Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle his
tiny legs. Each stick is a new
exploration three steps to
“come on” you shout as he trots over
gravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunch
beneath his feet
and back again.
A dog bounds by, so much energy that
it sparks fear in the little trekker as
he clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.
Arms wrapped around his world,
he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywood
the movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,
tilt towards the camera.
The executioner motions forward;
a tall man, no guardian angel.
She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glides
to prep for the grand finale.
A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.
Black and white replaced by orange overalls.
She was found,
She was judged,
And Judy Monroe will be judged
Until opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallow
and her pretty head drops.
When the tall man grazes her last touch,
leather grasps her wrists tight.
the poison plunges and she falls before them all:
behold her final bow.
release and exhale.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
'til 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 app 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"
Micropasta: Out the Door AgainMicropasta: Out the Door Again
I don't need another friend
Smile and drop the cliché
'Till you think I'm listening
I take just what I came for
Then I'm out the door again
- A Perfect Circle, The Package
I killed my wife. Not because I hated her, or even that I particularly minded that her crying would wake me up five out of seven nights of the week. I just hated what she represented.
Sorry, I guess this deserves some backstory.
My wife was a devoted woman. Why she stuck with me I’ll never know. Maybe she still loved me after all these decades, after all these beatings and fits of anger and broken dishes. But she wouldn’t obey. I needed her to obey.
I’m a bit of a control freak. Everything has to be in order. Everything has to be under my direct influence and authority. I’m the type of man who would slug her for putting the salad bowls next to the soup bowls instead of the top
Dream QuestDream Quest
A man’s dream of Leng
Who can ever say where we go or what we do in our dreams? We only witness them. And some may believe what we tell them, but others remain skeptical till the end.
Thus I lay in deep slumber from eleven pm until two am. The thoughts of daily life wafted through my conscious mind like dull white clouds across the azure sky until my mind lay empty. I had learned of this from a Tibetan monk living in the edge of my city. The rest was experience. The emptiness took about one hour. Then I finally drifted asleep.
Initial dreams were mundane in nature. They disclosed my relationships and encounters with various types, some of whom I doubted their humanity. Others were distinctly human and I had enjoyed a refreshing experience.
After dreaming once or twice if these encounters, I finally drifted into deep slumber and then the dream worlds changed sharply. Perchance I was subconsciously affected by stories by fellow dreamer Randolph Carter. Soon enough
dirty old thoughtsuicide is a dirty thought but it's one that's been with me since i was 13 years old
how tragic it would be for the world to lose a mind like mine
one that's so unaligned and unwavering and not committed to a single idea
one that people have been trying for ages to pick at but nobody's been able to get into
it has tried to open up a few times
but each time it has been met with a different and new kind of disappointment
and that has led it to reach into dark and naughty places
the nature of death is a frequent destination
one that makes every endeavor seem quite pointless
what's the meaning of it anyway if we all end up in the abyss anyway
and the thought again registers in my brain
and it flashes in my field of view, the gun is under my chin and i'm pulling the trigger
but i always stop before i finish, because i'm afraid
i'm far too scared to not exist
ReflectionShe was standing in front of the mirror. Her reflection smiled at her. She smiled back. The woman in the mirror raised her hand. She raised hers. Something seemed off but she ignored it, The woman in the mirror nodded, and made a punching motion. The woman mimicked it, the mirror cracked, shards falling into the floor. The reflection reached down. She felt her fingers closed against the sharp edge of a broken glass shard. The Reflection ran it's hand across it's throat. It took a few seconds too late to realize something was off.
Non-Believer Your mother was a very stubborn woman. She detested the belief of the supernatural. From an early age she told you that all things supernatural were lies.
In kindergarten, as children often do, your classmates spoke of fairies. You told them they weren't real. Your teacher scolded you. As you got older, the topics of interest matured slowly. Soon people spoke of ghosts and spirits. Your friend in the 5th grade, also a girl (and your first crush), was quite different than you. She believed very strongly in the realm of ghosts and spirits. She told stories of humans falling in love with ghosts having children who could interact with ghosts too. One day she asked you if you believed in ghosts. "No," you answered instantly. Ghosts aren’t real; you’ve never thought otherwise
In the 6th grade, you walked into your mother's bedroom late at night. You don't remember why. You only remember watching her. She spoke to
Humanly Imbalanced. What has come of me? Hours, days, weeks have become nothing but blurs. Only a odd sense of horror, and lust. When I awake, I am standing in a pool of gore and crimson. The police haven't caught up yet, I haven't caught up either. What has happened to me? What happened to the humans laying on the ground in front of me on the darkest of nights? Am I mad? Have I finally reached that point? To break and kill? Have I? Who has murdered these people? Why have I always been the one to see them? Why am only I having darkness in my memories, where has my sanity gone..? Where has my humanity gone?
Why can't these street whores scream louder? Why does it take me plucking their finger nails one by one for them to understand they weren't going to live? Why does it take me carving out of their kidneys for them to faint? Why does it take so long for them to understand?! My love belongs to no one anymore, the vixens are all whining on their deathbeds with their vocal cord
Safe in My RoomSomething happened. I don’t understand. I know no one will believe me.
This is my room. I don’t want to leave but I’m already gone. My room no longer exists but I’m still inside. Here but far away. Locked in a screen, I’m watching myself.
I was a coward—so scared, scared of everything, scared of going outside my room, scared of my own thoughts. How insignificant my fears really were. I thought real life could never be as scary as the darkest corners of my mind. But I was wrong. I was dead wrong.
I talked to someone. He was on the screen. Or maybe he was right in front of me. Or maybe he was in me. He was fear. He was chaos. He was someone and he was someone else. It’s something I can’t define. I can’t even explain to myself. What a joke. Someone who hides is a coward. Someone who denies their own being is weak. He is weak. I’m not afraid of him.
Not afraid. I was never afraid. I’m not afraid of anything. When he came to
Malware - Day 14Katy's torch pierced the all-consuming darkness. Through it she saw murky puddles and rusted shelves standing on their last legs. A rat scampered by, unaware of her presence. That, or it just didn't care. Probably a bit of both.
She shuffled through the narrow hallway, keeping quiet, a gun and an aluminium bat by her side.. She could hear those things. Those twisted, mutated monsters. They'd set up a nest in here, the place full to the brim of food, water, medical supplies, everything her people needed. Typical. She listened quietly. They could be anywhere. If she dropped her guard for a second, she'd be dead.
Something moved ahead of her. She ducked behind a shelf and flicked off her torch. She peered ahead, and cursed under her breath. One of them had wandered into her path. It stood there, wobbling on a shattered ankle. It skin was covered in patches of slick black metal, where the bots had tried to repair their host. Currents of lightning blue electricity coursed thro