Friday, July 31, 2015

prose poem 16 | broken road

Glinting madness shines from rainbow skies. The sheer cliff face of perfidious past presses on the right; the specter of death dances unseen to the left, hidden in heavy fog. The cragged path protrudes, pushes, narrows, and twists against footfalls.

Weird secrets await, tarnished silver and old gold too. Deeper descent discovers yet rends.
Pretending at glory pales ere long.

Only pale specters return from the road.

Or do only broken ghosts begin it?

Thursday, July 30, 2015

caryatid

Dust fell in great sheets, cascading organic against gridded rows of Doric columns. Cold marble softly trembled to an uneven beat. The hearth was lit, of course, although she’d let grow wan and sickly. The dim yellow light exaggerated the faded colors of the great, empty room.

Her brows knit. She kept her quiet vigil. Guttering light poorly lit long, dark tresses. Her long, layered vestments felt too heavy, this day. The hearth-fire continued to dwindle.

More dust shook loose as the limping tremors increased. Hephaestus must’ve been returning from his ceaseless errands. Soon, Ares would flee through a window.

Hestia sighed.

An empty fire in her chest grew, even as the ceaseless flame before her dimmed. She heard the cold winds of the wide world calling. Hunger ached in her eternal heart.

When the flame died away, she turned on heel and fled. With a knowing wink towards a caryatid, Hestia ran free from her vestments.

Naked and laughing, she dashed forth into the noisome world. The cold bit and stung. She smiled, and cast away the last of her fiery chains.




Wednesday, July 29, 2015

armor | part 1 & 2 & 3

[A quick note: read this link {click here} and this link {click here}, first to get the most out of this one if you haven't. Once again I glued the all the parts together for everyone's convenience.]

The softmen were incautious with their stink, unaware of the wind. Ar-tuk had hard-learned how to smile in daylight, but he would never unlearn caution.

Two softmen crept up the sun dappled mountain beach, with soft footfalls they believed to be stealthy. Ar-tuk absently pressed the pad of his finger into the sharp point of his tusks. Sel-tuk gathered the children in silence. She could smell as well as him.

He smiled at the children before they descended from sight; Sel-tuk gave him a halfhearted grin before following.

He tried to reassure her with a toothsome smile. His wet eyes betrayed him.

No matter, all would be well. Sel-tuk was wiser and fiercer than him; she could keep them safe, even in daylight. His children would know laughter and bright skies.

He slowly armored himself in this thought. Then, with a sigh Ar-tuk snatched his last tattered spear from the branches of a nearby tree.

Ar-tuk gave no restraint to his steps. Still, above his own cacophony he heard the many missteps of the softmen. Above all, the strangers reeked of wine.

“Softmen!” Ar-tuk called as the strangers rounded a fresh-fallen tree.

Two lean, sunburnt men stopped short and drew long rusted  knives from their belts. The tuskman held his spear-point low.

Ar-tuk spoke again in hard, wet voice of his people. “I offer no harm. You walk the hunting place of Ar-tuk, last of his tribe.”

The furthest of the softmen scratched his scalp vigorously through matted hair. The nearest slyly eyed Ar-tuk for too many tense moments.

“Don’t expect you made that daisy chain your own self, toothy,” the nearest said with malicious grin.
At the thought of his daughter, a cold hard knot of rage twisted deep into Ar-tuk’s stomach.

“Reckon you got some women or some girls nearby.”

The rage surged into his chest, even his teeth sang in violent tension.

“Wager you got yourself a stash of food, too.”

Ar-tuk felt his heart pound behind his eyes.

The nearest softman licked his sun-blistered lips. The furthest threw his knife.

Ar-tuk tore into motion. He spun into a wild lunge. Ar-tuk’s old spear bit deep into the nearest softman. The brigand’s grin dissolved into a gurgling mockery of a scream.

The spear snapped as Ar-tuk tried to wrench it free. He roared; letting free the fire in his chest, Ar-tuk leapt upon the shocked second softman, blank rage blurring his vison.

His tusk’s tasted blood. Ar-tuk slowly stood, his eyes held by the blood pouring from behind the second softman’s jaw.

“My tusk will be their spear,” he whispered with a wan smile.

***

{Craven}

It was sometime past that weird wreck, with the floating stones and bright blood like an oil slick, that I spied that high-walled river-barge. Three drunks inside made it easy to follow.

Too many candles, lit every night. Must’ve feared the wide open dark.

