Arcanum

The Rag Man

2009-11-20T01:13:00.002-05:00

The Rag Man

The truth is, I hadn't seen Cricket since January. The last I saw of her was a shadowy figure in the snow, illuminated in part by a frosted street lamp, her silhouette altered by that ridiculous, oversized coat.

You ever have the sort of nightmare that you can't seem to shake? You wake up with your stomach on empty protest, and the thin skin of your back is crawling like you've slept on a bed of roaches. The air feels like water. Even though the day might be bright and sunny, or even if you find a lucky penny in the grime, or get the perfect job you've been waiting your life for, or fall for a prostitute with a grasshopper tattooed between her shoulder blades, you still feel as though you're trapped in an endless nightmare. Makes you nervous, jumpy. Itchy, even.

I don't know what I was thinking. My boss handed me an envelope that Friday. "Go have some fun, yeah?" Funny how a thin slip of paper with some figures written on it can be your passport to adventure. Drugs, sex, whatever. Money can buy almost anything.

I read something like that once, back in my high school English class. My teacher was some beak-nosed, balding professor who didn't care about his students, and didn't care if we cared. He would just sit at his desk, watching us with eyes that might have once been as sharp as a hawk's, but at the time, they were dull and glazed, like he was on drugs. Maybe he was. I was. We used to sit at the back of the class and do lines of coke off the desks, the good desks that hadn't been scarred by years of graffiti. Made the class bearable.

The only thing I took out of that class was how to use words. Words have power, words are power. They can be used to manipulate people, to convince them you aren't who you really are, to convince the old lady at the cash register that you already paid for your coffee, or talking your way out of a traffic ticket with some arrogant pig. Words are the ultimate trick, better than the pranks we used to pull when we were kids, like Kevin down the street used to pull, until he grew up but never grew out of it. Last I heard, he was serving ten down at Riker's for conning the wrong people out of the wrong money, like the innocent child who wasn't so innocent after all.

I cashed the cheque and took the money right away. I never saved any of it, just spent within a week, maybe even within the day. Rent was overdue, the fridge was infested with stale food, the water and electricity had been cut for months. Didn't care. Short-term pleasures were all I cared about - liquid happiness coursing through my veins, and a warm, unfamiliar body against mine. I knew the stack of bills in my back pocket would be gone by the end of that night.

The nightmare starts when you turn against yourself. I sure as hell didn't realize it when my words turned on me. Words can be used to convince people of a lot of shit, but no one is immune. It creeps up on you, slowly, before you even realize it's there. Imagine there's something creeping just outside the corner of your eyes. It moves when you turn your head, so it always stays where you can't see it. It's there, staring at the vulnerable area just below your ribcage, or the base of your neck, pawing closer and closer until it's almost on top of you, and you don't even realize it until its hot breath is on the back of your neck, its hands sliding down the front of your chest, it lets out a steamy moan, and maybe it even has a stylized insect sketched in purple ink in the crook of its back.

My point is, it's really easy to trick yourself. Day after day, in the dark basement of an apartment building, between the cold washing machines and dust and grime, your tongue pressed deep into some girl's mouth, hers pressed against the side of your cheek. You tell yourself, "It's okay," and eventually, you come to believe it. Slowly, it creeps up on you. You don't even know it until the one morning when you wake up. Empty stomach, skin crawling. A living nightmare, and you're trapped inside wondering how you managed to get yourself into this mess, how you managed to screw things up so badly. And really, you can only blame yourself.

The club was packed that night. I dodged the bouncers at the door and slipped in through the back. Francis was already waiting for me inside, his eyes unfocused, with some girl hanging onto his arm with a death-grip. She would have fallen down otherwise. The flashing lights and pounding music were hypnotic. Swirls of purple and blue. The girl looked at me like I was some sort of intruder. Her hair was greasy and her face was slick with sweat. Francis' eyes, on the other hand, were sharp as always, dark and hooded like he was tired, but alert and active.

"Ready to have some fun?" he asked, like he didn't know the answer. His eyes darted around the room, before he reached into his jacket and pulled out a tightly-wrapped, ragged bundle of toilet paper. At the same time, I reached into my back pocket, rifling through the thin wad of bills, the unfamiliar texture of money odd against my fingertips. Some people say money is the dirtiest thing we handle on a daily basis. It's covered in viruses and germs, traces of crack, fecal matter, and who knows what else. It's also dirty in the metaphysical sense of the word, covered in temptation and corruption and drugs and sex. I handed the stack to Francis as he handed me the sad, misshapen bundle. I wiped my hands on my pants, as the music thundered around me, a physical bass reverberation in my ribcage.

