We stepped on all the cracks
as she chased us
We dove into the underbrush
she was above us
just a torso
She told us
we were right to be afraid
Showing posts with label dark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dark. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Not Allowed to Touch
First picture a man kneeling directly upon your face. Rather, it is my face. We are naked, the man and I. He rocks back and forth. His anus moves across my cheeks. Sometimes while he rocks, my nose brushes against it and I can feel it tighten.
His legs fold under him on either side of my head, his knees touch my shoulders. The hairs of his legs tickle my skin. He leans forward, hovering over my chest and stomach. He is a tall man, hirsute. He is older, but fit. The loose skin of age collects at his midriff and hips. The hair on his head is grey, but along his body it has already turned chalk white.
His genitals hang just past my chin. The slack weight of his testicles droop and brush against my throat as I patiently wait. He leans slightly to one side as he moves one hand to his penis, limp but heavy. He lifts and points it down my body, directing a strong, hot stream of urine across my torso.
The piss sprays in a wild cloud as it strikes me. The man gasps in relief. He had been holding back for some time. As the initial pressure of release recedes, the man can direct the stream with more purposeful control. He paints the length of my body. The fluids collect in puddles along the creases of my limbs. They form rivulets as they seek to escape and soak into the beige carpetting of the recently remodeled town hall lobby.
The urine flows over me, but my own erection remains dry. The man takes care to direct his stream away. Still, the urine rolling down my stomach soaks into my pubic hair. I can feel the heat and wetness collect, and my penis slowly grows turgid. My hands rest at my side, sweating. The man tells me I am not allowed to touch. Not allowed to touch anything.
The man's streams dies to a dribble, then ceases. The warmth of the wet on my body turns to a chill as the urine starts to dry on my skin. Again he tells me not to touch. My erect phallus twitches, now dark and swollen, curved starkly up and back, pointed directly at the man leaning over me. My hands itch and shake by my side, not from the cold, but from a consuming desire to touch. I must not touch, though. I am not allowed.
That's why I don't vote.
His legs fold under him on either side of my head, his knees touch my shoulders. The hairs of his legs tickle my skin. He leans forward, hovering over my chest and stomach. He is a tall man, hirsute. He is older, but fit. The loose skin of age collects at his midriff and hips. The hair on his head is grey, but along his body it has already turned chalk white.
His genitals hang just past my chin. The slack weight of his testicles droop and brush against my throat as I patiently wait. He leans slightly to one side as he moves one hand to his penis, limp but heavy. He lifts and points it down my body, directing a strong, hot stream of urine across my torso.
The piss sprays in a wild cloud as it strikes me. The man gasps in relief. He had been holding back for some time. As the initial pressure of release recedes, the man can direct the stream with more purposeful control. He paints the length of my body. The fluids collect in puddles along the creases of my limbs. They form rivulets as they seek to escape and soak into the beige carpetting of the recently remodeled town hall lobby.
The urine flows over me, but my own erection remains dry. The man takes care to direct his stream away. Still, the urine rolling down my stomach soaks into my pubic hair. I can feel the heat and wetness collect, and my penis slowly grows turgid. My hands rest at my side, sweating. The man tells me I am not allowed to touch. Not allowed to touch anything.
The man's streams dies to a dribble, then ceases. The warmth of the wet on my body turns to a chill as the urine starts to dry on my skin. Again he tells me not to touch. My erect phallus twitches, now dark and swollen, curved starkly up and back, pointed directly at the man leaning over me. My hands itch and shake by my side, not from the cold, but from a consuming desire to touch. I must not touch, though. I am not allowed.
That's why I don't vote.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Cluttermen
Half-formed with bits of others
We puzzle up a Really-Man
Then we can pass on the streets
Fetch groceries for the rest
We have clothes and drugs
Sometimes we even have jobs
Mostly though, we make things
Beautiful things
Sometimes we can sing
I have the pieces around here somewhere
If I find them, I can sing for you
I can sing very well
You wouldn't know it was a Cluttermen song
We puzzle up a Really-Man
Then we can pass on the streets
Fetch groceries for the rest
We have clothes and drugs
Sometimes we even have jobs
Mostly though, we make things
Beautiful things
Sometimes we can sing
I have the pieces around here somewhere
If I find them, I can sing for you
I can sing very well
You wouldn't know it was a Cluttermen song
Monday, December 27, 2010
Chosen Ones
Stirred by a dream, the high priest awoke one night from a deep slumber. He stumbled through the grand hall to the scrying chambers. Shouting and shaking the tables, he roused the acolytes from their cells. There, in their linen small clothes, they consulted the charts, cast stones, and sorted the scalded innards of a bleating lamb brought in from the cold.
The high priest compared each augury, each divination. There could be no doubt. On that night a god was born among the humans.
One week later, all the peoples of the kingdom gathered before the gates of the mighty palace. The king stood on a balcony infront of the great crowd and asked that the newborn god be brought before him that he might shower the child with blessings and wealth. He sent agents out among the people, searching for infants born the night of the priest's dream.
The next morning, three young women holding babies were escorted into the king's audience chamber. The whole of the royal honor guard stood along the wall in their crisp uniforms with gleaming sabers. Distinguished noblemen sat on velvet benches along the side along with doctors, philosophers, and scribes. Great taspetries of rich purple hung behind the silver throne. The king in his cloak of white fur with his queen standing at his right hand and the high priest at his left.
The first of the three women stepped forward. She was a very plain sort of woman with the pitted, heavy features of a hard life lived. Her dress was of the rough sort of sack-cloth used by the fisherfolk, where the salt water brings rot and ruin to all gentle things. Indeed, when she finally spoke, her speech and manners seemed as rough and bracing as the storm-tossed tide.
"To all these mighty lords and wise men do I bring my child. Here in this court do I give name to Razhaal, god of the sea!" and she held her tiny child aloft. The assembled elite squited into their spectacles and leaned forward to glimpse some hint of divinity there, swaddled in fish rags.
After a moment of awkward silence the queen, a woman with an uncommonly sharp mind, wondered aloud if perhaps the child wouldn't mind to demonstration of his godly powers. The people of the court turned toward the fisher-wife with expectant eyes.
She beamed and nodded. "Of course, if the gathered lords and ladies can bear the sight, the mighty Razhaal will perform a miracle this day!"
She took her child and held him upside down, letting the rags fall from his body, revealing the squirming pink flesh. "Watch him now call upon the mighty tides even here in this stoney castle," She held aloft a crude knife, but sharp and hooked to peel scales. With a quick snap, she slash open the child's throat. "Behold," she cried out, "The salt-tides lick the floors, washing away the sins of the world,"
The crowd gasped in horror as the woman shook and squeezed every drop from the infant who quickly grew blue and still. "Return now, clean, to your plantations and counting houses for Razhaal has blessed you this day,"
The guards quickly seized her and pulled her from the king's sight and down to the dungeons below.
The king was greatly affected by the death of the infant and almost waved away the other women. It was the priest who counseled him otherwise, "My liege," he spoke, "Let not this one crude beast spoil this moment. Indeed, she was low and cruel, with such vulgarity. How could a god choose to live among such filth? The other women have poise, beauty and bearing. Let them bring their children before us,"
The king could not refuse such wise words, and so with a gesture, the next woman stepped forward.
"My gracious liege," she knelt before them in her gown of ruffled silk, "and the most honorable assemblage, I am humbled to find myself in such a position, to be handed such a great honor to shepard this new life into the world, to serve as a vessel to deliver such a being as this into the world," and there did she turn to show her arms and the sleeping child nestled in them.
Again the queen mused about mothers and how each must believe each singular child is the most wonderful and special creation.
"Of course," said the woman in silk. She snuck a hand into her bodice to produce three small rocks hardly bigger than a man's curled thumb. She held them out to show the assembly. "You see, this child is already a miracle, conceived in a garden from the earth itself as I lay in the sun. I lay there last spring as the world poured up inside me filling me with such a magic that just this week passed a boy was born," She placed the child on the ground and smiled over him, "This boy, Otok of the Stones, god of earth and bounty. Behold him now as he enjoys his favorite snack. Even without teeth, he can crush stones and eat them like biscuits!"
And she pushed the stones into the boy's face one by one, jamming and shoving them. The guard rushed to pull her away, but she had already burst the boy's jaw and battered his skull with the last rock. The poor creature flopped mutely there on the floor for a moment longer, then lay still. The woman in silk was sent to the dungeon.
The king was upset indeed and stood to march out of the room himself. The third woman pleaded, "Wait, my lord, those women were mad. Come see my baby, come see her. She is the one you seek,"
The king stopped a moment by the door to listen.
The third woman continued, "She has no name, she is a song of light and fire. She holds the secrets of the serpent peoples. She knows the voice of the dark!"
The king watched the woman with her child.
"She is the god born among us and I can show you," she insisted, "I'll just need a bowl of hot coals and a razor,"
The king spit on the ground in disgust and stormed from the hall.
The high priest compared each augury, each divination. There could be no doubt. On that night a god was born among the humans.
One week later, all the peoples of the kingdom gathered before the gates of the mighty palace. The king stood on a balcony infront of the great crowd and asked that the newborn god be brought before him that he might shower the child with blessings and wealth. He sent agents out among the people, searching for infants born the night of the priest's dream.
The next morning, three young women holding babies were escorted into the king's audience chamber. The whole of the royal honor guard stood along the wall in their crisp uniforms with gleaming sabers. Distinguished noblemen sat on velvet benches along the side along with doctors, philosophers, and scribes. Great taspetries of rich purple hung behind the silver throne. The king in his cloak of white fur with his queen standing at his right hand and the high priest at his left.
The first of the three women stepped forward. She was a very plain sort of woman with the pitted, heavy features of a hard life lived. Her dress was of the rough sort of sack-cloth used by the fisherfolk, where the salt water brings rot and ruin to all gentle things. Indeed, when she finally spoke, her speech and manners seemed as rough and bracing as the storm-tossed tide.
"To all these mighty lords and wise men do I bring my child. Here in this court do I give name to Razhaal, god of the sea!" and she held her tiny child aloft. The assembled elite squited into their spectacles and leaned forward to glimpse some hint of divinity there, swaddled in fish rags.
After a moment of awkward silence the queen, a woman with an uncommonly sharp mind, wondered aloud if perhaps the child wouldn't mind to demonstration of his godly powers. The people of the court turned toward the fisher-wife with expectant eyes.
She beamed and nodded. "Of course, if the gathered lords and ladies can bear the sight, the mighty Razhaal will perform a miracle this day!"
She took her child and held him upside down, letting the rags fall from his body, revealing the squirming pink flesh. "Watch him now call upon the mighty tides even here in this stoney castle," She held aloft a crude knife, but sharp and hooked to peel scales. With a quick snap, she slash open the child's throat. "Behold," she cried out, "The salt-tides lick the floors, washing away the sins of the world,"
The crowd gasped in horror as the woman shook and squeezed every drop from the infant who quickly grew blue and still. "Return now, clean, to your plantations and counting houses for Razhaal has blessed you this day,"
The guards quickly seized her and pulled her from the king's sight and down to the dungeons below.
