Blight Bleak Blood,
Warm Wet Flesh Pressed.

This ship it floats
I hate this boat
Black endless sea
A turtle's life for me
Beneath the waves, I sleep

Open Wide, Wild Green Eyes
Force past Breath, Leaving teaming streets,
Walk away quickly on soft fleet feet.

Slap sleep slip
Dip drink drab
Swell Fell Dale
Bell Well Grell

Sweat Sweet Promenade
Living such life as the baud

Heavy Heavy weight above my head
Like chains upon my soul
My Candle fight Dark Dread

The cold wind blows
What the hot smile knows

Sunday, February 15, 2015

neon dreams

Garish neon light poured through the window, an unavoidable stain in this brave new world. There was something about the world ending tomorrow or maybe yesterday blaring out of the 24 hour news sirens below. A human scream quickly rose to a loud falsetto outside the flat’s window then dwindled again before ending in an unceremonious splat. Someone snorted in derision on the streets below.

He heard it all through the paper thin polypropylene walls of the twelve story shanty. The haphazard construction was just barely held together with duck tape and dead hope.

Things had kept devolving long past the point that nobody thought they could. The automatons continued to produce goods, but never quite the ones that were needed. There were more than enough pharmaceuticals, though. Some thought this a blessing; most saw it as curse but swallowed the pills anyway. There was never really enough food.

The local light manufactory churned out nothing but neon signs for restaurants and strip joints that no longer existed. After the dayglo green sunsets the whole town was lit by hot pink triple Xs, soft blue Breakfast Served All Day signs, and arcane yellow triangles with scattered red circles.

A few days before, the chemical plant started spitting out cans of paint. No one really had a use for ‘em, but everybody had too much free time so the city got splashed a riot of taupe, sage, and russet brown.

He sat in the middle of the floor. He was bent and emaciated and tense, but he was also too still, far too still to have that many track marks on his arms. Three half empty gallons of paint sat beside him. His hands, clothes, and ragged greasy hair were covered in paint, and so was the floor.

It was a crude likeness of a woman, but he had made her. Her brows were knit tight but there was the barest hint of smile at the left edge of her mouth. He had made her.

He tossed his hypodermic rig out the open gash of a window.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

a stranger orders whiskey

The stranger staggered through the saloon’s open door, gray eyes wide and unblinking despite the midday sun. He was covered in dirt and dried brown blood. He dropped onto a stool with a grunt, and to everyone’s surprise pulled a double eagle out of his pocket.

Sunlight flashed on the big gold coin as he slid it across the bar. The shining material cast its everyday magic on the crowd.

“Best you got,” the stranger said with a harsh, wet whisper.

The barkeep took the coin and ducked into a small backroom. He returned wiping dust off a crystal bottle and set it carefully before the stranger.

The stranger said nothing and neither did the dead expression on his weathered and leathery mug. He began taking long, deliberate belts of the stuff with even longer stretches of staring blankly ahead in between.

Several minutes later the click of spurs and pointed footsteps journeyed towards the light-washed entry. The outside brightness dimmed as a silhouetted figure approached.

“Shifter!” bellowed a gruff baritone, “I’m a’callin’ you out, beast. Best you come on out here, and let’s finish this. Your kind done enough harm so far; ain’t no need for more red blood.”

The alien dropped the guise. It was still covered in blood and dirt, but now its gray skin, pointed skull, and drooping head-fin were no longer hid behind its forceful thoughts. Screaming and fleeing ensued. The alien opened his broad mouth filled with wide, sharp teeth to gurgle out a resigned burst of air. He also made sure to finish the whiskey, before he spun about still on the stool.

A tall figure, still back-lit, strode inside gun already in his hand.

“You got any to say afore this is done?”

The aliened gurgled again and replied, “We didn’t think we had a real choice.”

“There’s always a choice. You could a’ left. ”

“We had nowhere else to go.”

“Don’t matter none,” said the shadowed man raising his gun.

“I’m sorry,” said the alien crushing something in its pocket. A near heatless flash of white light and outward pressure exploded into brief existence.

Friday, February 13, 2015

echoed of course

The mechanical zephyr of recirculated air sang softly against the steel mesh of the return. Echoes came easily in his tiny room, every little sound a distraction. No matter how many pieces of soft plastic portraiture he put up or rugs he put down, every time Nelson so much as cleared his throat, the steel-bounded space bounced the sound right back to his ears.

The hull creaked sharply, still losing in its heat exchange with the universe at large. Nelson sighed again and scratched at the tight curls of his beard.

The table before him was scattered with an odd mix of glowing tablets, scraps of paper, and old moleskin journals. He was stuck. He’d been stuck. He would be stuck for a while, and he knew it.

He needed to work. He needed some coffee. He needed a break. He needed some actual human contact.

