Sticks and Stones

It's a tragedy.
When we ban people from carrying flashlights,
Because they are 'potential weapons'.
When kids can't play on the streets,
Because rapists and killers abound.
You know, sometimes we say the strangest things,
Just to get people to like us.
We put on a mask, bleed honeyed words,
Perfectly balanced on who we are not.
How many times have you told a lie to impress?
Eventually, your lies become you,
And it becomes harder and harder
To escape.
It's like the edge of a good dream,
On the very cusp of reality and fiction,
And you know you're going to wake up,
Into this nightmare of a world.
Why do we pretend?
Why do we gossip, injure others, mock and talk,
Just to gain approval?
To increase your social status -
Make others feel worse.
To fit in. Fit in. Fin.
To log onto Facebook, or Myspace,
MSN, Google Talk, ICQ,
And to do what? Gossip about others?
"Did you hear she got pregnant?"
"He's going out with her now. What a joke."
"She's so fat. She should lose some weight."
"Man, he's the ugliest kid in school."
We've all felt it, said it, been on both ends of the stick.
In the caf, in the halls, you see these people,
Shunned by the social crowd, wandering,
Trying to find just one place
Where they can fit in.
A loneliness that can become a physical sickness.
If no one cares for you, why care for yourself?
So you start doing things to gain attention.
Maybe you do something stupid one day,
Like swear at a teacher, or get into a fight.
Suddenly, you're noticed. You're superman.
But the next day, everyone has already forgotten you.
So you fight again. You gain status at the expense of others.
And one day, when you're noticed, and have respect,
You see someone, wandering the halls, alone,
Just like you used to be.
And you say,
"Look at that loser."
Stick and stones may break my bones,
But words can never hurt me.
What a lie.

Dinner

They noticed the jar when they opened the door.

It was sitting on the coffee table, innocent and plain. The grey, rounded sides gleamed in the light; it hadn't been sitting long enough to collect any dust. The family crowded around it, with their bags dropping to the dusty floor. A round container, with a tightly screwed on lid. There was no indication to who sent it.

"Ooh!" Jane exclaimed. "What's in the jar mommy?"

Julia looked puzzled and frowned. "I don't know dear. Mark?"

Mark picked up the object with both hands. "It's really heavy... must be something inside. But who could have left it? We were on vacation for weeks!"

"Only your mother has the other keys to this house. She must have left it here," Julia said. "Remember last time, when she left us those cookies to welcome us home?"

"Grandma left us a present?! I bet it's candy!"

"Don't be stupid," Cody said. "It's probably old-people raisins or something."

Jane reached for the jar. She set the heavy object down on the table, then twisted the lid off. The family leaned forward in anticipation to see what was inside.

"Huh?" Mark swiped his finger into the substance inside. "What's this stuff?"

A grey powder lay inside the jar, almost to the brim. It was very fine, in grains like pepper. Mark sniffed it. "It smells like some sort of spice."

Julia scooped some into her palm. Dabbing a little on her finger, she gave it a lick. "It's a little salty, with a little bit of a bbq taste. I think it's some sort of salt seasoning."

"I'll try it on dinner tonight, just to test it out." Julia took the jar into the kitchen.

Mark and the kids unpacked the clothing from their suitcases while Julia prepared dinner. Soon enough, the sweet smell of food came drifting into the hallways, a more effective dinner-call than a bell. The entire family was gathered by the table only moments later.

"Wow! This is really good!" Cody took another bite of his chicken wing.

"Is this the spice grandma sent us?" Jane reached for another piece.

Julia nodded. "It's good isn't it? I'm surprised I've never heard of this before, it seems as if something so good would be more popular."

Just then, the doorbell rang. Mark rose from the table and wiped his mouth. "I'll get it."

Peeking into the peephole, Mark spotted a grave-looking man standing on the porch. Opening the door, he greeted him. "Hello. Can I help you?"

The man handed over a letter in a tan envelope. "This came for you. I'm sorry."

Before Mark could ask any questions, the man had already turned and gotten into his car. With a shake of the head, he drove down the road an out of sight.

Closing the door against the cold air, Mark walked back to his family seated around the dinner table. "Some weird guy in a suit. He said he was sorry, and gave me this letter."

"Open it!"

He tore open the letter and laid it down so everyone could see. The letter was printed on a very official looking paper and read:

Dear Mister and Madam,

I hope this news reaches you before the accompanying package. I regret to inform you that on June 13th, social workers discovered Mrs. Belkin's
deceased body in her room. Upon further investigation, it was discovered she had perished almost immediately after suffering a fatal heart attack. Upon the reading of her will, it was deemed that was to be cremated, and according to her last wishes, spread among the garden of her family home.

The accompanying jar contains her remains.

Again, deepest condolences for your loss.

Sincerely,
Arkham City Morgue


**Author's note: Sorry. This wasn't as descriptive as most of my stories. I did this in a rush - the next one will be better, hopefully.

A Conversation

A Conversation
October 17, 2006

He closed the door behind him, with a soft click.

He knelt down, genuflecting himself as if before an altar. He looked up at her.

She looked down at him. She looked, but did not see. Or she saw, but did not look. Her eyes were always open, with that blank, milky stare.

He touched the hard wood of the chair, placed his head on her lap, closed his eyes and sighed. He reached blindly for her hand, but like some elusive phantom, it evaded his grasp.

Perfection.

Raising his head, he searched her face for meaning, but he found none. He searching for solace, but found despair. He searched for peace, but found agony. Such irony to the damned.

He took both her hands between his own. They were as cold as the dead moon, as icy as his heart, as still as the night air. But in them, he found meaning alike his own, reason that matched his mind, feeling that strummed the heartstrings of his soul.

With hesitation, he stood, slowly, as if unsure whether she would take offense.

He leaned in, looking into her gaze, letting himself be drawn in by that unblinking stare. He touched her face with his warm hands, and felt a chill run down his spine at the coldness of her beauty.

He touched her lips with his own.

Her mouth was dead, her lips unresponsive, her tongue as still as a sliver of ice... and yet, it still invoked some passion within him, some deep primal urge.

He separated his mouth from hers. He could taste her essence, he could feel her spirit, he could hear her voice on his trembling lips and tongue.

He looked up at her face, that perfect face. As perfect in death as it was in life.

Standing, he looked away with remorse, regret, and a longing that would only be satisfied the next time they spoke.

He opened the door, letting light stream into the room. He took one last look at her beauty, then turned away.

He closed the door behind him, with a soft click.

He touched his tattered gloves to his face, and turned his head towards the falling stars.

As he felt the wind pass through his hair, and the setting of another day.



Note: No I do not have dead bodies that I make out with in my basement. That's why it's called fiction. Hope you enjoyed this. Or, er, you know. It creeped you out. As Halloween approaches, I'll try to scare you and myself a little more each day XD.