The king was greatly affected by the death of the infant and almost waved away the other women. It was the priest who counseled him otherwise, "My liege," he spoke, "Let not this one crude beast spoil this moment. Indeed, she was low and cruel, with such vulgarity. How could a god choose to live among such filth? The other women have poise, beauty and bearing. Let them bring their children before us,"
The king could not refuse such wise words, and so with a gesture, the next woman stepped forward.
"My gracious liege," she knelt before them in her gown of ruffled silk, "and the most honorable assemblage, I am humbled to find myself in such a position, to be handed such a great honor to shepard this new life into the world, to serve as a vessel to deliver such a being as this into the world," and there did she turn to show her arms and the sleeping child nestled in them.
Again the queen mused about mothers and how each must believe each singular child is the most wonderful and special creation.
"Of course," said the woman in silk. She snuck a hand into her bodice to produce three small rocks hardly bigger than a man's curled thumb. She held them out to show the assembly. "You see, this child is already a miracle, conceived in a garden from the earth itself as I lay in the sun. I lay there last spring as the world poured up inside me filling me with such a magic that just this week passed a boy was born," She placed the child on the ground and smiled over him, "This boy, Otok of the Stones, god of earth and bounty. Behold him now as he enjoys his favorite snack. Even without teeth, he can crush stones and eat them like biscuits!"
And she pushed the stones into the boy's face one by one, jamming and shoving them. The guard rushed to pull her away, but she had already burst the boy's jaw and battered his skull with the last rock. The poor creature flopped mutely there on the floor for a moment longer, then lay still. The woman in silk was sent to the dungeon.
The king was upset indeed and stood to march out of the room himself. The third woman pleaded, "Wait, my lord, those women were mad. Come see my baby, come see her. She is the one you seek,"
The king stopped a moment by the door to listen.
The third woman continued, "She has no name, she is a song of light and fire. She holds the secrets of the serpent peoples. She knows the voice of the dark!"
The king watched the woman with her child.
"She is the god born among us and I can show you," she insisted, "I'll just need a bowl of hot coals and a razor,"
The king spit on the ground in disgust and stormed from the hall.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
We were birds, once
She waits until he’s sleeping to go outside. She picks up groceries, maps, train tickets. She doesn’t take the bus anymore. She had some problems on the bus.
We were birds one day...
He’s still sleeping. She can feel him dreaming, turning over and over in her head. She’s at the cornerstore with a bag of batteries and some energy bars. This place doesn’t have any lotion. That sucks. It totally sucks. Her cheek will start to peel soon. This weather is too dry.
He let us fly with him. Exalted birds in His Grace...
It’s not so easy for a girl of sixteen years to travel around. There’s a knack to it, one that Robyn picked up awhile ago. She’s on the short side of short, perpetually slouching in her dark grey hoodies. A natural sort of camouflage if you don’t want to be noticed in a city.
For one day, we could fly...
There’s a couple of cops crossing their arms. There’s a man sitting on the curb, a trickle of blood smeared under his nose. One of the cops is holding him a bottle of water. They must be waiting for backup, or something. They’re blocking the whole sidewalk. No one’s trying to pass them. They step away, circling, pacing. When you grow up in a city, you learn to read cops like the weather.
We were birds...
She’s looking to cross the street. It’s a big one, four lanes. Four guys coming down the other way, a hot wind from the south. One’s shouting something. One curses. They look properly stupid, profoundly stupid. The cops take notice. A cold front gathering clouds. Now it’s becoming something, the cops can’t back down, the punks need to save face.
For one day, we were forgiven...
Shouting leads to shoving. Robyn tries to cross the street, but the traffic won’t let up. Everyone’s yelling. She can hear the smack of flesh, a fist. She’s watching the road, waiting for a break. She doesn’t want to see the fight. There’s s snap, too loud, too quick. Someone pulled a gun.
What was that?
She lunges into the traffic, leaping past the cars. They are honking horns, slamming on brakes. A hatchback catches her on the hip. She spins and collapses. Everyone’s shouting now, the bag of batteries all over the road. She’s got something up against her stomach. The driver of the hatchback is out of his car. He’s shouting at her, calling her a crazy bitch. She’s hugging something. It has sharp edges, but it’s like a box. What the hell is it?
Her head is quiet. She can’t hear anything in her head. He’s awake. Oh god. There’s screaming on the sidewalk. The cops are probably all dead. He hates guns. They’re all probably dead. She gets up and runs. Only a few more blocks. The guy from the hatchback grabs her arm.
‘What the fuck was that? You see that?’
‘Let go, let go of me,’
Her hoodie falls away. He can see the burn scars, the bald patches on her head. He lets go. She runs. She has to get far away, it’s the only way to keep him in her head. Her own boogeyman, her curse. She’s got to get to New York before anyone else dies. He’s watching her thoughts, waiting for an excuse.
She’s back in the apartment. She locks herself in the bathroom. She’s still got a couple thousand dollars from Colorado, most of the blood’s washed out. She hates this, living like this. Just till New York. This thing only goes as far as Gotham. The devil, the ifrit, the killer in her head. There the Badman dies.
We were birds one day...
He’s still sleeping. She can feel him dreaming, turning over and over in her head. She’s at the cornerstore with a bag of batteries and some energy bars. This place doesn’t have any lotion. That sucks. It totally sucks. Her cheek will start to peel soon. This weather is too dry.
He let us fly with him. Exalted birds in His Grace...
It’s not so easy for a girl of sixteen years to travel around. There’s a knack to it, one that Robyn picked up awhile ago. She’s on the short side of short, perpetually slouching in her dark grey hoodies. A natural sort of camouflage if you don’t want to be noticed in a city.
For one day, we could fly...
There’s a couple of cops crossing their arms. There’s a man sitting on the curb, a trickle of blood smeared under his nose. One of the cops is holding him a bottle of water. They must be waiting for backup, or something. They’re blocking the whole sidewalk. No one’s trying to pass them. They step away, circling, pacing. When you grow up in a city, you learn to read cops like the weather.
We were birds...
She’s looking to cross the street. It’s a big one, four lanes. Four guys coming down the other way, a hot wind from the south. One’s shouting something. One curses. They look properly stupid, profoundly stupid. The cops take notice. A cold front gathering clouds. Now it’s becoming something, the cops can’t back down, the punks need to save face.
For one day, we were forgiven...
Shouting leads to shoving. Robyn tries to cross the street, but the traffic won’t let up. Everyone’s yelling. She can hear the smack of flesh, a fist. She’s watching the road, waiting for a break. She doesn’t want to see the fight. There’s s snap, too loud, too quick. Someone pulled a gun.
What was that?
She lunges into the traffic, leaping past the cars. They are honking horns, slamming on brakes. A hatchback catches her on the hip. She spins and collapses. Everyone’s shouting now, the bag of batteries all over the road. She’s got something up against her stomach. The driver of the hatchback is out of his car. He’s shouting at her, calling her a crazy bitch. She’s hugging something. It has sharp edges, but it’s like a box. What the hell is it?
Her head is quiet. She can’t hear anything in her head. He’s awake. Oh god. There’s screaming on the sidewalk. The cops are probably all dead. He hates guns. They’re all probably dead. She gets up and runs. Only a few more blocks. The guy from the hatchback grabs her arm.
‘What the fuck was that? You see that?’
‘Let go, let go of me,’
Her hoodie falls away. He can see the burn scars, the bald patches on her head. He lets go. She runs. She has to get far away, it’s the only way to keep him in her head. Her own boogeyman, her curse. She’s got to get to New York before anyone else dies. He’s watching her thoughts, waiting for an excuse.
She’s back in the apartment. She locks herself in the bathroom. She’s still got a couple thousand dollars from Colorado, most of the blood’s washed out. She hates this, living like this. Just till New York. This thing only goes as far as Gotham. The devil, the ifrit, the killer in her head. There the Badman dies.
Monday, August 2, 2010
An Idea of a Girl
She doesn't have a name. She doesn't really exist. She's an idea, or a collection of ideas, in my head. I can't really see her, but I have an awareness of her. When she's around, I know what she's doing. I can catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye. There's a leg, a hand. She darts across the hall, a shadow. She's behind me. She's breathing on my neck. I can feel the air change as she smiles. She haunts me like a ghost.
But I know she's not a ghost. This is something I have to keep clear in my head. She's just an idea, a figment. She doesn't have a name, but I call her the quicksilver woman. She's cold, metallic, and featureless. She changes faces to mock me, takes shapes to tease me, chases me, torments me, hates me.
I see her out in the world, in public. I might see a woman walking on the street and some part of the way her hair falls, the pace of her step, the tilt of her head, reminds me of that idea. I see the quicksilver in this woman. I see her taunting me from inside this innocent creature. Sometimes I have to turn my head, stare at the ground.
It's not something I can talk about. I know how crazy it sounds. I know it's unfair. I can be very careful. She keeps away, stays quiet, if I'm careful. Sometimes, if I'm having a conversation with a woman, I get carried away. I fall into her taunts. I get unreasonably angry. I snap, I sneer, and she wins. She laughs and leaves whenever I lose my cool. She must keep a tally somewhere.
I'm worried that someday I'll walk into a room and see her. She'll be there and I will see the whole of her. Maybe she's not really hiding or running. Maybe it's me looking away, avoiding her. Deep down I know I can't let myself see her without losing everything else.
Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't need her like I do. Maybe she wants to go. Maybe that's why she hates me.
But I know she's not a ghost. This is something I have to keep clear in my head. She's just an idea, a figment. She doesn't have a name, but I call her the quicksilver woman. She's cold, metallic, and featureless. She changes faces to mock me, takes shapes to tease me, chases me, torments me, hates me.
I see her out in the world, in public. I might see a woman walking on the street and some part of the way her hair falls, the pace of her step, the tilt of her head, reminds me of that idea. I see the quicksilver in this woman. I see her taunting me from inside this innocent creature. Sometimes I have to turn my head, stare at the ground.
It's not something I can talk about. I know how crazy it sounds. I know it's unfair. I can be very careful. She keeps away, stays quiet, if I'm careful. Sometimes, if I'm having a conversation with a woman, I get carried away. I fall into her taunts. I get unreasonably angry. I snap, I sneer, and she wins. She laughs and leaves whenever I lose my cool. She must keep a tally somewhere.
I'm worried that someday I'll walk into a room and see her. She'll be there and I will see the whole of her. Maybe she's not really hiding or running. Maybe it's me looking away, avoiding her. Deep down I know I can't let myself see her without losing everything else.
Wouldn't be so bad if I didn't need her like I do. Maybe she wants to go. Maybe that's why she hates me.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Treacherous Duke, Part Two
"Here then, without his robes, I could see his frail, tiny limbs. Without his crown and wig, could I see his thin hair, his spotted, wrinkled pate. Here then, in the shadows cast by candles, could I see his madness. His lips, dribbling, mumbling. His eyes rolling at invisible terrors. The rage fled from me like leaves blowing from the sudden gust of an opened door. I fell to my knees and cried, 'My Lord!'"
"And the king ceased his dribbling and mumbling to look at me. 'Why do you come to me like this, with such furor?'"