Should have been afraid enough to know you’re never alone. You’re never the last, always folks like me out there. Dark won’t kill you, not the dark.

Barge walls were too high. I waited and drank the dregs from amphorae they tossed into the sea.
One black night, as I floated close, I heard them speak seriously of meat. Lots were drawn. Come morning, there were two.

Soon enough, I knew, their stomachs would find their knives. Then, the barge’d be mine.

Until the morning I awoke to the distant stench of pine trees. The barge of fools floated into a flooded valley, set between two tree ringed mounds of naked stone.

The fools made a rough landing on the muddy beach beside a bone-dry dugout canoe. They fell across the high walls of their boat and stumbled their way up the wooded ridge. My coward’s eyes saw the faded wisps of smoke towards which the fools follied.

I tied my boat to a half-drowned tree and swam quick through a thicket. I split my path between the drunks the half-hidden smoke. When I saw an upturned tree across a likely path, I settled myself into its branches.

The drunks tried to be menacing on top of clever and failed at both. The tuskman quickly bought me the barge, but dry land put new warmth into my craven bones.

He took too long to look at what he’d done. I slithered out of the branches and struck like an adder. The heavy blade bit through thick skin, knotted muscle, and bone. He fell without screaming and ripped away what still held foot to ankle.

Suddenly all the air crushed out of my lungs.

***

Sel-tuk watched her mate in perfect, silent stillness as he stood against the softmen.

The children were tucked away, well-hidden and waiting with her knife.

Her mate was swift, strong, and armored in blood-bought-love. The softmen purchased their passing in typical fashion.

Sel-tuk closed her tense eyes and allowed herself to breathe. The sounds of cut bone, tearing flesh, and collapse snapped her into white-fire action.

Through red tunnels she barely could see while she crushed the worm-snake beneath her.

Her knees and forearm burst the ribs surrounding his empty chest. The iron bands of her fingers snatched his black hair and slammed rotten teeth down his throat. She ground the worm-snake’s skull cruelly into unforgiving tree roots. She bellowed her lamentation unto the sky then thrust in potent rage. His wretched head broke and collapsed into wet nothing.

Through the red tunnel she saw the open eyes of Ar-tuk. Over the pounding drums of her erupting heart, she heard his cry of pain.

Sel-tuk dropped the worthless sack of flesh beneath her and rushed save her blood-bought love.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

armor | part 1 & 2

[A quick note: read this link {click here} and this link {click here}, first to get the most out of this one. I also once again glued the two parts together for convenience and to squeeze in a bit of polishing...]

The softmen were incautious with their stink, unaware of the wind. Ar-tuk had hard-learned how to smile in daylight, but he would never unlearn caution.

Two softmen crept up the sun dappled mountain beach, with soft footfalls they believed to be stealthy. Ar-tuk absently pressed the pad of his finger into the sharp point of his tusks. Sel-tuk gathered the children in silence. She could smell as well as him.

He smiled at the children before they descended from sight; Sel-tuk gave him a halfhearted grin before following.

He tried to reassure her with a toothsome smile. His wet eyes betrayed him.

No matter, all would be well. Sel-tuk was wiser and fiercer than him; she could keep them safe, even in daylight. His children would know laughter and bright skies.

He slowly armored himself in this thought. Then, with a sigh Ar-tuk snatched his last tattered spear from the branches of a nearby tree.

Ar-tuk gave no restraint to his steps. Still, above his own cacophony he heard the many missteps of the softmen. Above all, the strangers reeked of wine.

“Softmen!” Ar-tuk called as the strangers rounded a fresh-fallen tree.

Two lean, sunburnt men stopped short and drew long rusted  knives from their belts. The tuskman held his spear-point low.

Ar-tuk spoke again in hard, wet voice of his people. “I offer no harm. You walk the hunting place of Ar-tuk, last of his tribe.”

The furthest of the softmen scratched his scalp vigorously through matted hair. The nearest slyly eyed Ar-tuk for too many tense moments.

“Don’t expect you made that daisy chain your own self, toothy,” the nearest said with malicious grin.

At the memory of his daughter, a cold hard knot of rage twisted deep into Ar-tuk’s stomach.

“Reckon you got some women or some girls nearby.”

The rage surged into his chest, even his teeth sang in violent tension.

“Wager you got yourself a stash of food, too.”

Ar-tuk felt his heart pound behind his eyes.

The nearest softman licked his sun-blistered lips. The furthest threw his knife.

