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Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
till we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an ap for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
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 He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him.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 bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
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-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than 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 my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Creepypasta: Nightmare of NightmaresEvery night when Wendy tucked her daughter Chrissy into bed, Chrissy would beg for her mother to check under the bed for monsters. Ordinarily this wouldn’t be so unusual, but Chrissy was almost twelve years old now. She hoped she wouldn’t have to take her daughter to counseling to sort this out. But tonight Chrissy didn’t make her usual pleaded request.
“Don’t you want me to check for the monsters, Chrissy?” she asked, praying her daughter would answer in the negative.
“I know that the monsters under my bed won’t hurt me tonight, mom” Chrissy said.
Wendy was elated. At last her daughter had learned not to fear what lurked at the corners of her mind. It was then, as Wendy bent over her daughter to kiss her goodnight that she heard a creak from behind her and her daughter spoke again.
“They’re too afraid of that new monster in the closet.”
Twenty Word Story"Once, when you were still here," he said softly in an empty room. "I think I might have loved you."
Casa Nueva parte 3La segunda noche fue apenas un poco mejor que la anterior. Abigail pudo dormir pero cada cierto tiempo era despertada por los reclamos roncos de su madre.
- ¡Abigail! – gritaba la anciana - ¡Alguien está arriba de la casa!
No era una posibilidad descabellada, después de todo la parte del fondo de la casa quedaba en la ladera del cerro y no había sido difícil para alguien subir al techo una vez dentro del terreno.
Prestó atención una y otra vez pero nunca pudo percibir paso alguno. una y otra vez volvió a dormirse para ser despertada nuevamente un par de horas más tarde por su madre recitando la misma historia.
Al día siguiente. Las cosas se pusieron un tanto más raras.
Fue hacia el mediodía cuando lo escuchó. Eran pasos en el techo. Pasos de algo pesado, pero no era una persona, era algo cuadrúpedo. No podía ser un caballo, o una vaca, pues no se escuchaban pezuñas.
Beyond the GateHand in hand brother and sister ran out the door to play. Mother told them not to play too close to the gate and they must never, ever go through it. She always told them that, never saying why.
As the days passed they ventured closer and closer to the gate until they were caught and scolded.
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” she yelled.
But why, they implored. Nothing ever happened.
She looked terribly sad and scared. “Bad things have happened,” she spoke softly, her voice shaky. How could she explain? They wouldn’t listen. Saying only bad things was far too vague. “People… Children have gone missing.”
“Lost?” her daughter asked wide eyed.
“Yes, lost,” she answered, hoping that would be enough. But it wasn’t for her son, the elder.
“I won’t get lost! I know the way all around town,” he puffed up with pride.
So she told them. “It’s not that sort of lost, my son.” She
The Man from Winnesmore (Nosferatu)When The Man left for Winnesmore, it was a terror in disguise; The Man moved coffins filled with damned dirt that only rodents could love. Indeed, the carriers of the plague occupied the maggot infested dirt, creating the most unholy and unruly soil.
The Man himself portrayed a similar quality to the vermin he traveled with; his head bald, his teeth protruded like broken glass from his oddly shaped head. His body long and lean, his arms and legs sprouted from him like long vines from a plant.
The Man often strolled the city of Winnesmore, seeking a suitor and as he went about his business, his rats followed him; spreading the most fatal disease known to man, or any man before him.
The oddity lived on Refson Drive, in a Warehouse leased to Reinfield Goods; his strange figure fitting just for the door's twisted and blue shape. It was on the night that when the mourning buried their dead, he lifted the plots to feed him and his vermin companions.
This cycle was relentless; his vermin pois
An Error Most GraveFarnsworth and I cowered low behind the tombstone.
“You had to open the dashed thing!” he chastised me.
“My dear chap,” I kept my voice as low as possible, “do you think now an apt time?”
“Damn you, woman!” Van Dyke bristling he grimaced. “If this is the last of me…”
“I shall ensure to send a conciliatory missive to your dearest and your mother,” I japed, rising as we cocked our flintlock pistols at the ready.
We had come to make the gravest of errors; the assumption that which we hunted—or more accurately, hunted us—was human.
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