"Words found my mouth unbidden, and yet, in speaking I discovered their truth, 'My Lord, you have such enemies against you, conspiring in frantic secret, pledging treason against your house,'"
"and he replied, 'This I know, my duke, and have always known. Still they hide dagger-tongues and save only sweet words for my ears. I am lost already, defeated by shadows in a war without swords,'"
"'No, my liege, not lost yet. To your honor I pledge my service,'"
"'All dukes have already pledged such service, true and traitor alike,' the king's voice sweetened with despair,"
"'None have pledged such as this, my Lord. I pledge to throw myself into exile, to bear great humiliations by you, to suffer harsh indignity, so that every snake and beetle in your garden will think me an ally. They will flock to my banner, trusting their armies in my care to war against you. Then, my king, with all the traitors lined up at my command, will I lead them to defeat and deliver them to your mercy. The evil devoured from within,'"
"His tiny eyes widened, lips twitching. He crawled on hand and knee across his bedding, 'Would you bear this indignity? This torment?,'"
"'It is my will,' spoke I,"
"'But why?'"
"And truly, I was unsure myself until that very moment. I looked upon the king in his weakness and knew the truth. I loved this man. I loved him and would see his legacy continue. I knew I would serve him, his will, his empire until the end of all things. I knew this even as he balled his fists against his sheets and cried out, 'Oh but they will know our deception! They have seen you storm into my personal chambers. They witnessed your mighty rage. They gather even know with cupped ears just beyond the eaves. They will spread stories. Again, we are unraveled, defeated before we begin. Our ship sunk by whispers!'"
"'Not so!' said I, 'We will fill their tongues with new whispers, leaving no doubt as to my hatred, my lust for revenge,'"
"'What then, is your plan,' asked the king,"
"'Step down from your bed, sire, and with an air of your former strength strike me, drive me from these chambers. Let them remember the warrior king, the red flush of cheek, the blood-forged blade, the roar of the war drunk over the din of chaos. Knock me and shame me. Strip me before your court so that all enemies will have no doubt that I can only be your enemy,'"
"And he rose from his bed, towering above me. For a moment, I could see those old days and thought fondly on such old, clinging nightmares. The horror of battle, a cleaner, clearer time. To fight and win, living for the glory of a king, great and wise. A king to bring a lasting peace. Such sweetnes in dark, old memories,"
"He struck me with his cane. A stripe across the face and I tumbled through the doors. The courtiers fell away, so tightly had they packed against the doorway, hungry for gossip,"
"And the king struck again, chasing me, bellowing threats and insults. I spilled into the crowd, fleeing, pretending to stumble. Again and again, marked by the wooden length of his stick. He ordered my lands stripped, my titles, my houses,"
"And so, to exile I fled. Long I dwelt in poverty. Nameless in the wilderness, far from the glittering halls of my Lord's court. In time, one by one, the other dukes found me and made their ambitions known. One by one, they pledged their houses to raise a great army. A legion to crush the king and I was to lead as high marshall,"
"And so we marched in polished armor with bright banners raised high against the king and his host of fools. I sent these gleaming soldiers to fight farmers in rags. It took all of my great martial prowess to carefully arrange defeat for the treasonous legion,"
"After each battle, the fools surrounding the king would cry out, 'A miracle!' and the treacherous dukes would lament, 'We are cursed!' But only the king and I knew the truth,"
"And so the dukes were delivered to the king and peace restored. I was placed in a prison with all the others. One night, the king came to visit,"
"'When am I to be set free? My lands restored? My titles? My great reward?' I asked,"
"The king was silent. I felt a chill in my soul. After a great while, he spoke, 'I still have enemies, my friend, deeper still and darker still. They hide in my kingdom, plotting,'"
"'I understand, my king,'"
"'You are my sharpest weapon, my greates ally,'"
"'As you say, my lord,'"
"'And so I must ask you to continue this charade. You must dwell in exile, in darkness and shame. You must do this in my name, for peace in this great nation,'"
"'Of course, my liege,'"
"'I thank you, loyal duke, and yet these words are too small for my intent. Through your suffering and sacrifice, my kingdom prevails in light and truth. I owe you more than I could possibly give,'"
"'You honor me with such words, my king,'"
"'I must tell you, most noble duke, that I have deceived you. I knew the great forces arrayed against me even at the day of naming. No matter who I picked, even with you as my high marshall, there would be war. Even victory would spell disaster, as the kingdom itself would be torn apart. My throne would rule over a vast wasteland, and empire of dust. And so, with no better option, I acted like a great fool, confused drooling. Like an old drunk. I feared your capability, I wanted to drive you from your armies. I deceived you, and am sorry to have done it,'"
"I received his confession like the shock of cold, mountain water. I bowed my head, remaining silent. He left me then,"
"And so have I escaped again to exile, in the wilderness, in the darkness. The enemies still remember my strength, they still seek me out. They trust me with their armies and I deliver them in defeat to the king. They do not suspect my true purpose. They are liars, sinners, and thieves. In this, I am first among them,"
The man grew quiet again. The boy sat and thought carefully upon this mad story.
He spoke, "Why then, knowing the king's deceit, his false madness, would you continue to serve in exile?"
"I was tempted to defy him, to quit his service, or even lead these armies properly to victory. It was the way he spoke to me, the way he talked about his crumbling empire, the way he talked about me. The king worried at my power! This knowledge has sustained me, nourished me. It is how I know he is worthy of my love, and I am worthy of his," the man said, so proudly.
"He feigned madness once to trick you. Could he not have also feigned fear? Could this just be another trick?"
At these words, the man screamed in rage. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and threw him from the darkness. He struck about him with his fists, driving him away until finally, again, the man was alone.
"And the king ceased his dribbling and mumbling to look at me. 'Why do you come to me like this, with such furor?'"
"Words found my mouth unbidden, and yet, in speaking I discovered their truth, 'My Lord, you have such enemies against you, conspiring in frantic secret, pledging treason against your house,'"
"and he replied, 'This I know, my duke, and have always known. Still they hide dagger-tongues and save only sweet words for my ears. I am lost already, defeated by shadows in a war without swords,'"
"'No, my liege, not lost yet. To your honor I pledge my service,'"
"'All dukes have already pledged such service, true and traitor alike,' the king's voice sweetened with despair,"
"'None have pledged such as this, my Lord. I pledge to throw myself into exile, to bear great humiliations by you, to suffer harsh indignity, so that every snake and beetle in your garden will think me an ally. They will flock to my banner, trusting their armies in my care to war against you. Then, my king, with all the traitors lined up at my command, will I lead them to defeat and deliver them to your mercy. The evil devoured from within,'"
"His tiny eyes widened, lips twitching. He crawled on hand and knee across his bedding, 'Would you bear this indignity? This torment?,'"
"'It is my will,' spoke I,"
"'But why?'"
"And truly, I was unsure myself until that very moment. I looked upon the king in his weakness and knew the truth. I loved this man. I loved him and would see his legacy continue. I knew I would serve him, his will, his empire until the end of all things. I knew this even as he balled his fists against his sheets and cried out, 'Oh but they will know our deception! They have seen you storm into my personal chambers. They witnessed your mighty rage. They gather even know with cupped ears just beyond the eaves. They will spread stories. Again, we are unraveled, defeated before we begin. Our ship sunk by whispers!'"
"'Not so!' said I, 'We will fill their tongues with new whispers, leaving no doubt as to my hatred, my lust for revenge,'"
"'What then, is your plan,' asked the king,"
"'Step down from your bed, sire, and with an air of your former strength strike me, drive me from these chambers. Let them remember the warrior king, the red flush of cheek, the blood-forged blade, the roar of the war drunk over the din of chaos. Knock me and shame me. Strip me before your court so that all enemies will have no doubt that I can only be your enemy,'"
"And he rose from his bed, towering above me. For a moment, I could see those old days and thought fondly on such old, clinging nightmares. The horror of battle, a cleaner, clearer time. To fight and win, living for the glory of a king, great and wise. A king to bring a lasting peace. Such sweetnes in dark, old memories,"
"He struck me with his cane. A stripe across the face and I tumbled through the doors. The courtiers fell away, so tightly had they packed against the doorway, hungry for gossip,"
"And the king struck again, chasing me, bellowing threats and insults. I spilled into the crowd, fleeing, pretending to stumble. Again and again, marked by the wooden length of his stick. He ordered my lands stripped, my titles, my houses,"
"And so, to exile I fled. Long I dwelt in poverty. Nameless in the wilderness, far from the glittering halls of my Lord's court. In time, one by one, the other dukes found me and made their ambitions known. One by one, they pledged their houses to raise a great army. A legion to crush the king and I was to lead as high marshall,"
"And so we marched in polished armor with bright banners raised high against the king and his host of fools. I sent these gleaming soldiers to fight farmers in rags. It took all of my great martial prowess to carefully arrange defeat for the treasonous legion,"
"After each battle, the fools surrounding the king would cry out, 'A miracle!' and the treacherous dukes would lament, 'We are cursed!' But only the king and I knew the truth,"
"And so the dukes were delivered to the king and peace restored. I was placed in a prison with all the others. One night, the king came to visit,"
"'When am I to be set free? My lands restored? My titles? My great reward?' I asked,"
"The king was silent. I felt a chill in my soul. After a great while, he spoke, 'I still have enemies, my friend, deeper still and darker still. They hide in my kingdom, plotting,'"
"'I understand, my king,'"
"'You are my sharpest weapon, my greates ally,'"
"'As you say, my lord,'"
"'And so I must ask you to continue this charade. You must dwell in exile, in darkness and shame. You must do this in my name, for peace in this great nation,'"
"'Of course, my liege,'"
"'I thank you, loyal duke, and yet these words are too small for my intent. Through your suffering and sacrifice, my kingdom prevails in light and truth. I owe you more than I could possibly give,'"
"'You honor me with such words, my king,'"
"'I must tell you, most noble duke, that I have deceived you. I knew the great forces arrayed against me even at the day of naming. No matter who I picked, even with you as my high marshall, there would be war. Even victory would spell disaster, as the kingdom itself would be torn apart. My throne would rule over a vast wasteland, and empire of dust. And so, with no better option, I acted like a great fool, confused drooling. Like an old drunk. I feared your capability, I wanted to drive you from your armies. I deceived you, and am sorry to have done it,'"
"I received his confession like the shock of cold, mountain water. I bowed my head, remaining silent. He left me then,"
"And so have I escaped again to exile, in the wilderness, in the darkness. The enemies still remember my strength, they still seek me out. They trust me with their armies and I deliver them in defeat to the king. They do not suspect my true purpose. They are liars, sinners, and thieves. In this, I am first among them,"
The man grew quiet again. The boy sat and thought carefully upon this mad story.
He spoke, "Why then, knowing the king's deceit, his false madness, would you continue to serve in exile?"
"I was tempted to defy him, to quit his service, or even lead these armies properly to victory. It was the way he spoke to me, the way he talked about his crumbling empire, the way he talked about me. The king worried at my power! This knowledge has sustained me, nourished me. It is how I know he is worthy of my love, and I am worthy of his," the man said, so proudly.
"He feigned madness once to trick you. Could he not have also feigned fear? Could this just be another trick?"
At these words, the man screamed in rage. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and threw him from the darkness. He struck about him with his fists, driving him away until finally, again, the man was alone.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Treacherous Duke, Part 1
Somewhere, there is a dark place. Perhaps it is a cell, deep in a forgotten dungeon. It might be a cabin deep in the heart of a silent forest, or a dead submarine, slowly sinking, slowly collapsing from the weight of the impossible ocean depth.