The real horror comes when you realize what you could have been. Unless you're an astronaut or a doctor or a fireman, you're probably not who you wanted to be when you were a kid. No child grows up with the goal of becoming a corporate investment banker, or a telemarketer packed into a cubicle. No ambitious kid with unlimited potential ever envisions himself being dragged out of a car, fucked out of his mind, and slammed onto the pavement with just enough force to clarify one thought - this isn't who I wanted to be.

I was standing in the middle of the club, trying to start the joint I had rolled up in the bathroom, trying but failing, the dancing bodies jostling me and making me fumble the lighter, until I lost it on the floor under the crowd. The smell of alcohol surrounded me, consumed me, mixed in with the tang of body odour and the subtle hint of cocaine. I patted my pockets with one hand for another light. Funny. With how often lighters get lost, you'd think we'd learn to keep a spare.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. A conscious, deliberate tap, not just a random bump in the crowd. "Need a light?"

I looked up and she was grinning. She was drunk, with a goofy look on her face, golden hair wild and tangled, her eyes unfocused. It took me a few seconds to notice she had a lighter in her hand, a cute one with some sort of flower design, a hippie-era novelty, but it worked and soon the familiar rush of chemicals flooded into my brain.

I remember that from a book I once read. Things have two types of energy, potential and kinetic. Potential is energy that hasn't been spent yet. You use up your potential making choices, like getting a job at a fast-food restaurant, or moving to a different city where the cops can't find you. Kids have unlimited potential, and as they make choices and grow up, depending on the validity of those choices, they either end up as wealthy businessmen with nice cars, or wrist-deep in some poor bitch who can't see straight because of the heroine coursing through her veins. When you use potential, you turn that energy into kinetic energy. Kinetic energy is what you get when you're moving. Eventually, you change all your potential into kinetic, and then you're like Steve, who chose to spend all his potential at once, falling from the roof of a building, speeding up without control of your direction, until you smack into the pavement below.

You don't even realize it until it's too late. Everything is connected. Words, energy, power. You wake up in the morning, and you realize all your potential is wasted, and you're moving uncontrollably towards a future you don't want to see like a runaway train, with your bloodshot eyes swimming from how many shots? and that you can't blame anyone for it - not your parents, they were never there - and you can't blame society, or the apathetic people who look at you like you're a shitstain on the tablecloth, or even the slender girl with the pretty eyes and the tattoo that lingers in your mind like she's been burned in.

She took my hand and led me off the dance floor. We were both sweaty, panting, but ecstatic and turned on. I followed her out, and her slender fingers pressed against my palm like small spots of fire. My vision was blurry, so I couldn't make it out at first, but she had something on her back, in the dip of her low-cut dress, dark and oddly shaped. I brushed it with the back of my free hand, and when it didn't come off, I pressed on it with my fingertips. Somewhere in my mind said, "Tattoo," and I repeated it dumbly out loud.

BRB

2009-10-18T12:29:00.000-04:00

I've been writing a long manuscript, perhaps a novel, so this site won't be updated for a bit longer. Sorry folks. I'll be back, I promise.

Living Backwards Doesn't Make For Happy Endings

2009-06-03T10:59:00.002-04:00

I slip into her bed. She is gone, and grief and loneliness have taken her place. I clutch hopelessly at the bedsheets, press my face into the pillow, and sob helplessly.

The sun streams in, chasing the shadows from the room, but I close my eyes and plunge into darkness. If I close my eyes, it's easier to pretend she never existed.

I will never see her smile again.

***

She was cold. Grey. Her lips were pale and dry, and her breath escaped her in hollow gasps. The steady beeping of the ECG filled the room with a sense of fear. I wished I could have unplugged it, but I couldn't move.

Shadows had settled under her eyes, and her cheekbones crested sharply on her face. I looked down with sudden clarity. This is one of the last times I will ever see her. With that realization comes nothing: I could not think of anything to say, and no line of poetry would ever be able to describe the feelings that coursed through my body. I had always thought I could protect her. I couldn't, not when it truly mattered.

I leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. Although she was asleep, her lips turned up into a smile.

***

I slipped into bed next to her, slowly and quietly, but she was already awake. I brushed my hand against her face, and her eyes closed like on the night I met her. Like that night, tears flowed freely from the corners of her eyes, tracing the shape of her jaw and spotting the pillow below.