Well he could take a break at least, maybe get a cup of java. No, he needed to work.

Don’t open the curtains. You’ll get too distracted. Do. Not. Open those Curtains. Don’t.

He opened the curtains. The vast star speckled emptiness was still there, unchanged in any notable way - considering Nelson’s time scale and senses. He got lost in it.

After what might have been hours or minutes, he snapped out of the daydream. He sighed again. It echoed, of course.

Maybe he should go get a cup of coffee from the lonely mess hall. It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of time. Nelson opened the door.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

i'm tired and I hate taxes

Drowning in technicalities and bureaucratic wet dreams,
Raging sleepily in bad prosody and my drooping eyes scream.

It will be so wonderful to get some of my own money back.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

taking control

It was not my doing. That spider smiled at me. I never asked for this.

Anthony stared hard at the scrolls, bathed rust red in the weak light of a naked brazier. His burnished golden skin stretched the orange glow of the coals across the smooth contours of his naked chest.

His skin was heavy. It still felt heavy. After all these years the physical burden of it remained.

He’d had a happy life, up until he met that spider. Tony had been born wild and free in the wooded west. Merrymount II, that libertine love-letter of a town, had been his home. How lucky he’d been, not that much further towards the coast, humorless men in black coats still loomed large, praising toil and idolizing privation.

Tony took to the quiet revelry of woods with the vigor most young men took to wenching. It was there, on one of his long quiet walks, that he’d come across an overgrown spider, a smiling spider with a human mouth and one human hand.

He’d been scared, and he ran. He’d done nothing more.

“Don’t you want to be as happy as I?” called the creature.

“No…” young Tony whispered his reply.

Then a wave of shining yellow crossed his vision. He awoke sometime later with heavy golden skin.

It was a terrible thing to have a hide worth years of wages. The things people had done to get a piece of him still haunted what little sleep he could afford.

Tony had been so stunningly alone until he met that man with green skin and too many teeth. They’d formed a quick friendship of recognized burdens and unique hardships.

Green taught Tony the sideways paths of sundry sorceries; he then left Tony the important choice of the two scrolls.

The first held a spell to pierce the veil of the world, to peer deeper into the madness beyond, to tread the paths of aelfs and devils and angels and saints. The second held a great magic of undoing; Anthony could throw aside his glimmering burden, but along with it would follow his newfound strengths.

He slowly drew the first scroll from the crudely hewn table and raised it up before him. He made himself visualize all its unending and strange potential. He imagined inhuman beauty and beyond-human horror. He forced himself to feel the wonderment, excitement, and terror such a path must hold.

He tossed it into the flames.

With a heavy sigh, Tony unrolled the second scroll and turned to unlock its arcane mysteries. He winced as a table leg rubbed against the large patch of skin missing from his thigh.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

punk rock!

It crashes through, beginning in so many different ways:

  • slowly fading in, it can build to a raging crescendo 
  • exploding suddenly outward in raw and incredible honesty
  • swinging back and forth between driving tension and sweet slow release. 

It is honesty made manifest. Calling forth a deep and awesome rage, it demands your attention. It bleeds on the floor and smiles. It is ethical violence driven through guitars. It burns through bullshit, annihilates shallow certainty, and will allow no untested avenues.

It is flippant and sincere. It questions as it screams. It is power reclaimed and authority ignored. Authority is unimportant. Brutal honesty is everything.

It is three chord riffs and chanting choruses. It’s pop hooks and hard messages. Sometimes, it is synthesizers and the important sound of things falling apart.

Things fall apart. This is the breaking sound of faith in the normative. It is the sound of screaming “Fuck You” in the stage darkness everyone else seems to prefer. It is the voice of the unflinching eyes watching the horrors of the world. It is a sonic fistfight.

It is the denigration, destruction, and perpetual rebirth of rock and roll. It will never stop kicking. You can’t kill rock and roll, motherfuckers.

Monday, February 9, 2015

somebody has a case of the mondays

Breathing was a burden. It was getting hard to remember. There was something, something about that orange orb in the sky… shining outside, out of reach. Vibrating fluorescent gray light bathed him, burning through to his second skin.

Words swirled through his, through its?... through its head. “Wage Slave. Hump day. Working for the Weekend. Week full of Mondays.”

It was drivel. He, it rather, it could tell. Formulaic emptiness repeated ad nauseam. And then there was that too.

Their silly language made up of so many dead parts. More formulae repeated themselves. They said much and nothing. Oblivious, they were, to the great and unusual beauty around them.

He was done! He ought to just mark them as violent and ask to be taken off world. Perhaps he could request a transfer…

And now he thought like them!? Do not request. Demand!

This was the last straw. Its final report would be sent in tonight.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

joan leaves in the end

It came, eventually, but it was not the serenity she’d been lead to believe. Was everyone else just faking it? Was she losing her mind? It was becoming hard to tell.