Ar-tuk tore into motion. He spun into a wild lunge. Ar-tuk’s old spear bit deep into the nearest softman. The brigand’s grin dissolved into a gurgling mockery of a scream.

The spear snapped as Ar-tuk tried to wrench it free. He roared; letting free the fire in his chest, Ar-tuk leapt upon the shocked second softman, blank rage blurring his vison.

His tusks tasted blood. Ar-tuk slowly stood, his eyes held by the blood pouring from behind the second softman’s jaw.

“My tusk will be their spear,” he whispered with a wan smile.

***

Part 3 tomorrow...

Monday, July 27, 2015

armor | part 1

[A quick note: read this link {click here} and this link {click here}, first to get the most out of this one]

Softmen were incautious with their stink, unaware of the wind. Ar-tuk had hard-learned how to smile in daylight, but he would never unlearn caution.

Two softmen crept up the sun dappled mountain beach, with soft footfalls they believed stealthy. Ar-tuk absently pressed the pad of his thumb into the sharp point of his tusks while Sel-tuk gathered the children in silence. She could smell as well as him.

He smiled at the children before they descended from sight; Sel-tuk gave him a halfhearted grin before following.

He tried to reassure her with a toothsome smile. He was certain his eyes had betrayed him in this.

No matter, all would be well. Sel-tuk was wiser and fiercer than him; she could keep them safe, even in daylight. His children would know laughter and bright skies. He armored himself in this thought. With a sigh Ar-tuk snatched his last tattered spear from the branches of a nearby tree..

Ar-tuk gave no restraint to his steps. Still, above his own cacophony he heard the many missteps of the softmen. Above all Ar-tuk could smell the foul odor of wine upon them.

Friday, July 24, 2015

suncatch pass | part 1 & 2

[I went ahead and glued these together. I figure it's easier that way. Plus, there was some rewriting to do on the first half anyways... Enjoy.]

“I reckoned on brandy but I s’pose rum’ll do well enough. Might need a peck more though…

“You’re a’wanting to know about the Suncatch? Not a wise road, Master, but it’s your piece of eight.

“Well now, that bottle’s kissed the inside of a barrel…”

The one-eyed old coot sighed. A satisfied grin radiated deep wrinkles across his leathery mug.

“I s’pose you’ll be wanting to get on with it.

“As ye wish good Master:

“Travel west of Bonedust as far as the ridges’ll let ya. The lay of the land ought to put you south enough to find it.

“There, you’ll spy a ridge, too straight and too sharp, running too close to true north. It’s like some great stone knife cutting free from the green earth. On the knife’s edge, near center, there’s notch.

“When the sun sets, it sets through that notch. Doesn’t matter how far north nor south, how close nor distant nor high nor low. If you can see that break in the ridge, the sun’ll set right through it.

“Now, I want to warn ye, good Master,” he said between belts. “It’s there: the Sunset road and the Golden City. I seen when I had two good eyes, but it ain’t worth it, Master.”
His smile had died. The old man shifted uneasily inside a long pause. Rubbing his game left leg, he leaned wearily back.

“Winding stairs with steps too wide, only there when the sun hangs low. You got to walk ‘em one by one.  Path only exists while the sun sets.

 “Not even the Indians’ll walk anywhere near, Master. Note even them as run naked and unafraid through the wilds, not even them’ll take that road, Master. You’ll find their warnings all over the near countryside.”

Slowly at first, but ending in a fit, he ripped the patch from his voided left eye.

“Guide had told us we could trade, stone for stone, pound for pound, a piece of ourselves for gold. He weren’t lying. He said we’d see many wondrous sights; he weren’t lying about that neither, and we only just made it to the gate!

“I took a nugget, size of my thumb, ready to lose one. I still remember when them shining things plucked my eye straight from my skull. I can still wake up to the sound of my own screams and that wretched damned pop.

“Though, my partner, he went mad with all that gold. The things they took from him. Laughter and mercy and near everything that made him a man. He got both eyes but they’re as empty as these bottles.”

The broken old man looked plaintively at his employer; the ghostly memory of a tear fell down his cragged face.

“It ain’t never worth the price on the other side, Master.”

Thursday, July 23, 2015

suncatch pass | part 1

“I reckoned on brandy but I s’pose rum’ll do well enough. Might need a peck more though…

“You’re a’wanting to know about the Suncatch? Not a wise road, Master, but it’s your piece of eight.