"I'm worried about you," I whispered. Her face turned towards mine and she grabbed my shirt, pulling me close. "I don't know what to do."

"I love you," she said, simply. Her hands reached around the back of my head and she raised her face to mine. "Please don't forget me."

"Are you going somewhere?" I asked, lightly. She didn't reply, but her body tensed. "Where are you going?"

She didn't reply, and for the longest time I thought she was asleep. But then I looked down, and her eyes were open, drawing me in with that same power as all those months ago. They were wet with tears and as I raised my hand to wipe them away, she turned, pressing against the cold bed frame.

The corner of her mouth curves upwards, but her eyes remain closed.

***

We sat in my mother's car, listening to the rain stream down from the gray and thunderous sky. We were huddled together in the back seat, her head and face pressed into the side of my neck. I pulled the blanket over her bare shoulder as the rain pattered loudly on the windshield.

There are no words to describe the past few months. It's impossible to record every moment, and it's impossible to try. But I know I'll never forget. The way her body fits into my arms, the perfect interlocking of our fingers, her heartbeat pressed into my chest, and of course, the careful way she smiles.

Her hand found mine under the blanket. I couldn't see her face but I could feel her smile against my skin.

***

We went for coffee in a small bistro downtown, a quiet place, tucked away where few people would notice. The sun was high in the sky, and the birds called out in twitters and chirps that filled the air with music. Both her hands were wrapped around a cappuccino. The steam from the thin paper cup twisted around her hair as she leaned forward.

"I think," she whispered, "We are becoming more than strangers."

It was such an odd, but true, thing to say that I was silent, aware that somewhere in the conversation we had just slipped into friendship without realization. This time, I reached my hand out and touched her wrist, her hands still wrapped tightly around the cup.

She placed her fingertips on mine and smiled.

***

When I ran into her on the street, I didn't recognize her at first. Her eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue and green. She was dressed for the weather, standing tall in a bus stop by the side of a busy intersection. She spotted me before I even saw her, so when I turned around, her eyes were already piercing mine.

"Hi," she said quietly. She grabbed my wrist like she did that other night, and with her other hand, pressed a small, folded square of paper into my palm. She told me to open it when I got home. She never broke eye contact as she spoke, and I couldn't look away. An invisible thread kept me hypnotized, unable to break the stare, but it wasn't awkward; on the contrary, her eyes were comfortable, and her fingers lingered on the back of my hand for slightly longer than necessary.

A bus passed by, breaking the spell. I looked up. "Wasn't that your bus?"

She smiled again, like she did on that night. "I can always catch the next one."

***

I met her at a friend's party, I can't remember whose. She was sitting at the end of a couch, her knees tucked to her chin, her eyes closed, her hands wrapped tightly around her shins. I didn't know whether she was tired, thoughtful, or drunk. Her shoulder blades poked out the back of her thin shirt like pointed wings.

I leaned over and put my hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" I asked. She didn't open her eyes, but she tilted her head towards me.

"I'm okay," she said simply. I waited, but she didn't offer any further information. I stood up to go, but as I turned away, her hand suddenly grabbed my wrist. "Can - can you just sit here?" she whispered, tears suddenly leaking from her scrunched-up eyes.

"I don't know who you are," I said honestly. But I sat back down.

She smiled through her tears. "I don't know me either. But maybe you could help."

Things I Never Told You

2009-06-03T01:13:00.000-04:00

I never knew what to say. I could never find the right words to describe what I felt.

Now that you're gone, I've had time to expand my vocabulary.

Synesthesia. A condition where an unexpected sensory input occurs.

I never told you that your voice was like a rainbow after a summer rain.
I never told you that the sun in your eyes held the whisper of the ocean depths.
I never told you that the taste of your lips reminded me of the sound of my heartbeat.
I never told you that your body was like a warm bed on a winter's night.

I never told you, that Even when you're gone, my arms remember the smoothness of your back, and my lips the taste of yours.
I never told you, that I wanted to sleep next to you until the sun peeked in through the curtains.
I never told you, that My bedsheets keep the smell of your body like the Earth keeps the smell of a spring day.
I never told you, that When I had nightmares, I would imagine your hand on mine until I fell asleep.
I never told you, that In the right light, the sun would leave rainbows in your eyes.
I never told you, that Your body on mine is like where the sky meets the ocean, and you can't tell where the horizon lies.
I never told you, that Every time you left me, I was scared you would never come back.