In this place, a man speaks to a boy. The boy has traveled far to hear the man's story. The man has waited a long time to tell it. The boy listens quietly, politely. He sits very still.
"I know this one story in my mind," begins the man.
"I can not see the faces, yet I know the people. I can not hear the words, but I know them as spoken. It lives in my memory like something I might have read in a book, or heard from a storyteller. Yet I also remember that it was true and that it happened to me. It was a long time ago, and truth can be like threads in an old shirt, falling out, falling apart over time. Who knows what's..."
The boy sits quietly. The man turns a few thoughts around in his mind. He sighs.
"There once was a great king. He ruled over a vast, troubled empire. He was wealthy, but very old. Many powerful dukes would come to his court to honor him. They were strong, powerful men with mighty armies and wealthy estates. In this, I was first among them. Above all the dukes, I was honored and feared. In my heart, I knew great pride and anger,"
"The king had ruled in peace for a long time. The memories of war grew distant to the dukes. They began to forget the blood, the agony, the horror of chaos. In the comfort of their private palaces, they remembered the old glories. Contempt blossomed in their hearts. And in this, I was first among them,"
"The king had many loyal followers still. A flock of grinning, japing idiots swarmed about the throne. They buzzed sugary lies and empty flattery in his ear. He delighted in the fools' nonsense. These pleasures drove needles of hate into the eyes of the dukes at court. They began to plot against the king. Again, in this, I was first among them,"
"There came a day of naming. The king was to deliver honors among the courtiers. All nobles of the empire gathered in the great hall, packed close together in their silken finery. It was a day of dreary formality. Scribes and pontiffs in official hats and stoles trapsing up and down the hall, droning away ancient verses. Blind words in the speech of slumbering spirits. Trumpets and drums. The king in his crown and grand cloak. He took his seat upon the throne. A hush through the crowd. A small, rolled scroll. A hundred burning eyes,"
The man stopped then, shifting in his seat. He licks his lips.
"It is dark now, and you cannot see. But I was strong once! My wealth earned in blood, my lands taken and held by mighty armies. My soldiers followed a warrior-prince born with a sword. So it seemed to me, despite any coldness at court, the king would have been a fool to spurn me in the naming. And yet, among the fools and flatterers, he named councillors. From the drunks, bishops. The thieves became governers. The cowards, his generals. And finally, his high marshall, exalted in privilege and responsibility over all nobles, second only to the king, he named the dog that patrolled the feast hall, licking fingers clean and lapping at the grease puddles,"
"How I raged in my own head. I pulled at my collar and tore at my hair while all the fools danced and cheered their grand fortune. The king, wearied in his advanced age, fled the great hall to retire to his bedchambers. In a great storm of passion, I trod across the hall after the king. With these arms, I tossed aside his guards like bundles of wheat. I threw open those doors and strode within. The king, already in his simple linens, sat up in a fright. I closed the doors behind and locked them. We were alone,"
In this place, a man speaks to a boy. The boy has traveled far to hear the man's story. The man has waited a long time to tell it. The boy listens quietly, politely. He sits very still.
"I know this one story in my mind," begins the man.
"I can not see the faces, yet I know the people. I can not hear the words, but I know them as spoken. It lives in my memory like something I might have read in a book, or heard from a storyteller. Yet I also remember that it was true and that it happened to me. It was a long time ago, and truth can be like threads in an old shirt, falling out, falling apart over time. Who knows what's..."
The boy sits quietly. The man turns a few thoughts around in his mind. He sighs.
"There once was a great king. He ruled over a vast, troubled empire. He was wealthy, but very old. Many powerful dukes would come to his court to honor him. They were strong, powerful men with mighty armies and wealthy estates. In this, I was first among them. Above all the dukes, I was honored and feared. In my heart, I knew great pride and anger,"
"The king had ruled in peace for a long time. The memories of war grew distant to the dukes. They began to forget the blood, the agony, the horror of chaos. In the comfort of their private palaces, they remembered the old glories. Contempt blossomed in their hearts. And in this, I was first among them,"
"The king had many loyal followers still. A flock of grinning, japing idiots swarmed about the throne. They buzzed sugary lies and empty flattery in his ear. He delighted in the fools' nonsense. These pleasures drove needles of hate into the eyes of the dukes at court. They began to plot against the king. Again, in this, I was first among them,"
"There came a day of naming. The king was to deliver honors among the courtiers. All nobles of the empire gathered in the great hall, packed close together in their silken finery. It was a day of dreary formality. Scribes and pontiffs in official hats and stoles trapsing up and down the hall, droning away ancient verses. Blind words in the speech of slumbering spirits. Trumpets and drums. The king in his crown and grand cloak. He took his seat upon the throne. A hush through the crowd. A small, rolled scroll. A hundred burning eyes,"
The man stopped then, shifting in his seat. He licks his lips.
"It is dark now, and you cannot see. But I was strong once! My wealth earned in blood, my lands taken and held by mighty armies. My soldiers followed a warrior-prince born with a sword. So it seemed to me, despite any coldness at court, the king would have been a fool to spurn me in the naming. And yet, among the fools and flatterers, he named councillors. From the drunks, bishops. The thieves became governers. The cowards, his generals. And finally, his high marshall, exalted in privilege and responsibility over all nobles, second only to the king, he named the dog that patrolled the feast hall, licking fingers clean and lapping at the grease puddles,"
"How I raged in my own head. I pulled at my collar and tore at my hair while all the fools danced and cheered their grand fortune. The king, wearied in his advanced age, fled the great hall to retire to his bedchambers. In a great storm of passion, I trod across the hall after the king. With these arms, I tossed aside his guards like bundles of wheat. I threw open those doors and strode within. The king, already in his simple linens, sat up in a fright. I closed the doors behind and locked them. We were alone,"
Friday, June 18, 2010
Overwrought Analogy
So there's this party, but they're running low on drinks. So now everyone lines up, holding on to tiny, paper cups and stands patiently waiting their turn. It's really hot. The sun's out, beaming down. No one wants to leave the party so they all just stand there in the line.
I'm way toward the back. I honestly doubt they'll have anything let by the time I get up there. I wander out of the line and everyone's looking at me like I'm crazy. They don't say anything, though. Maybe they're hoping with one less guy, they might get two drinks.
So I get a chance to explore around a bit. Sure, I'm thirsty as hell, but maybe there's something else to do.
The house is beautiful. There's this big garden with all these flowers in bloom and bright green vines climbing up a trellis. I go back to the line to tell some people about it. They nod and smile. It's nice and all, but it's hot and they're thirsty. They don't want to risk their spot in the line. I can't really blame them, If I was closer to the counter, I wouldn't want to leave either.
So I wander away and check out the other side of the house. Holy Shit! There's a pool. I mean, it's not well kept or anything, but it's a pool. In fact, there's a layer of algae scum floating around the top, and the water is grey and murky. Still though, hot day, pool. I bend down and touch it. It feels cool.
Well damn, I got nothing better to do. I dip my whole head in. It's awesome. The water is all tingley like it's carbonated. I feel great. I pull my head out and use my shirt to towel my face. I have to go tell everyone.
So I run back and my hair is dripping all over the place. I'm telling them about the pool and how it's dirty and weird, but awesome. The mutter and shift their weight around nervously. They still don't want to leave, but a good head soak sounds like a good idea.
I'm begging and dancing around, trying to convince them. Finally we work out a system where a few people stay behind to watch the line. The rest write their names on their cups and place them on the ground, saving their spots.
So I lead a whole bunch of people to the other side of the house. When they see the pool, some of them laugh out loud, like it's a joke. But no, I'm serious. I really like it. I dive right in with all my clothes. It feels even better with my whole body in there. I fucking love this.
I swim to the surface to tell them. A clump of algae sticks to my face and dangles like a booger. I'm smiling and asking them to try it out, jump in. They look at my face and slowly inch away. They don't want to lose their place in line. They hurry back.
I swim for an hour or so, then clean up and head back to check on everyone. They don't see me at first. I over hear them talking.
"Can you believe that guy?"
"Yeah, what an asshole, trying to ruin the party,"
"He's just upset because he knew he wasn't going to get a drink. He wanted to ruin it for all of us,"
"God, what a creep,"
"Hey I bet he had his pants off in there. I bet he was going to grope people who went swimming,"
"He probably had his dick out,"
"What a pervert,"
I'm way toward the back. I honestly doubt they'll have anything let by the time I get up there. I wander out of the line and everyone's looking at me like I'm crazy. They don't say anything, though. Maybe they're hoping with one less guy, they might get two drinks.
So I get a chance to explore around a bit. Sure, I'm thirsty as hell, but maybe there's something else to do.
The house is beautiful. There's this big garden with all these flowers in bloom and bright green vines climbing up a trellis. I go back to the line to tell some people about it. They nod and smile. It's nice and all, but it's hot and they're thirsty. They don't want to risk their spot in the line. I can't really blame them, If I was closer to the counter, I wouldn't want to leave either.
So I wander away and check out the other side of the house. Holy Shit! There's a pool. I mean, it's not well kept or anything, but it's a pool. In fact, there's a layer of algae scum floating around the top, and the water is grey and murky. Still though, hot day, pool. I bend down and touch it. It feels cool.
Well damn, I got nothing better to do. I dip my whole head in. It's awesome. The water is all tingley like it's carbonated. I feel great. I pull my head out and use my shirt to towel my face. I have to go tell everyone.
So I run back and my hair is dripping all over the place. I'm telling them about the pool and how it's dirty and weird, but awesome. The mutter and shift their weight around nervously. They still don't want to leave, but a good head soak sounds like a good idea.
I'm begging and dancing around, trying to convince them. Finally we work out a system where a few people stay behind to watch the line. The rest write their names on their cups and place them on the ground, saving their spots.
So I lead a whole bunch of people to the other side of the house. When they see the pool, some of them laugh out loud, like it's a joke. But no, I'm serious. I really like it. I dive right in with all my clothes. It feels even better with my whole body in there. I fucking love this.
I swim to the surface to tell them. A clump of algae sticks to my face and dangles like a booger. I'm smiling and asking them to try it out, jump in. They look at my face and slowly inch away. They don't want to lose their place in line. They hurry back.
I swim for an hour or so, then clean up and head back to check on everyone. They don't see me at first. I over hear them talking.
"Can you believe that guy?"
"Yeah, what an asshole, trying to ruin the party,"
"He's just upset because he knew he wasn't going to get a drink. He wanted to ruin it for all of us,"
"God, what a creep,"
"Hey I bet he had his pants off in there. I bet he was going to grope people who went swimming,"
"He probably had his dick out,"
"What a pervert,"
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Crawling All Over, Part Two
The office is kinda standard, as far as offices go. Cheap desk, papers, letters. There's a shelf with all sorts of books that must impress certain kinds of people. Really, this place could be like a city office. Like maybe the fire marshall's assistant or commissioner for sewage or whatever. I don't know. But it's a priest's office. And he agreed to meet me right away. I think the doctor called ahead.
I don't normally like people talking about me behind my back, but maybe it's okay this time, because it's a doctor and a priest.