“Well now, that bottle’s seen the inside of a barrel…”

The one-eyed old coot sighed. A satisfied grin slowly bent deep wrinkles all across his weathered mug.

“I s’pose you’ll be wanting me to get on with it.

“As you please, travel west of Bonedust as far as the ridges’ll let ya. The lay of the land ought to put you south enough to find it.

“Well Master, you’ll find a ridge, too level and too sharp, running too close to true north. Dead center of the long black rock knife’s edge, you’ll see a ragged notch busted out.” 

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

black chains upon self

Each new ritual, with each new spell, he unlocked the secrets of the multiverse. He could play space and time like a fiddle, transmute lead into gold, and effortlessly rend the sad veil of reality.

But, each new spell was a black chain upon his mind. With each new secret he wrenched from less distant stars, some small part of him died. By the time the wizard laid bare the workings of the universe, there was not enough of him left to care. 

He had displaced himself fully.

Though he could shake mountains to the roots and ascended to the stars in a wink, the wizard could no longer bring himself to get out of bed.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

prose poem 15 | a sick machine



Like a sick machine, coughing up lapsed spaces in logic, the controls seized. In fits and starts, it stumbles and splays, in nearly the needed direction.

Is it user error or just some stuttering construct?

A wrench looms in wait, poised to fall. Do you blame the wrench or the jostling mistakes of poorly chosen ground? Either way the gears will be broken, missing teeth from a screaming maw.


Monday, July 20, 2015

the cult’s newest recruits

Geoffrey Dwindle walks with a bit of a limp; squinting eyes on his feet. His gangling form bends beneath too many jackets.

William Westin smiles wanly, almost always, belying tight and nervous eyes. He diffidently nods and never speaks.

Arthur Robin smells of whiskey and ends every sentence with a wink. He tends to touch those he traps in conversation.

Amanda Smythe glides quietly in the wake of her ponderous father. Her hands are always hidden.

Liz Jennings spits often and runs as wild as she pleases. Though, none could say what she pleases as Elizabeth keeps no company.

The Widow Gwendolyn Wallace is a stuttering fountain of inane chatter. She is almost never to be found at her lonely country abode; instead, she endlessly invents business about town.

Friday, July 17, 2015

going under

Ezekiel didn’t quite know what to think of it all. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

Languid lovers lay scattered and intertwined beneath the wild night sky. A multitude flesh, lit a lurid apple-green from the Underground, writhed in chemical-carnal pleasure.

It was nothing like the Leaders said it would be. Ezekiel found no hellfire and no raging beasts. There was no sulfur stench, just the normal smells of men from fair to foul. On average, he’d wager, it smelled better here than the Compound in Linear Valley.

Amongst the deep signal grasses, swaying without wind, Ezekiel hid. He heard the lovers’ many moans and trills and whistles. Antenna and too many limbs, strange bulges and plastic skin, vining growths and too many grins: those of the Underground did not fight the inconstant nature of the New Tradition.

They embraced it all.

Ezekiel’s wet eyes fell to the crisscross scarred lines surrounding his now naked form. Here and there, the organic chaos of radiation burns played foil against the surgical grid.

The boy decided.

He strolled unclothed towards the glowing bunker. He was going under.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

punk rock

Bathed in sweat, cleansed in motion.
Ripping away all dishonest flesh,
Skeletal freedom, violence surging.

Incinerate each moment.
It will never come again.
Each drumbeat, the world is destroyed.
Each drumbeat, the new world explodes.

Become a raw bleeding thing,
thrashing, honest, exploding on the floor.
Each moment ringing chords and raging chorus
gives cause to tear free from plastic skin.

They stand before: bleeding, broken, screaming, authentic.

Become, a raw, bleeding thing,
Burst old wounds with unflinching truth;
Drain the pus.
Let it shine like a wretched pearl, in the honest sun.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

“I will be the sword in shadows, the gleaming knife’s edge between here and _there_.”

He could remember, more or less. He’d said those brash words; he was certain. He had taken the Spanish sword down from his father’s mantel. He had stalked off into the night. Martin knew this to be true.

The great house, once his home, loomed drunkenly before him, an emptied shell of splinters and neglect. Martin sat heavily upon the creaking steps. Whitewash scales chipped away beneath the nails of his remaining fingers.

He knew he said those silly words, but he could remember it as a fact only. There was so much distance between the hoary warrior and the cocksure child, Martin’s mind harbored no sights nor sounds.