Escape

2009-04-11T12:18:00.002-04:00

The sons of euphoria are skipping their classes
For weed, crack and smack, the opiate of the masses -
To see the world through those rose colored glasses,
Escaping from this world of bores, world of snores,
Of closed doors, pimps and whores, pointless wars,
And the endless encores, the disease of a generation,
Lacking a foundation, seeking sensation in a drug-induced vacation -
It's an abberation, a dedication to manipulation,
And we don't care, we don't give a shit,
We take the hit, just to make things fit.

The Cynic's Dilemma

2009-03-19T14:23:00.001-04:00

You can't backtrack, or catch any slack, it's all out of whack,
Where you catch a ride, blocking out the world outside,
listening to the uhms and aahs, unaware of so many flaws
it's ridiculous, it's meticulous, explicit in so many flavours,
and they all expect favours, a game with too many players,
Who don't know how to act, like a high school TV drama,
With all the breakups and makeups and fuckups and God knows what else,
And you just sigh at it all, just waiting to fall,
face against the wall, just learning to crawl,
before you can walk, before you can run, before you can fly,
But sometimes you ask why, why should I try?,
and I don't mean to pry, but if you don't try, you're just waiting to die,
Saying goodbye, a tear in your eye, while others cry
and weep and wail, and you turn tail, just booking it the fuck out of this jail,
this prison for your soul
How does this stack up? A cynic's dilemma,
Take a look around, not just down at the ground,
but at the people in this town, their smiles and their frowns
and the deafening sounds, the endless crowds,
all pushing in, trying to get a piece,
a slice of the action, a mutual attraction, but they can't get any traction,
irrational, uncontainable, slipping and sliding like Bambi on ice,
not willing to play nice, just taking that slice, while others pay the price,
Like a roll of the dice, not men or mice, because even mice know better,
But we just climb on the bodies, a flood of oddities,
Pushing others down as we climb to the top, not waiting to stop,
Stepping on feet and shoulders and faces, leaving our traces, before the rat races,
Scrambling up on a tower, made of power, hour after hour,
Escaping the world in which we were born, a city of porn,
where souls are worn down before they're torn and shorn,
cast aside and no one bothers to mourn,
because everyone is the same, playing this game,
With too many players, too many layers,
Too many yayers and nayers, too many stares,
Not enough cares, cause everyone just wants wares in pairs,
and it bears repeating that we're all just overheating,
Burning up in the fire, the fire of our desire,
So many liars lighting the pyres, and the only way to escape is higher,
Higher and higher, climbing those bodies,
While those who don't try tend to die,
And we just add them to the pile,
Fending off the flames for a little while,
As we wear a little smile,
A crocodile smile,
Our endless trial,
Going out in style,
That extra mile,
The cynic's dilemma.

My City Screams

2009-02-21T19:46:00.000-05:00

I was always interested in mental disorders - how they turn a person into something else, something unexpected. They introduce a new variable into the equation of life, something we cannot predict. Oftentimes, a mental disorder can change someone from completely harmless into something... terrifying.

So what happens when a city full of people gets overcrowded, polluted, and corrupt? Is a city just a collection of buildings, or is a city the collection of people in it - their collective conciousness? And what happens if that conciousness begins to break down?

The city is quiet.

Ryan Colocco sits at the edge of his bed, rubbing the lazy sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands. The bed springs creak as he stands up, his six-foot frame scraping the low ceiling. He stretches his arms with a wide yawn, making his way to the bathroom as the dull thumps of his footsteps accompany him.

Today is one of 'those days'. The days when you wake up in a mess, and your eyes don't want to open more than a few millimetres. The days when everything feels cold, and grey, and the world is devoid of anything meaningful. Ryan splashes cold water on his face, blinking vigorously. The water twirls down towards the dark drain, and he watches it make its spiralling path, swirling around and around and around, just on the lip of that black hole, poised there for a moment, until it falls into that endless pit with a quiet gurgle.

He places his elbows on the rounded edge of the sink, then presses his face into his cupped palms. The porcelain is icy cold against his wet skin, and he lets loose a low growl, shaking his head back and forth like a dog. Looking up, he meets the glare of those sky-blue eyes, the ones his mother used to call 'lady-killers'. Today they don't seem anything of the sort - instead, his half-closed lids seem full to the brim of grim madness. His tousled bedhead and unshaven chin make him look more like a vagrant than the 26-year-old designer he truly is.