Joan continued to sit stiffly still. Her back was arched as instructed. She softly held her brown eyes closed. She had been timing her breath to the rhythm of the babbling brook. Well, she was in a hastily redecorated office space so it was a CD of a babbling brook. The overall effect was cheesy, and she’d been considering leaving when the vision hit.

The old hippy sitting in front of them all continued to drone on and on, spewing one empty platitude after another. She sighed very quietly and popped open one eye. There was a mix of soft crying and ecstatic smiles. Sam, of course, was grinning like a goon. That didn’t seem right. Is that what people did when they astrally projected to see their own death. Ugh, it was all so damn silly! How had she let Sam talk her into this?

Oddly, the hippy nonsense had delivered. She had seen herself, much older, choking to death on a ham sandwich. She was just sitting on that same orange couch of hers, much worse for the wear, going all bug-eyed and purple.

She'd nearly laughed out loud. It hadn’t been a profound experience, not at all. In fact, it mostly served to make Joan hungry.

Fuck it. She was done. There was good deli just around the corner, and though Sam was pretty, she was also pretty dumb. It was over.

And who knew, maybe she would die in a sandwich related incident, or maybe she should just get rid of that ratty old couch. Joan stood up and marched quickly out the door.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

through flame

Wave after wave of vibrating violent, nearly physical repulsion pressed against her. Her fine brown hair spread wild in static expansion. The dry, biting heat billowing forth from the volcano swept her sweat into salt crystals. Her throat was parched beyond madness. The pumice stone beneath her tongue continued to tear fine new wounds. The nerves from her now lidless eyes screeched in searing pain.

Cecilia had practiced this a thousand times, in the cold cellar dark. Ever since she found that wanderer’s scroll, this was all she had dreamed of. She had learned to measure her steps. She had learned to move in perfect precision. The ritual was quite specific.

Eventually, she left her lord’s manor and struck out across the wicked world. She’d survived it thus far, but sometimes only just. She had grown wary and wild and quick with a knife. She smiled more often then than as a slave, but her grin grew more vicious by the day.

Now, she drew carefully close to the low altar, to the red lit edge. The uncanny heat lapped up her naked legs and lower back. One more backwards step, her ankle caught the sharp edge of the black iron altar. She’d been an inch off in her tread.

Cecelia tilted back. Her heart stopped. The cruel altar cut into her. Heat raced to embrace, as she teetered naked past the edge.

Somehow Cecelia caught herself and stood straight. She desperately needed a steadying breath but there was none to be had. Slowly she sat back on her heels, fighting the swirling spots before her eyes. The altar cut and burned into her thighs, but pain was then beyond meaning.

Next she sent a searching hand behind her and found the leaden scepter. It was cool in her grasp, the only thing untouched by the unholy heat. She held the rod on high and screamed the name of her one true god with rasping and ravaged lungs.


She heard her own voice echo strangely in her mind as though her own prayer had reached her. The ritual was complete. The tight sprung potential of the volcano snapped. Exploding orange violence swept forth in seething ruination.

She emerged again, with embers for eyes. Cecelia observed the destruction she’d wrought on that distant blackened wilderness with amused disdain. Pale gray ash fell from the sky like soft acrid snow. She summoned fire to cloak herself for the simple joy of her perfect control.

She smiled deeply, wrinkling the skin near both unblinking embers. She would never more be a slave.

Friday, February 6, 2015

three direct quotes

This is different from most of the others. I kind of want to go in the opposite direction to yesterday’s piece, so here are three funny things I’ve said.

“William Shatner is my spirit animal.”

“Bi? I prefer to think of myself as an Equal Opportunity Lecher.”

In response to being called a faggot moments before a bar fight, “Motherfucker, I can only think of two reasons to call somebody that; you’re looking to a fistfight or a blowjob, and I just don’t think you’re cute. So you’d better just pick one and try again.” He chose fistfight, like really, really quickly. I was actually midstream at a urinal. Probably should have finished peeing before responding to the dumb-fuck. Luckily he was throwing such weaksauce punches that I actually finished peeing before I fought him back. So, yah. That used to be my life.

Thursday, February 5, 2015


He oscillated between his need for closure and his hope she would not be here. For three cold days he carefully traced every last trail and possible path in the woods beside the highway. Shaking and tired, empty and raging, he found her and wished he had not.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

it's never fair

The old crone outside the window stood intently. Her stiff posture subtly betraying a strength such a soft, loose-looking frame should not possess. Hard shining black eyes stared out from her wrinkled and wretched dead mask of a face.

She had been there for days. Though many had seen her, none could quite pay her mind.
The soft hungry smile on her lips had been glacially fading for the last several days. It emptied completely mere moments before the boy brought the cleaver down, severing his hand and her link to him.

