TestWriting on a new app!
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsshuffle down the high street between clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase. They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers, leftward stepping the rushed businessmen-- a pinballmachine shopping centre.A green-robed man, tall with wand and hoodmust be a wizard. He’s happilyprocuring sushi and sparkling waterwhilst his companion; short with her piercings and jeans treats himas if he wore the same.Down the high street, two track-suited parentszoom past on their children’s scooters—half-smoked fags between fingers yellhow fucking amazing this is.and aspotted teen raps his love for Jesus on a muffledmicrophone. He raps for the Father,He raps for the Son and Holy Spirit. He raps for peace, for hope, for you.In a corner, Brown eyes, hefty tears,a snot-ridden face--four years old. A train runs through the mall toot-tootingas grumpy shoppers move out of the way.A
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heavenand throw the keyinto the lions land?A beautiful girl enjoyingyouths ignorance;a new fantasy to live. She'd stopped believing, butfaith stays in a heart longerthan a head. "She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because myhair was brown bobbed and she dated DavidBeckham; I wanted to marry him. Ihad no internet and recorded songson the radio to tape, daring topause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sangto S Club and thought I was the coolestin my smiley faced top and my yingyangfriendship necklaces. You had to know theMacarena not just for weddings butschool discos too and then every steps routineto fit in. Slow dances with boys made mewish again that they were David Beckhamand not greasy teens with bad curtains forhair. They pressed themselves against you beforetravelling to the next girl in leopardprint skirt. Viva forever was merelya fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole ofthe nineties, hoping my teenage self couldfind her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letteroutwitting at last the greatest.A photograph, filched;a King’s humiliation.In your eyes sheholds the highest.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted faceand streaks of black across his chest; he standswild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by theechoes of fallen enemies. He slewtwo hundred men and just scars mark their defence.There’s a warrior with a painted facewho prays to gods mightier than he; he kneelsarms open to implore. He calls upon his armyto pray with him; equals once more. He watchesembers burn before retiring to his tent.There’s a warrior with a painted faceand inside his heart rests a son and daughtersleeping. There is a reason he isa warrior.
A Teaser“Sir? Have you ever seen anything like this before?” The student’s voice is scarcely a whisper, but the tiniest sound goes a long way in a morgue.“If you’re going to make it in this business, you’re going to need to set aside that sort of personal connection, and focus on the work. Bring me the recorder and my camera.”“Yes sir.” Jermaine shrinks under his mentor’s scolding and does as he’s told. The coroner is an old-fashioned man, and Jermaine is quickly learning how not to be a nuisance. The camera and recorder are old-fashioned, too. When Jermaine pushes the record button, the tiny wheels of the mini-casette begin to turn. “Coroner’s notes, the twelfth of December, twenty-fourteen. Unidentified Jane Doe, case number JD70284. Examination being performed by Doctor Horacio Stantz, witnessed by Jermaine Brown. Corpse recovered from Colorado R
Twelve Days of Morbid ChristmasOn the first day of Christmas my killer gave to me One dead body.On the second day of Christmas my killer gave to me Two bloody knives, and one dead body.On the third day of Christmas my killer gave to me Three rope nooses, Two bloody knives, and one dead body.On the fourth day of Christmas my killer gave to me Four broken fingers, Three rope nooses, Two bloody knives, and one dead body.On the fifth day of Christmas my killer gave to me Five wolf kidneys, Four broken fingers, Three rope nooses, Two bloody knives, and one dead body.On the sixth day of Christmas my killer gave to me Six zombies, Five wolf kidneys, Four broken fingers, Three rope nooses, Two bloody knives, and one dead body.On the seventh day of Ch
Uncle Charley's Got the Rots AgainUncle Charley’s got the rots again. I seen him work a finger loose, an’ just like that, he ate it. Damn! Gives finger-licking good a whole new kind a feel now, don't it?