An hour later, Ryan is out of his apartment, a bagel pressed between his teeth as he locks his front door. Although clean after a long shower, the world still seems to press around him, tainting him with tendrils of grey, just out of the corner of his eye. To make matters worse, as he turns to leave, his front door swings open, even though he is sure he had just locked it.

Playing with the lock only irritates him further, as he attempts and reattempts to secure his privacy. He turns the key, pushes on the door to ascertain the deadbolt is in the slot, which it is, but once he turns away, the door swings wildly open again. Fed up, he pulls the door shut, making a mental note to talk to the manager about the defective locks in the building, but as he does so, he hears a sharp snick and the door is suddenly locked. Furthermore, when Ryan looks down, he is surprised to find the key is no longer in his outstretched hand, but in his shirt pocket.

An unsettling claustrophobia closes in around him. The hallways seem darker than usual, and the elevator seems to be a mile away. With a quick pace, Ryan heads for the silver doors, and is relieved to find that the illusion of distance is merely an illusion, as he reaches the doors in just a few seconds.

He presses the button to summon the elevator, and the sharp beep as the carriage rises pierces the silence like a scream. Ryan is perfectly reflected in the polished steel doors, and he attempts to organize his hair while he waits.

After a few seconds, he realizes he is not alone. The reflection shows a middle-aged woman standing next to him. Startled, he turns around and finds her standing next to him, and he laughs inwardly at his irrational fear of ghosts.

As the elevator arrives, the two board, and he notices that the woman is wearing what appears to be an elaborate Victorian-era costume. The ruffles on her dress flare out like curtains, and her face is painted white, as was the style in those times. Curious, he attempts to make conversation, but she deigns to reply. In fact, as Ryan soon finds out, she doesn't even react to him, and even waving his hand vigorously in front of her face neglects to provoke a response.

They reach the bottom floor in a matter of seconds, and Ryan walks out of the elevator with one last look back. He drops his briefcase when he sees that the elevator is in fact empty, with no sign of the lady, and no place she could have hidden, unless she had climbed through the elevator's maintanence hatch - a ludicrous notion in a dress such as hers.

With an odd day getting much odder, Ryan also notices that there are many people in Victorian wear loitering about in the lobby. None of them seem to respond to his presence, and he jumps out of the way numerous times as the strangely dressed people barrel towards him. The lady at the front desk is missing, and his attempts to interact with the crowd in the lobby only serve to aggravate him.

As he steps out of the apartment building into the cloudy sky, he turns around, and isn't too surprised to find the entire crowd of people gone. In a day of weirdness piled on weirdness, Ryan just picks up his briefcase and continues on. Maybe it was the medication he had just started taken the night before. Its bottle said it may cause drowsiness or dizziness, and hallucinations aren't too far off from both.

Fortunately, although cloudy, the sky is still rain-free, and Ryan lives only a short distance from his office. He begins to walk down his usual route, but soon finds himself lost as the road he usually takes no longer seems to be there. Instead, a white house with picket fencing faces him, almost staring in contempt with frosted windows for eyes and a red door for a mouth.

Confused, Ryan turns around to find the road leading in the opposite direction. Not only is the road going the wrong way, but the street sign marks the road as Hammond Avenue, instead of the usual Corolia Boulevard. Even so, he begins to walk down this new street for about ten minutes, until he realizes he must be going in the wrong direction.

With a sigh, he realizes he's going to be late for work, and turns around. To his utter confusion, Corolia Boulevard has just appeared to his right, even though he knows for sure he didn't pass it.

Dropping his briefcase, Ryan stands in the middle of the street, paralyzed by fear and confusion. He remains there for a few minutes, afraid to move, until the sky booms and rain begins to pour down. Reaching into his briefcase quickly, he opens an umbrella over his head, upon which the rain abruptly stops and the sun begins to shine down.

The second he puts his umbrella away, it begins to rain again, big fat drops of water soaking through Ryan's clothing and thoroughly drenching him. Holding his briefcase over his head, Ryan begins to run down Corolia Boulevard, haphazardly turning down random side streets that seemingly appear from nowhere. Soon, the rain turns into snow, in the middle of July, and white flakes settle on his head. Drenched in water and covered in snow, Ryan nevertheless feels warm, as if the sun were out.

Ryan runs. People in Victorian clothing appear and disappear in front of his eyes. As he runs past what appears to be St. Paul's Cathedral, it suddenly bursts into flame and collapses seconds later, only to disappear and be replaced with a modern office building. He notices people screaming, both in modern clothing and medieval wear, as buildings collapse and reassemble themselves.