She sighed and burst free from the fleshly confines of her guise. The old woman’s skin and waggling flesh fell away to the mossy floor like so much unimportant meat. Only rainbow radiance remained.

A single too perfect peach rolled free from the now boneless and rotting old lady fingers.

The black-eyed angel shone sickly like a light-washed winking star. She was no longer sustained by the boy’s faithful forbearance. She parted the veil between worlds above her with a negligent gesture, rising through it in a petulant apotheosis.

A hog-headed goblin snickered and snorted at the angel’s failure as he snuck through. He was headed to the village to whisper jealousies into the ear of the smith.

Downhill a short way, a violet luminescing fairy turned sharply midflight, to scoop up the too perfect peach. She would leave it for the neighbor girl to find, beneath her blanket in the warm loft. The girl would smile and think it a secret gift from her absent father.

All through the village and the wet wild woods that would seem so quiet, so still, mischief teemed; hidden eyes watched. On the frontier, the border between known and imagined, no one is as alone as one might imagine.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

just so

One so rarely gets such an opportunity, Charles Heath Jennings took extra care in tying his cravat that rainy April afternoon. The normally bustling city was gray and too quiet, subdued by the normative wet and unusual chill.

“No matter, it cannot be helped,” he mumbled to himself in the bright mirror.

Charles grimaced and wrestled his dashing mustache under control with a liberal dosage of wax. Once his visage was in order, he set about arranging his study. The sundry trophies and curios from an unusual lifetime of exploration and excitement were all positioned, just so. The bloodstained vellum map he paired with the ceremonial knife and undying branch of holly. The rough clay idol now sat with a tattered blue ribbon and a pressed bouquet of wild flowers.

He smiled languidly as he wound that threadbare ribbon ‘round the brittle bunch of small white blooms. It was all just so inappropriate to be found in a gentleman’s study. Good, he thought, let them wonder.

Charles crossed the room and took down a first edition of Blake from his well-ordered abundance of shelves, careful not to askew the adjacent volumes. As he sat at his desk he pulled his best cigar from a drawer and poured himself a deep glass of good whiskey.

He then tried to lose himself in the Songs of Innocence and Experience. He couldn’t help but glance often at the inevitable turning of the large clock on his desk. Otherwise, it was an enjoyable way to spend a pair of hours.

When the clock struck 8, the sky had faded from heather to charcoal gray. The gnome’s machine had been very exact. Charles carefully closed the book and sat it far to his right. He sipped whiskey and watched the seconds tick by. At 8:01:57 he tensed and held his breath.

At 8:03:01 his breathe exploded in a short, nervous bark that might have been a laugh. The machine was wrong. He smiled and shook his head, blinking.

He suddenly narrowed his eyes and sharply jerked his pocket watch into his sweating palm. He caught it as the second hand ticked from 8:01:59 to 8:02. A bullet crashed through his skull spraying blood across the terracotta idol.

As the second hand ticked to 8:02:02, the fiery orange eyes of the idol opened. Charles Heath Jennings’ revenge had begun.

Monday, February 2, 2015

gone fisting

“You can’t put that sign up.”


“We have a baby, now.”


“Where the fuck did you even get it?”

“I got it at a yard sale; it was totally cheap…”

“No. No you didn’t.”

“… It was kind of expensive. I found it online.”

“Take it down. Throw it away.”


“Get. Rid. Of. IT.”

“Fuuuck, but it’s really awesome.”

“Don’t care,” she said storming out of the hallway.

He sighed in resignation.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

calciferous whispers

His body had betrayed him. The preacher kept saying it was his soul, but Daniel knew better, now. His brown hair was slick with sweat and the cleaver shook in his pale, freckled fist. Daniel held himself stiffly between pain and intensity.

It was the story of Job that had brought the boy to this. Well, it had been the breaking point.

Daniel had prayed and read verses and done everything the preacher had told him. Ever since Daniel developed the whispering growth, ever since the old lady in the woods, Daniel soaked up every one of the preacher’s many words.

Then, one day, the preacher compared Daniel to Job. Daniel asked him for the story. The preacher read it to the boy, and gave the wretched lad a sermon besides. Then Daniel knew there was no god, or if there was, then god was a terrible thing.

It isn’t fair! Daniel thought as he stared hard at his purpling left hand and the calciferous growth coming out his palm.

He’d helped the scary old lady to cross the stream, and she still wouldn’t share her too perfect peaches. She had a whole bushel and he only took one. It was a small one too.

Even then, even past the tourniquet, the growth whispered to him. He had had enough.

The clever cut cleanly and buried deep into the wooden block beneath his arm. It all seemed so surreal: the blood slowly oozing from his wrist, the pale orange and sweet smelling juice pouring from his severed hand. He smiled; the sudden silence was so profound.