So he's got grey hair and he looks really skinny. He's wearing all black with that white collar thing. He's touching his fingertips together and asking me about my troubles. I'm pretty sure he already knows, but maybe he wants to hear it from me. I can appreciate that, I just wish he could cut the crap. But, of course, he's a priest so crap is his whole business, right?
I tell him about the spiders and my troubles sleeping and how I'm probably going to get fired. He's nodding his head and looking right at me. He's making these... these fucking noises like he understands my problems. He's like cooing at me. Cooing like I'm a fucking child. Maybe that shit gets the church-ladies all wet but...
Nah wait, he's trying to help. I have to stay calm. The lack of sleep is making everything kind of crazy in my head.
And he asks me about my faith. I should have expected that. Of course that's going to be his opener, it's his whole gimmick. I'm starting to regret coming down here.
But then, he's talking about stress in life and frustrations of responsibility. He's talking about family and things just start to sink in. Maybe that's how the church works, they have a really solid spiel, let me tell you. This little lecture must put a lot of asses in the pews. Maybe it might be nice to believe in all that stuff. Maybe if I was a different kind of person, I could get into it. Thing is, I was never really raised to believe in anything. I don't know if you can change that about a person.
No, this isn't going to work. This guy is barking up the wrong tree. I thank him for his time and I'm about to leave when the guy hops up and starts begging. I mean, he's really getting into it, slapping his desk, eyes tearing up. He's going all out. Says he wanted to baptize me, wash me in the blood of christ.
I can't help but laugh, really. He's taking this so seriously. I put a few eyedrops in and tell him no. So then he starts talking about my kid. Like I should sign up for his bullshit for their sake. Like I need Jesus to protect them from me.
Protect my kids from me. Can you believe that?
So yeah, I was mad. I grab him by the collar and shake him a little. He's really light, weighs nothing. I push him up against the wall and I'm shouting something. The whole time, he's chanting at me. I think it's in Latin. He's trying to get his cross out of his shirt and hold it up like this is some vampire movie.
I just... the whole thing got out of hand. The way he was looking at me and chanting, I just got so mad I put my hand on his throat. I want him to shut up, but what I'm really doing is choking the shit out of him. And it's easy too, like he's made out of balsa wood.
So his hands flail around and claw at my arms and I don't even fucking care. Fuck everything else, honestly. I'm already fucked. I'm starting to enjoy the thought of killing this smug asshole when he tears a hole in my arm.
It's weird. I look down and there's a hole in my arm. He punched through it, stabbing down with that cross in his hands and the skin falls away like paper. It didn't even hurt. I didn't feel a thing. Inside my arm, it's all dark and empty, like I've been hollowed out.
I feel that tickle again, the skittering on my skin and a thousand goddamn spiders come pouring out, covering the priest, stinging him. They can't be real spiders, though. They chew and chomp away at the priest. Soon, he's just a red lump of chewed up meat and those things crawl back into my body. It feels good, a comfort. I feel strong and whole.
Those things weren't crawling around on my skin, but under. Looking at what they did to the priest, they probably messed up my innards too. I might be more spider than man at this point. Somehow I don't mind. Somehow I feel pretty good about it.
Maybe I'll go take a nap and drive out for the visitation after all. I can't wait to see my ex. I hope she brings her lawyer along too.
I don't normally like people talking about me behind my back, but maybe it's okay this time, because it's a doctor and a priest.
So he's got grey hair and he looks really skinny. He's wearing all black with that white collar thing. He's touching his fingertips together and asking me about my troubles. I'm pretty sure he already knows, but maybe he wants to hear it from me. I can appreciate that, I just wish he could cut the crap. But, of course, he's a priest so crap is his whole business, right?
I tell him about the spiders and my troubles sleeping and how I'm probably going to get fired. He's nodding his head and looking right at me. He's making these... these fucking noises like he understands my problems. He's like cooing at me. Cooing like I'm a fucking child. Maybe that shit gets the church-ladies all wet but...
Nah wait, he's trying to help. I have to stay calm. The lack of sleep is making everything kind of crazy in my head.
And he asks me about my faith. I should have expected that. Of course that's going to be his opener, it's his whole gimmick. I'm starting to regret coming down here.
But then, he's talking about stress in life and frustrations of responsibility. He's talking about family and things just start to sink in. Maybe that's how the church works, they have a really solid spiel, let me tell you. This little lecture must put a lot of asses in the pews. Maybe it might be nice to believe in all that stuff. Maybe if I was a different kind of person, I could get into it. Thing is, I was never really raised to believe in anything. I don't know if you can change that about a person.
No, this isn't going to work. This guy is barking up the wrong tree. I thank him for his time and I'm about to leave when the guy hops up and starts begging. I mean, he's really getting into it, slapping his desk, eyes tearing up. He's going all out. Says he wanted to baptize me, wash me in the blood of christ.
I can't help but laugh, really. He's taking this so seriously. I put a few eyedrops in and tell him no. So then he starts talking about my kid. Like I should sign up for his bullshit for their sake. Like I need Jesus to protect them from me.
Protect my kids from me. Can you believe that?
So yeah, I was mad. I grab him by the collar and shake him a little. He's really light, weighs nothing. I push him up against the wall and I'm shouting something. The whole time, he's chanting at me. I think it's in Latin. He's trying to get his cross out of his shirt and hold it up like this is some vampire movie.
I just... the whole thing got out of hand. The way he was looking at me and chanting, I just got so mad I put my hand on his throat. I want him to shut up, but what I'm really doing is choking the shit out of him. And it's easy too, like he's made out of balsa wood.
So his hands flail around and claw at my arms and I don't even fucking care. Fuck everything else, honestly. I'm already fucked. I'm starting to enjoy the thought of killing this smug asshole when he tears a hole in my arm.
It's weird. I look down and there's a hole in my arm. He punched through it, stabbing down with that cross in his hands and the skin falls away like paper. It didn't even hurt. I didn't feel a thing. Inside my arm, it's all dark and empty, like I've been hollowed out.
I feel that tickle again, the skittering on my skin and a thousand goddamn spiders come pouring out, covering the priest, stinging him. They can't be real spiders, though. They chew and chomp away at the priest. Soon, he's just a red lump of chewed up meat and those things crawl back into my body. It feels good, a comfort. I feel strong and whole.
Those things weren't crawling around on my skin, but under. Looking at what they did to the priest, they probably messed up my innards too. I might be more spider than man at this point. Somehow I don't mind. Somehow I feel pretty good about it.
Maybe I'll go take a nap and drive out for the visitation after all. I can't wait to see my ex. I hope she brings her lawyer along too.
Monday, May 31, 2010
I wish it were her
Dozing by the campfire
I could almost see her in the flames
A white knife, swallowed
And I wish it were her
Cutting me up from the inside
Someone passes me a beer
Someone tells a dirty joke
She's out of town for the week
And I wish it were her
Laughing next to me
A marshmallow falls in
And blackens on the embers
It smells like caramel
As it bubbles into ash
And so help me god
I wish it were her
Burning
I could almost see her in the flames
A white knife, swallowed
And I wish it were her
Cutting me up from the inside
Someone passes me a beer
Someone tells a dirty joke
She's out of town for the week
And I wish it were her
Laughing next to me
A marshmallow falls in
And blackens on the embers
It smells like caramel
As it bubbles into ash
And so help me god
I wish it were her
Burning
Friday, May 28, 2010
Liar's Lament
she's angry at herself
for reasons I'll never be
able to properly appreciate
she's cute, but somewhere by her neck
I can smell the crazy
she's glancing and squinting
rooting out nefarious conspiracies
but when she's talking to me
the broken things line up
in neat little rows
like I'm validating something
like I'm a ticket to something
brighter
like I've got a direct line
to the fires that shape the universe
and she's cute and crazy
and laughs like I can help
so is that fair?
am I taking advantage?
I got plenty of snake oil
so why won't I tell her the truth?
for reasons I'll never be
able to properly appreciate
she's cute, but somewhere by her neck
I can smell the crazy
she's glancing and squinting
rooting out nefarious conspiracies
but when she's talking to me
the broken things line up
in neat little rows
like I'm validating something
like I'm a ticket to something
brighter
like I've got a direct line
to the fires that shape the universe
and she's cute and crazy
and laughs like I can help
so is that fair?
am I taking advantage?
I got plenty of snake oil
so why won't I tell her the truth?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Crawling All Over, Part One
Whenever I close my eyes, I can feel spiders crawling around. When I open them back up, there's nothing. I know it sounds crazy, but they feel like they're really there. I haven't actually seen them, because my eyes are always closed. There's no way they could just vanish or jump away. That kind of thing can't be real. I know it has to be crazy. I wouldn't even talk about it if it didn't bother me so much.
I went to a doctor and told him everything. He had this bullshit, patronizing look on his face. Like I was some fucking kid or something. Like I don't know I'm crazy. He gave me the business card of a shrink. I was hoping he'd just have some kind of pill right there. I went and picked up some eyedrops. It's so bad I don't even want to blink. My eyes are all red and scratchy.
I don't really know how it started, or when. I think it's been going on for awhile, maybe years. It used to not be so bad, just like an itch or a tickle. I'd have a tough time falling asleep, tossing and turning, but I'd go down eventually.
Maybe a week ago it got real bad. It was all of a sudden. I woke up from a dream, jumping off the bed trying to slap them off my arm. I remember thinking, 'Whoa, that dream felt so real,' but then I was in the shower, rinsing the shampoo, and nearly fell fucking over. Since then I can only fall asleep watching late night TV and getting really drunk. I've been calling in sick to work. I have to solve this thing soon or they'll fire me.
I just looked in the mirror. I'm supposed to see my kids this weekend, but I can't do it. I look like a junkie or a... maybe a murderer or whatever. I look like shit.
I gotta make some excuse. I'll feel like a complete prick and my ex-wife is just going to get smug over it. She'll be on the phone, smiling into the receiver, filling up my ear with all her self-righteous 'Your kids expect more from you even though I know better' routine. Whatever, I gotta do it. It's not like I could be honest with her. She'd jump right on the phone to her lawyer. She's always looking for any excuse to stop the visitations.
I root through my DVDs. Maybe there's a movie I haven't seen in awhile. I could try to watch that, maybe it'll help me forget. No, nothing. It's all shit. All bullshit.
I shout and knock some shit over. My place is already a mess. A bowl slides off the table. It didn't break, so I stomp on it. Crunchy chunks of white shit under my foot. I don't feel any better.
Maybe I do need some help. I dig that card out of my pocket. I read it over a few times. It's not for a shrink, it's for a priest.
I went to a doctor and told him everything. He had this bullshit, patronizing look on his face. Like I was some fucking kid or something. Like I don't know I'm crazy. He gave me the business card of a shrink. I was hoping he'd just have some kind of pill right there. I went and picked up some eyedrops. It's so bad I don't even want to blink. My eyes are all red and scratchy.
I don't really know how it started, or when. I think it's been going on for awhile, maybe years. It used to not be so bad, just like an itch or a tickle. I'd have a tough time falling asleep, tossing and turning, but I'd go down eventually.