He remembered that his mother cried, but he could not bring to mind her fear mottled face nor tear swollen eyes. His father had screamed, though the words, pitch, and tone had chipped away to nothing. So much of his memories were facts rather than feelings, bulleted lists rather than experience.

Eventually the clouds shifted. Light found its way towards his bad eye. Martin adjusted his patch and limped back into the loud living woods.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

D. & A.

In the sweet green grass he hid. The summer sun shone diffuse and inescapable. Wet, heavy air superheated like some strangling blanket. Sweat rolled off his brow in unrelenting waves, stinging his heavy eyes. Still though, he would not so much as dare to blink.

He should have smelled the rich loam, broken beneath his feat. He should have heard his snuffling hounds. He should have felt his shaking limbs and the spear loose in his fist. He should have known much, but he knew only her.

She smelled like sun-kissed flesh and long awaited revelation. Her every graceful movement became a symphony of water’s tinkling song. Her skin gleamed like living bronze; dappled shining forest beams eagerly raced to rebound from the perfect arcs of her splendid being.

***

She saw him there even before he began to drink her beauty. The nectar within her unnecessary stomach soured. She smiled despite this and continued with the carefree seeming of her playful bath.

She poured cool crystal waters across herself, in the seething midday sun. She languorously cleansed every part of her. She giggled like a ringing bell at the antics of the nearby nymphs.

However, heat meant nothing and dirt would not dare to touch her exquisite skin. The laughter, at least, was genuine.

Then she grimaced and could feel his sudden fear swell past his present awe-struck lust.

It was time. She was constrained; tied to a narrative against her true nature.

She was a symbol unattainable.

The nymphs screeched unwitting and played their simple part.

The body of a beast was no place for the mind of a man. She sent the hounds to rend his now-dappled neck; it was the only kindness she could offer, trapped within her role.

The stag screamed like a man. Diana sighed.

Monday, July 13, 2015

sanity/serenity

Quiet space fills it,
Laughter too, and creation.
Daily Dries the Tank…

Small demands destroy,
Tiny talk and wasted breath,
They, unwitting drains.

Such touch is toxic:
Well meaning? unmeaning? Void?
It empties my chest.

Thrumming, fluttering,
Rimmed discomfort supplants it.
Even friendly voices jostle the hollow and bring no succor.

Friday, July 10, 2015

chemical metaphor | a syllabic poem

Separate particles
Homogenized in tincture,
Precipitate Down.

Sans aqua vitae.
It dissipates, breaks apart.
Shattered and alone.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

prose poem 14 | frenetic road

The calm fit him poorly, like a rented suit. He didn’t quite know what to do with it. Cigarette smoke was only a haunting and hungry memory.

It was hard to parse how he got here: a frenetic, disjointed path.

It was forest walkways and sunshine. Cigarettes hid, ziploc bags in the vent.

Today, calcium phosphate, cut into dust, formed a terrible paste with blood. Screams could not be heeded.

It was following pretty girls through aqua vitae lakes; it was needs unexpressed and festered.

The knife snapped reflexively into his fist. He walked ahead ready to kill. He stalked forward seeking the truth. Only blood and time stood between him and discovery.

Cracked asphalt blurred ahead of a running child. A dull yellow car sped away with all his hope.

He stared at the water, at the whitewashed sky. He hated. He twisted inward. He cast his pain into the heavy air.

The calm fit him poorly; perhaps this was useful.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

fuck tomorrow

It was necessary. He knew that, but it didn’t help exactly.

It would only be moments in time, a brief series of unpleasant procedures. It would not last forever; it wouldn’t last all that long, really. He understood this perfectly well. Again, it was no help.

No one involved meant any harm; no malice was to be had. (The uselessness of this fact should by now be predictable.)

Unfortunately, it wasn’t happening to him. The one suffering did not understand, would not understand, could not understand.

Fuck tomorrow, he sighed in his mind and wished for a cigarette.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

wizard troubles

Reality was beginning to reject him; it really was a bit of a bother.

At first, when the plants died and all animals fled, the wizard merely made servants of whatever was near: a dead fox, a wilted rose bush, deceased cultists, a tangled pile of fish bones. Magical constructs had no need for food or comfort.

Later, raving mad men and rabid beasts crossed the barren waste to assail his tower and savage his servants. Erecting clever portals and arranging new constructs stole months from his studies, usually just as the stars were right in the sky, of course.

The earth then shuddered and cracked away, refusing his footfalls (and ruining the east wall of his squat, mortar-less tower). He gave his feet purchase upon the River of Time, and moved his books to the cellar.