Maybe a week ago it got real bad. It was all of a sudden. I woke up from a dream, jumping off the bed trying to slap them off my arm. I remember thinking, 'Whoa, that dream felt so real,' but then I was in the shower, rinsing the shampoo, and nearly fell fucking over. Since then I can only fall asleep watching late night TV and getting really drunk. I've been calling in sick to work. I have to solve this thing soon or they'll fire me.
I just looked in the mirror. I'm supposed to see my kids this weekend, but I can't do it. I look like a junkie or a... maybe a murderer or whatever. I look like shit.
I gotta make some excuse. I'll feel like a complete prick and my ex-wife is just going to get smug over it. She'll be on the phone, smiling into the receiver, filling up my ear with all her self-righteous 'Your kids expect more from you even though I know better' routine. Whatever, I gotta do it. It's not like I could be honest with her. She'd jump right on the phone to her lawyer. She's always looking for any excuse to stop the visitations.
I root through my DVDs. Maybe there's a movie I haven't seen in awhile. I could try to watch that, maybe it'll help me forget. No, nothing. It's all shit. All bullshit.
I shout and knock some shit over. My place is already a mess. A bowl slides off the table. It didn't break, so I stomp on it. Crunchy chunks of white shit under my foot. I don't feel any better.
Maybe I do need some help. I dig that card out of my pocket. I read it over a few times. It's not for a shrink, it's for a priest.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Servant of the Flame, Part Two
We pull into the compound after the usual security check bullshit. Those boys at the gate are such a pain in the ass, but they do a good job. Tight security means you hire assholes and train them to be thorough. They have bomb sniffing dogs, and mirrors to check the wheel wells, and even a set of sensors that supposed to be able to see people hiding in your trunk. They always make us get out and dance around while they wave those goddamn sticks all over us. They check the prisoner too, though he's too fucked up to stand. They just drag him out into the dirt and pat him down. I warned that prick not to try anything, but guys like him never learn.
So now we're pulling into the motor pool. Some tech weenies swoop in to tune up the car. Some security goons swoop in to pick up the prisoner. My partner and I have a few minutes before the drop, so we go hit the cafeteria.
One thing they know how to do here is coffee. Because of all the circuitous logistics required to keep this place off the grid, we sometimes get our supplies from strange places. Last month they ran out of desserts and all they had were boxes of these weird mexican candies that tasted like salty hot sauce. But the coffee is amazing. One of the supply guys has a special hookup in Venezuela. We get this shit right off the mountains. It's the sort of thing God would drink if he ever came down to Earth. Or at least, if he ever found out about this place.
My partner picks up a whole tray of shit. He says he's starving, and I don't say anything. He brings his food back to the table and I just sip my coffee whole he tries to eat some stroganoff or whatever. He looks hungry, but all he can do is poke at that food. He stirs up the green beans. He prods the barley mash. It smells tasty but I know he won't be able to eat anything.
It's that noise. It's here now too. You hate it when you hear it, but when you leave the compound, you start to miss it. There's something comforting about getting your head rattled, like you don't have to think too hard. The noise keeps you up at night, and it often steals your appetite. A lot of people get really skinny here. They could turn this place into a fat camp, sell tickets, make a fortune. Not like they need money. Not like they don't own half the goddamn country already.
So my partner's pretending like he can still eat while I'm fully enjoying my coffee. I've never had a problem finishing a cup of this stuff. You could burning off my dick with a hot poker and I'd still be smiling and sipping this coffee. Our phones go off at the same time. Everything's ready upstairs. We leave our shit on the table and head up.
Our grim, tatooed buddy is wide awake now and screaming. The goons put him in a cage in the center of the big ritual room. They could just hit the button and make this happen, but the boys upstairs like all the pomp and circumstance of tradition. They've been killing people in here for around fifty years. You can't just throw that kind of history out the window.
There's a guy in a robe reading some grim sounding shit in Latin. I always find that funny. He's not even a priest or anything. Who's idea was it to recite shit in Latin? This whole company's probably sixty years old at the most. It's all a farce.
So there's the robe guy, two of those secuirty goons with long, cattle-prod things, a dude behind a console, the director, and me and my partner. We're all standing around in this big ass room with a reinforced cage bolted to the floor in the center where this piece of shit murderer is screaming his head off, making all kinds of threats. No one's worried about any of that shit. Once he sees the blue fire, it'll all be over.
The robe guy finishes and closes his book. The director nods to the console guy. The prisoner shuts up for a second to piss his pants. The console guy flips a switch and the bottom of the cage slides open.
The ritual room is situated directly over the engine. The cage shaft used to be part of a chimney the built originally. When they discovered that the blue fire didn't make any smoke, they bricked it up. When they discovered that they needed a way to drop bodies into the engine, they unbricked it and built this cage.
Now the trap door doesn't move all that quick, so the prisoner is now holding on to the bars of the cage like a monkey. He seems like a pretty strong guy, so he can probably hang there awhile. That's why those goons have the prods, in case the sacrifice just hangs in there like that fucking cat in the poster.
The murderer takes one look down, they always do, and it's over. The goons won't need the prods. There's a look that comes over the prisoner's face. It's tough to describe, but it's like a baby. Like suddenly this evil fucking fuck is suddenly turned into a happy, curious baby. He lets go of the bars and drops into the heart of the blue flame. The fire does something to a person's brain if he looks right into it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. I have to hear the noise it makes all day and night, and that's enough for me.
So the prisoner is gone and the console guy hits another switch. As the trap door closes, that rumbling sound is muted again and I realize I've been grinding my teeth. The director is already out the door. The goons are right behind him. My partner is heading to the bar to get fucked up. He invites me along but I decline. I can't stand to look at him right now. I can't stand fucking anything.
I go back to my goddamn bunk and push my pillow up against my ears so hard. I curl up in the corner and try not to think about that peaceful baby face and how much I'd like to be able to make it.
So now we're pulling into the motor pool. Some tech weenies swoop in to tune up the car. Some security goons swoop in to pick up the prisoner. My partner and I have a few minutes before the drop, so we go hit the cafeteria.
One thing they know how to do here is coffee. Because of all the circuitous logistics required to keep this place off the grid, we sometimes get our supplies from strange places. Last month they ran out of desserts and all they had were boxes of these weird mexican candies that tasted like salty hot sauce. But the coffee is amazing. One of the supply guys has a special hookup in Venezuela. We get this shit right off the mountains. It's the sort of thing God would drink if he ever came down to Earth. Or at least, if he ever found out about this place.
My partner picks up a whole tray of shit. He says he's starving, and I don't say anything. He brings his food back to the table and I just sip my coffee whole he tries to eat some stroganoff or whatever. He looks hungry, but all he can do is poke at that food. He stirs up the green beans. He prods the barley mash. It smells tasty but I know he won't be able to eat anything.
It's that noise. It's here now too. You hate it when you hear it, but when you leave the compound, you start to miss it. There's something comforting about getting your head rattled, like you don't have to think too hard. The noise keeps you up at night, and it often steals your appetite. A lot of people get really skinny here. They could turn this place into a fat camp, sell tickets, make a fortune. Not like they need money. Not like they don't own half the goddamn country already.
So my partner's pretending like he can still eat while I'm fully enjoying my coffee. I've never had a problem finishing a cup of this stuff. You could burning off my dick with a hot poker and I'd still be smiling and sipping this coffee. Our phones go off at the same time. Everything's ready upstairs. We leave our shit on the table and head up.
Our grim, tatooed buddy is wide awake now and screaming. The goons put him in a cage in the center of the big ritual room. They could just hit the button and make this happen, but the boys upstairs like all the pomp and circumstance of tradition. They've been killing people in here for around fifty years. You can't just throw that kind of history out the window.
There's a guy in a robe reading some grim sounding shit in Latin. I always find that funny. He's not even a priest or anything. Who's idea was it to recite shit in Latin? This whole company's probably sixty years old at the most. It's all a farce.
So there's the robe guy, two of those secuirty goons with long, cattle-prod things, a dude behind a console, the director, and me and my partner. We're all standing around in this big ass room with a reinforced cage bolted to the floor in the center where this piece of shit murderer is screaming his head off, making all kinds of threats. No one's worried about any of that shit. Once he sees the blue fire, it'll all be over.
The robe guy finishes and closes his book. The director nods to the console guy. The prisoner shuts up for a second to piss his pants. The console guy flips a switch and the bottom of the cage slides open.
The ritual room is situated directly over the engine. The cage shaft used to be part of a chimney the built originally. When they discovered that the blue fire didn't make any smoke, they bricked it up. When they discovered that they needed a way to drop bodies into the engine, they unbricked it and built this cage.
Now the trap door doesn't move all that quick, so the prisoner is now holding on to the bars of the cage like a monkey. He seems like a pretty strong guy, so he can probably hang there awhile. That's why those goons have the prods, in case the sacrifice just hangs in there like that fucking cat in the poster.
The murderer takes one look down, they always do, and it's over. The goons won't need the prods. There's a look that comes over the prisoner's face. It's tough to describe, but it's like a baby. Like suddenly this evil fucking fuck is suddenly turned into a happy, curious baby. He lets go of the bars and drops into the heart of the blue flame. The fire does something to a person's brain if he looks right into it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. I have to hear the noise it makes all day and night, and that's enough for me.
So the prisoner is gone and the console guy hits another switch. As the trap door closes, that rumbling sound is muted again and I realize I've been grinding my teeth. The director is already out the door. The goons are right behind him. My partner is heading to the bar to get fucked up. He invites me along but I decline. I can't stand to look at him right now. I can't stand fucking anything.
I go back to my goddamn bunk and push my pillow up against my ears so hard. I curl up in the corner and try not to think about that peaceful baby face and how much I'd like to be able to make it.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Servant of the Flame, Part One
At the heart of the compound, the engine burns with blue fire. The whirring, grinding noises rattle the minds of the men in their quarters, trying to sleep. Many of them try earplugs or headphones. Nothing stops the noise of the engine. At night, they say, you can hear it in your bones.
It's been burning for decades. We don't know how to stop it, but we can slow it down and contain it. In the fortress, we caged the fire and learned to yoke it.
Our car pulls up and stops along a nondescript stretch of road. Too far from civilization for anything to be too well maintained. There's a patch of dirt where we always make the tranfer. Brown, scratchy weeds poke through the cracked asphalt, only to wither under the dry, Arizona heat. Seems like a waste trying to grow roots out in the middle of goddamn nowhere.
The bus is already waiting for us when we pull off the road. These things go like clockwork. The guards climb down out of the bus. I've seen them all before, though I don't know their names. It's a courtesy, really. They know enough about what's going on to know it's bad. And since we're always collecting, they must assume we're bad people. You don't want to get too friendly with bad people.
The guards lead the prisoner off the bus. We climb out of the car. One guard has a clipboard that he shows me. I flip through it. It lists the prisoner's information, criminal records, aliases, accomplices, family. He wants me to sign off on something, but I never sign anything. He puts away the clipboard and nods. All part of the routine. Clockwork.
The prisoner is a skinny looking thing, like cold gristle. He's got tattoos creeping down his arms and up his neck under the orange jumpsuit. The clipboard said he was a killer, but I could've guessed without looking. I spend enough time with killers.
This guy was all calm and careful till he got off the bus. He started sizing us up, likely imagining how he'd most like to kill each of us had he the chance. He didn't seem worried till he noticed the guards' faces.