Air refused to fill his lungs. He cast aside the vestigial organs. Eventually, the wizard learned to ignore the screaming pain of his voided chest.

Annihilating orbs began to condense at random in his pantry. Feeding each a microcosmic star was an onerous bore as well as a drain upon his spectral accounts.

If he moved too quickly, space dilated hyperbolic and sent him crashing into walls and tripping over urns. The adamantine-mesh mitten on his left fist kept his skeletal fingers from slicing through realities, but it also left his guitar gathering dust. He looked at it often and sighed.

He thought about discorporating -and psychically grumbled to the fish-bush-butler about it often- but he never did. He’d catch the sunset and pretend it was just too beautiful to leave. He’d complain about all the liches in ether and witches in the astral. Really, he just didn’t want to leave.

Existence might have actively despised the wizard, but his mind-bending little corner of it still felt like home.

Monday, July 6, 2015

night begets fire

Before Watching Squirrel sold his secrets to men, before Frog King crawled wetly forth on Land, before the Sun gave birth to the Moon, before even the Stars would wink their cold distant eyes, there was Blanketing Night. She was broad, black, and alone.

In the beginning, Blanketing Night filled all lightless corners; her reach touched upon all points and places.

She was all quiet things and quiet were all things.

Passed then countless silent eons, she tired of the emptiness she filled. Blanketing Night wished to flee. She fled far from herself.

Yet, she was all places. No matter which way she turned, she broke upon herself like black ocean waves. In utter despair she stormed ahead, brushing through and past herself, again and again.

Finally, the heat of her mad dashing sparked fierce; Hungry Fire leapt unto the empty night. He wished to eat, but there was naught, save Night and Void.

So then did the two conspire, and thus was born the World.

Fire yet gnaws at the roots.
Night still touches all places,
but now must move away.
For with the World and Ages,
came to the Void the day.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

It has occurred to me...


Hello theoretical readers,

I has occurred to that I may have an audience beyond those I communicate with via social media. Blog traffic seems to confirm the probability of this.

I just wanted to let you know a few things.

First, you are awesome; thank you for reading.

Also, one of the reasons this blog goes on hiatus is that I am working on a book. It will be a collection of shorts, poems, and essays from the blog along with several new stories. Additionally, I've turned all my weird west pieces into a novella: "Western Lights" with a great deal of new stuff.

I'm in the editing phase, about half way through. Before too terribly long, it will be available through Lulu, probably both in paperback and hardcover.

So if you like the blog, that may be of interest to you.


Peace Out Beansprouts,
Edward

Friday, July 3, 2015

ink and cream

The smile came easily to her lips, impish yet wide. She looked tired but unconcerned. Wild, ink-black hair fell across pale blue eyes whenever she stopped to pantomime at shopping. Her busy fingers, tipped in ragged black nails, were forever fidgeting with the heavy buckle on her secondhand leather jacket.

She had heard of his favorite band. She actually liked them. They talked for several minutes about nothing and everything. She said she was going down to the half-abandoned mall to drink forties and break shit

Then, she walked out the door. He crashed hard from the nervous euphoria of meeting her, and like every time he’d tried blow, all he wanted was more.

She was too beautiful to exist; he was certain of this.

He quit his job and followed her out into the wide, white spaces of a sunny afternoon.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

words without context

...but I do know this: don't eat at Denny's. It's basically existential despair burnt on a grill-top and shat onto a platter.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

the hero approacheth

Dawn broke like floodgates, spilling too brightly through spiring stones. He awoke in panic. Light thrust painfully into his eyes as he thrashed madly on the flat and barren ground. His throbbing heart burst him into fits. Desperately, he pulled handfuls of sand and woody bush into his fists, seeking some small anchor to reality.

All the while, vicious black tendrils slithered through his sunbaked brain. Here and there the cruel fingers pressed, blocking some certain synapses and encouraging others. As the dry, hard heat of the place rose so fell any hope of his comfort or control.

He began to bulge out of his skin. It burst and bled through the weakest of his scars. Soon, his bones cracked beneath the terrible tension, piercing through his angry flesh, festooning him in jagged spines. The cursed wretch became something taught and hard, huge and rancorous.

Why must the hero have come today?! He lamented in fractured thoughts and strangled screams. He had dreamed so close to finding himself. He’d come so far through the lightless mazes.

He longed only to be free; he had little faith in the hero’s spear.