The guards are fucking terrified of us. I love this part. They've all got pistols, and mace, and batons. One of them always has a shotgun, and yet they're scared of us, two guys in dark suits driving a company car. They're scared because they have no idea who we are or why they regularly hand over prisoners to us out in the middle of nowhere.
So now this animal is jerking his arms around and shouting. Even with the hand-and-ankle cuffs, he's still dangerous. The guards are shouting and struggling to hold him. They shove him up against the bus, but this guy won't quit. We just wait by the car for all the drama to die down.
The guy with the shotgun gives me a nervous glance. I nod. He walks over and smashes the butt of the weapon against the prisoner's face. I can hear that nose crack all the way over by the car. Blood is pouring like a garden hose from the murderer's face. That guard hit him really fucking hard. Fear can do crazy things to people.
After that it was easy enough to get him to cooperate. I brought some tranquilizers with me just in case, but we normally don't like to use them. It sometimes messes up the process.
We load the creep into the back of the car. He's getting blood all over the place, but that's okay too. The lab guys put some kind of special coat on the upholstery. You wouldn't believe the shit we have to clean out of there and it all just comes right off.
We fix his chains to a couple of special hooks at the bottom of his seat. He just sits there, playing hurt, but I can see those little eyes of his flicking around. The hooks look really fragile and he probably thinks he can just rip them right out and kill us. The real hard asses always try some shit like that. He's in for a motherfucking surprise when he does it.
The guards are already back on the bus. I can see the driver sweating behind the wheel. They can't wait for us to leave. Three guards, one driver, and a big-ass bus. They could have hauled forty prisoners out here, but they just took one. Whenever the order comes down, they only take one prisoner. And when things go like clockwork, they get big fat paychecks.
That's how things like this work. A little bit of money and a whole lot of fear. No one asks questions, everyone goes home happy.
It's been burning for decades. We don't know how to stop it, but we can slow it down and contain it. In the fortress, we caged the fire and learned to yoke it.
Our car pulls up and stops along a nondescript stretch of road. Too far from civilization for anything to be too well maintained. There's a patch of dirt where we always make the tranfer. Brown, scratchy weeds poke through the cracked asphalt, only to wither under the dry, Arizona heat. Seems like a waste trying to grow roots out in the middle of goddamn nowhere.
The bus is already waiting for us when we pull off the road. These things go like clockwork. The guards climb down out of the bus. I've seen them all before, though I don't know their names. It's a courtesy, really. They know enough about what's going on to know it's bad. And since we're always collecting, they must assume we're bad people. You don't want to get too friendly with bad people.
The guards lead the prisoner off the bus. We climb out of the car. One guard has a clipboard that he shows me. I flip through it. It lists the prisoner's information, criminal records, aliases, accomplices, family. He wants me to sign off on something, but I never sign anything. He puts away the clipboard and nods. All part of the routine. Clockwork.
The prisoner is a skinny looking thing, like cold gristle. He's got tattoos creeping down his arms and up his neck under the orange jumpsuit. The clipboard said he was a killer, but I could've guessed without looking. I spend enough time with killers.
This guy was all calm and careful till he got off the bus. He started sizing us up, likely imagining how he'd most like to kill each of us had he the chance. He didn't seem worried till he noticed the guards' faces.
The guards are fucking terrified of us. I love this part. They've all got pistols, and mace, and batons. One of them always has a shotgun, and yet they're scared of us, two guys in dark suits driving a company car. They're scared because they have no idea who we are or why they regularly hand over prisoners to us out in the middle of nowhere.
So now this animal is jerking his arms around and shouting. Even with the hand-and-ankle cuffs, he's still dangerous. The guards are shouting and struggling to hold him. They shove him up against the bus, but this guy won't quit. We just wait by the car for all the drama to die down.
The guy with the shotgun gives me a nervous glance. I nod. He walks over and smashes the butt of the weapon against the prisoner's face. I can hear that nose crack all the way over by the car. Blood is pouring like a garden hose from the murderer's face. That guard hit him really fucking hard. Fear can do crazy things to people.
After that it was easy enough to get him to cooperate. I brought some tranquilizers with me just in case, but we normally don't like to use them. It sometimes messes up the process.
We load the creep into the back of the car. He's getting blood all over the place, but that's okay too. The lab guys put some kind of special coat on the upholstery. You wouldn't believe the shit we have to clean out of there and it all just comes right off.
We fix his chains to a couple of special hooks at the bottom of his seat. He just sits there, playing hurt, but I can see those little eyes of his flicking around. The hooks look really fragile and he probably thinks he can just rip them right out and kill us. The real hard asses always try some shit like that. He's in for a motherfucking surprise when he does it.
The guards are already back on the bus. I can see the driver sweating behind the wheel. They can't wait for us to leave. Three guards, one driver, and a big-ass bus. They could have hauled forty prisoners out here, but they just took one. Whenever the order comes down, they only take one prisoner. And when things go like clockwork, they get big fat paychecks.
That's how things like this work. A little bit of money and a whole lot of fear. No one asks questions, everyone goes home happy.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Old Romantic
In summertime, in sunny weather
On a remote, golden beach
My sins did gather together
To invite me to a feast
Pickled limes, fried legumes
With buttered pineal gland
No table, no plate, no spoon
The food thrown down in the sand
My hate picked up a fiddle
Hypocrisy began to clap
The rest danced and sang a little
Even though he played like crap
The main course was my lovely wife
They cut and pissed upon her
They offered me the biggest slice
For I was the guest of honor
With the dinner done, they'd had their fun
And almost nothing left of me
They left the food to rot in the sun
And laughing, led me to the sea
On a remote, golden beach
My sins did gather together
To invite me to a feast
Pickled limes, fried legumes
With buttered pineal gland
No table, no plate, no spoon
The food thrown down in the sand
My hate picked up a fiddle
Hypocrisy began to clap
The rest danced and sang a little
Even though he played like crap
The main course was my lovely wife
They cut and pissed upon her
They offered me the biggest slice
For I was the guest of honor
With the dinner done, they'd had their fun
And almost nothing left of me
They left the food to rot in the sun
And laughing, led me to the sea
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Heavy Heart
He threw down his stone-tipped spear
And cried out to the noon-sun
"I shall hurt no creature"
And he threw away his carving knife
of chipped obsidian
"I shall live clean, beholden to no suffering
No cow shall lose milk
Nor bee lose a drop of honey
I will no longer break my hunger
Across the backs of innocent beasts!
Though my children wither and starve
I sleep with a happy heart!"
And cried out to the noon-sun
"I shall hurt no creature"
And he threw away his carving knife
of chipped obsidian
"I shall live clean, beholden to no suffering
No cow shall lose milk
Nor bee lose a drop of honey
I will no longer break my hunger
Across the backs of innocent beasts!
Though my children wither and starve
I sleep with a happy heart!"
Monday, April 26, 2010
Pointless Cursing
Fuck You
We build mallets
To swing at the floor
And make thunder
Like drums on the horizon
The World hums along
And doesn't care
How long we breathe
Fuck Me
I've learned you
By watching myself
I have passed careful verdict
We are worthy creatures
Rare treasures
We deserve all
The hells
We conjure in torment
We build mallets
To swing at the floor
And make thunder
Like drums on the horizon
The World hums along
And doesn't care
How long we breathe
Fuck Me
I've learned you
By watching myself
I have passed careful verdict
We are worthy creatures
Rare treasures
We deserve all
The hells
We conjure in torment
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Not Just Any Bed
Once upon a time, I was a real boy. I can remember sitting on a blue bed with a book of stickers. All the stickers had robots and swords, or maybe dragons flying through space. Some of the stickers were puffy, and some glittered. I had lots of paper too. I used to sketch back then too. That's why I'm sure it was me, and why I'm sure I used to be real.
I don't know where that bed is. I must have had some parents or something, but I can't remember them at all. They must have loved me a whole bunch, to buy me all those stickers. I really loved drawing and comics and playing with pictures and stickers and they got all that stuff for me, so I must have been good to them and they must have loved me. That is a good feeling I have. I hold on to that one.
I live in a small apartment, but it's kind of nice. I have all sorts of stuff and it's pretty cool. Best of all, there's a whole room for my paintings. I set up these huge canvases right in the middle and I get to paint and draw cool stuff all day. I want to draw dragons and swords or whatever, but they never come out like that. Every painting I make ends up looking like the shapes in the darkness. The ones in my dreams that take me apart. The ones I can't get away from.
The paintings make lots of money. There is a woman who helps me sell them. She sets up galleries all over town and I go to shows. People always act really excited to see my work. I try to explain how I want it to be different, but they don't really listen. The woman is really good at selling my paintings and I make plenty of money. She wears huge, fancy glasses. I think she throws away alot of newspapers.
I have a bed now, but it's not blue. I was going to buy blue sheets and everything, but the color wasn't just right. Also, i knew it wouldn't be the same. I don't want a blue bed, I want the blue bed. I want to be back there just like in my memories where I'm real. But that can't happen, can it?
I don't like leaving the house when it's dark out. All sorts of things can hide in the dark, but that doesn't scare me. When something is in the dark, then the dark can't be there. That's what I'm really worried about, the dark. People don't think the dark can get you. They don't think the dark wants anything. They're wrong, but they won't listen to me.
Sometimes infront of a mirror, I can see through myself. I can fade away if I'm not careful. They took so much out of me, those shapes. They took away all the pictures I had in my brain and now it's just darkness. I can't even remember how I grew up. I can't remember my real name.
I hate my paintings. It's not my work. It doesn't belong to me. It's all theirs. The dark did this to me so I could make those pictures, so everyone would see them. Maybe that's how they get people, by looking at those pictures. Maybe that's how they got me.
No, not any more. I find a blade. I find a lighter. I find a hammer. I put on my walking jacket. I grab that mask I wear when I use oils. I can get a list from the lady with the glasses. I can find all my paintings everywhere and cut them up. Even if the dark tries to stop me, even if they take me back. No one else is going to forget their own names, not if I can help it.
I'll never find that bed. I hope my parents aren't too worried about me. I hope they think that I'm somewhere being happy, that I have all sorts of stickers and eat ice cream whenever I want. I hope they think that I'm a brave boy and they did a good job with me. Even if I can't remember them.
I don't know where that bed is. I must have had some parents or something, but I can't remember them at all. They must have loved me a whole bunch, to buy me all those stickers. I really loved drawing and comics and playing with pictures and stickers and they got all that stuff for me, so I must have been good to them and they must have loved me. That is a good feeling I have. I hold on to that one.
I live in a small apartment, but it's kind of nice. I have all sorts of stuff and it's pretty cool. Best of all, there's a whole room for my paintings. I set up these huge canvases right in the middle and I get to paint and draw cool stuff all day. I want to draw dragons and swords or whatever, but they never come out like that. Every painting I make ends up looking like the shapes in the darkness. The ones in my dreams that take me apart. The ones I can't get away from.
The paintings make lots of money. There is a woman who helps me sell them. She sets up galleries all over town and I go to shows. People always act really excited to see my work. I try to explain how I want it to be different, but they don't really listen. The woman is really good at selling my paintings and I make plenty of money. She wears huge, fancy glasses. I think she throws away alot of newspapers.
I have a bed now, but it's not blue. I was going to buy blue sheets and everything, but the color wasn't just right. Also, i knew it wouldn't be the same. I don't want a blue bed, I want the blue bed. I want to be back there just like in my memories where I'm real. But that can't happen, can it?
I don't like leaving the house when it's dark out. All sorts of things can hide in the dark, but that doesn't scare me. When something is in the dark, then the dark can't be there. That's what I'm really worried about, the dark. People don't think the dark can get you. They don't think the dark wants anything. They're wrong, but they won't listen to me.
Sometimes infront of a mirror, I can see through myself. I can fade away if I'm not careful. They took so much out of me, those shapes. They took away all the pictures I had in my brain and now it's just darkness. I can't even remember how I grew up. I can't remember my real name.
I hate my paintings. It's not my work. It doesn't belong to me. It's all theirs. The dark did this to me so I could make those pictures, so everyone would see them. Maybe that's how they get people, by looking at those pictures. Maybe that's how they got me.
No, not any more. I find a blade. I find a lighter. I find a hammer. I put on my walking jacket. I grab that mask I wear when I use oils. I can get a list from the lady with the glasses. I can find all my paintings everywhere and cut them up. Even if the dark tries to stop me, even if they take me back. No one else is going to forget their own names, not if I can help it.
I'll never find that bed. I hope my parents aren't too worried about me. I hope they think that I'm somewhere being happy, that I have all sorts of stickers and eat ice cream whenever I want. I hope they think that I'm a brave boy and they did a good job with me. Even if I can't remember them.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Birthday Boy
The boy wanders away from the city. There is no moon tonight, the forest is nearly perfectly dark. The boy can't see very well, he trips a few times on roots and stones. Even after his eyes adjust, he continues to stumble. There is a cut on his hand and another one on his knee. There is a drying dribble of blood down his shin. It hurts a bit, but none of that matters to the boy, because tonight is special.
The trees are thick here. He's not sure which way he is going, he might have gotten turned around. He doesn't really care, he's not going anywhere specific, he's just trying to get away from his old home. He left a messy room and an old computer that doesn't work very well anymore. He left an old, beat up Gameboy and a newer, beat up Gameboy and maybe a bajillion games. He left a whole bunch of clothes and a skateboard he's terrible at and a guitar he never learned to play. He left a bookbag, he left some comic books, he left some sodas in the fridge. He left two sleeping parents who are going to miss him alot. But that's just something that can't be helped. Tonight has to happen one way or another.
He finds a bald, rocky spot in the forest. It just might be perfect. There is a huge boulder jutting up around the rocks. None of the trees could grow here, though they reach above, trying to blot out the sky. They resent the rocks and try to hide the clearing like a comb-over. The trees seem very self-conscious.
The boy climbs up on the boulder, sits atop, and waits. Nothing seems to happen right away. He's a little early, probably.
His old life wasn't so bad, really. School was kind of fun, really. Most kids weren't very nice, but that seemed natural. He had a few really close friends. They'd have all sorts of fun building swords and axes out of foam and plastic. They'd pretend the garage was a castle or a cave. The boy always liked being the monster. That seemed natural too.
His folks were always busy, but they tried to make time. Every couple of months, they'd all vacation together. Usually it was nothing too special, maybe a weekend on grandad's farm, or a day of deep-sea fishing on a rented boat. It was something, and it was good. They'll blame themselves, but it's not their fault. This has nothing to do with them. There was no real way of explaining any of that to them, so the boy just left.
It's so dark here, but somehow the few stars poking through the trees light enough of the clearing. The boy can see his hands again. They never really felt like they belonged on his body. He never really liked them. But that's okay now, he won't be needing them anymore.
He could feel something starting, a shifting in his stomach, one of his ribs twisting and cracking. It doesn't really hurt that much, the boy feels relieved. He was tempted to take along some aspirin, but he didn't really know how that would affect things. There is a kind of wet crunching noise coming from inside him. He grimaces as he touches his belly, the skin is very tender. It turns a furious blue-black like a huge bruise, or the swollen, rotting, balloon-belly of a floating corpse.
The boy struggles out of his shirt and undoes his belt. He probably already should have been naked for this part. A part of him was still shy, it seems. He is still embarrassed by this body. Tiny, pink, inadequate, weak. A worthy target for mockery. A cage.
His stomach doesn't hurt anymore. He can't feel his legs. The boy can feel his eyes darken and the world seems to fall away. He spasms backward, splayed across the huge boulder. Blood puddles up in his mouth and his chest ceases to move.
The body lies motionless across the rock like a grim sacrifice. The wind rustles the branches of the forest. Perhaps it was the trees themselves shuddering. Perhaps the trees can see the boy and shake at the horror.
Then, something moves. A boney limb pushes up against the dead, bruised flesh of the body's stomach, stretching it like rubber. A claw, sharp like a razor, splits the skin, which falls away quickly. The body almost pops, spilling open, releasing a splash of blood and ichor. A stink rises from the grisly wound. Something crawls out of the body.
It moves slowly at first, unsure. Long, webbed limbs lined with tiny scales claw around senselessly. A small head, pointed with a reptillian beak, flops around and lifts up. Eyes blink as the neck fights to raise the head completely upright. It struggles for a moment or two, then gags and coughs. Lungs take air for the first time. The creature gasps and gasps. Slowly, as the ichor on its flesh dries, it seems to fill in and swell to a healthier shape. New muscles flex and tense. The creature pulls itself from its old coccoon and stumbles on awkward claws to explore the clearing with new eyes.
The creature looks at the old corpse with disgust. It opens it long arms and extends a boney plate. A wide wingspan of perhaps ten feet. A few test flaps and it is ready. A step, a leap, a push, and the newborn creature flies up and out of the clearing.
The wind is cold up here, but the creature doesn't mind. Flying seems so natural, so perfect. It feels like it's been doing this forever. It runs its thin sliver of a tongue across a row of tiny, serrated teeth. It is very hungry, it must find food.
In the distance, just beyond the forest, gleams the city. Yellow lights trace odd little box-patterns around dark buildings looming like monoliths. Somewhere among the lights and the buildings is a messy room, an old computer, some Gameboys, a can of soda, and two sleeping people who will never be able to understand any of this.
The creature spares one glance. Its slitted, cold eyes cast across the streets and toward those two people. A single moment and the look is unmistakable. A tiny, fading sliver of humanity in the creature's eyes. Regret. And then it is gone.
The creature turns away and flaps, gliding through the night, hunting for meat. It will eat and eat tonight in celebration. Tonight is a special night. Tonight it is born.
The trees are thick here. He's not sure which way he is going, he might have gotten turned around. He doesn't really care, he's not going anywhere specific, he's just trying to get away from his old home. He left a messy room and an old computer that doesn't work very well anymore. He left an old, beat up Gameboy and a newer, beat up Gameboy and maybe a bajillion games. He left a whole bunch of clothes and a skateboard he's terrible at and a guitar he never learned to play. He left a bookbag, he left some comic books, he left some sodas in the fridge. He left two sleeping parents who are going to miss him alot. But that's just something that can't be helped. Tonight has to happen one way or another.
He finds a bald, rocky spot in the forest. It just might be perfect. There is a huge boulder jutting up around the rocks. None of the trees could grow here, though they reach above, trying to blot out the sky. They resent the rocks and try to hide the clearing like a comb-over. The trees seem very self-conscious.
The boy climbs up on the boulder, sits atop, and waits. Nothing seems to happen right away. He's a little early, probably.
His old life wasn't so bad, really. School was kind of fun, really. Most kids weren't very nice, but that seemed natural. He had a few really close friends. They'd have all sorts of fun building swords and axes out of foam and plastic. They'd pretend the garage was a castle or a cave. The boy always liked being the monster. That seemed natural too.
His folks were always busy, but they tried to make time. Every couple of months, they'd all vacation together. Usually it was nothing too special, maybe a weekend on grandad's farm, or a day of deep-sea fishing on a rented boat. It was something, and it was good. They'll blame themselves, but it's not their fault. This has nothing to do with them. There was no real way of explaining any of that to them, so the boy just left.
It's so dark here, but somehow the few stars poking through the trees light enough of the clearing. The boy can see his hands again. They never really felt like they belonged on his body. He never really liked them. But that's okay now, he won't be needing them anymore.
He could feel something starting, a shifting in his stomach, one of his ribs twisting and cracking. It doesn't really hurt that much, the boy feels relieved. He was tempted to take along some aspirin, but he didn't really know how that would affect things. There is a kind of wet crunching noise coming from inside him. He grimaces as he touches his belly, the skin is very tender. It turns a furious blue-black like a huge bruise, or the swollen, rotting, balloon-belly of a floating corpse.
The boy struggles out of his shirt and undoes his belt. He probably already should have been naked for this part. A part of him was still shy, it seems. He is still embarrassed by this body. Tiny, pink, inadequate, weak. A worthy target for mockery. A cage.
His stomach doesn't hurt anymore. He can't feel his legs. The boy can feel his eyes darken and the world seems to fall away. He spasms backward, splayed across the huge boulder. Blood puddles up in his mouth and his chest ceases to move.
The body lies motionless across the rock like a grim sacrifice. The wind rustles the branches of the forest. Perhaps it was the trees themselves shuddering. Perhaps the trees can see the boy and shake at the horror.
Then, something moves. A boney limb pushes up against the dead, bruised flesh of the body's stomach, stretching it like rubber. A claw, sharp like a razor, splits the skin, which falls away quickly. The body almost pops, spilling open, releasing a splash of blood and ichor. A stink rises from the grisly wound. Something crawls out of the body.
It moves slowly at first, unsure. Long, webbed limbs lined with tiny scales claw around senselessly. A small head, pointed with a reptillian beak, flops around and lifts up. Eyes blink as the neck fights to raise the head completely upright. It struggles for a moment or two, then gags and coughs. Lungs take air for the first time. The creature gasps and gasps. Slowly, as the ichor on its flesh dries, it seems to fill in and swell to a healthier shape. New muscles flex and tense. The creature pulls itself from its old coccoon and stumbles on awkward claws to explore the clearing with new eyes.
The creature looks at the old corpse with disgust. It opens it long arms and extends a boney plate. A wide wingspan of perhaps ten feet. A few test flaps and it is ready. A step, a leap, a push, and the newborn creature flies up and out of the clearing.
The wind is cold up here, but the creature doesn't mind. Flying seems so natural, so perfect. It feels like it's been doing this forever. It runs its thin sliver of a tongue across a row of tiny, serrated teeth. It is very hungry, it must find food.
In the distance, just beyond the forest, gleams the city. Yellow lights trace odd little box-patterns around dark buildings looming like monoliths. Somewhere among the lights and the buildings is a messy room, an old computer, some Gameboys, a can of soda, and two sleeping people who will never be able to understand any of this.
The creature spares one glance. Its slitted, cold eyes cast across the streets and toward those two people. A single moment and the look is unmistakable. A tiny, fading sliver of humanity in the creature's eyes. Regret. And then it is gone.
The creature turns away and flaps, gliding through the night, hunting for meat. It will eat and eat tonight in celebration. Tonight is a special night. Tonight it is born.
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