A low keening cry pierces the air, and at first everyone stops. Ryan spins in place, hands over his ears, eyes wide. The cry grows louder, coming from all directions at once, until Ryan realizes it really is coming from everywhere, the ground and the buildings and the sky all reverberating with sound. The city is screaming, and as the people scream along with it, the buildings begin to shake.

Walls falls, buildings begin to crumble, and the roads shake as if an earthquake has just hit the city. The sky flickers like a failing computer monitor, with rain and snow and shine all jumbling for space in the sky. Ryan drops to his knees, curling up in a fetal position, as the snow settles around him, sizzling into steam as it touches the ground.

Someone shrieks, and a thick groan fills the air. An odd whistling seems to drown out all other noises, as it gets louder and louder. Ryan looks up just as an office building collapses on him, and with a loud crunch of splintering glass everything goes dark.

7 Sins Saga: Greed

2008-12-29T22:15:00.002-05:00

The briefcase sat on the desk.

It was a simple, leather-bound rectangle, placed innocently in the middle of the cedar desk. He looked up and across the table at the woman, who was sitting forward, with her elbows on the table. "Interested?" she asked, a slight smirk on her face.

He reached out a hand, used to taking things that were rightfully his, by birthright if not earned by hard work. He slid the case closer to himself, the metal clasps making an awful screech as they slid across the well-polished wood. He waved away his bodyguard, who left the room discreetly, the sharp click of the lock marking his departure.

Two sharp clicks permeated the silence. He hinged the lid up, obscuring the woman's face from view, and looked inside. Bundles of cash were stacked neatly, hundred-dollar bills that he imagined greeting him like an old friend. He was friendly and familiar with money, even intimate, and as he picked up a stack, he let it run across his fingertips in a gentle caress.

He turned his eyes upwards. The hatch to his safe box hovered just above his head - a safebox full of cash, gold bars, heirlooms, all of which he had obtained through various levels of legality. He accepted his kleptomania and need for possession in open arms, and it showed. His neat suit, gold cuff links, and band upon band of impressive jewelery all showcased his craving for more.

The smell of freshly laundered money was intoxicating. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting out an audible sniff that echoed around the boardroom. He could hear his guest shuffling around with impatience. Let her wait, he thought to himself. The money is as good as mine.

He opened his eyes, ready to negotiate. He reached out a hand and made to pull the briefcase closed. Something cold - very cold - touched his fingers.

A skeletal hand delicately stroked his arm. Slowly, the briefcase lid dropped, resounding with a sharp clack as the locks engaged, revealing the face of his client. As he watched in mute horror, her skin peeled back like the lips of a flower, shriveling into black crisps that crumbled into scattered ashes.

The skull grinned at him. "I was so hoping you would pass the test."

Its skeletal arms tightened until he cried out in pain. "And you should really give your bodyguard a key to this room. By the way, isn't all that money extremely heavy?"

He let out a shrill yell, but it was drowned out by a loud crunch from overhead. Looking up, he gasped silently as the heavy safe emitted a low groan, and the reinforced ceiling began to sag. The skeletal face whispered in his ear. "Oh well."

With a sharp crack, the hatch split open, pouring gold bars, stacks of money, precious gems and jewels, antique furniture, and all the goods he had ever collected; tons and tons of material wealth falling like rain. He screamed.

Awake

2008-12-23T23:04:00.003-05:00

"What's happened?" the doctor on site yelled, as he bustled down the hospital corridors. His white coat flared as he paced alongside the nurse, who was furiously scribbling notes on a large brown clipboard.

"I don't know. It's... it's like nothing we've ever seen before," the nurse replied, pulling his surgical mask to his face. In a nervous shiver, he continued. "Prognosis is pretty much... well, you'll see..."

As the doctor approached the emergency room, he could hear shrill screams emanating from the doorway. The air was filled with the cried of a woman sobbing, and a man's deep coughing, but the shrieks weren't from either of them. The nurse glanced at him, accurately gauging his expression. "It's the... patient. He's, uh, he was affected by the trip."

The bright doorway sat at the end of the hallway, illuminated from within by halogen surgical lights. Turning the corner sharply, the doctor suddenly reeled back, almost knocking the nurse to the ground, as a darkly dressed figure burst from the room screeching unintelligibly. An orderly jumped out of the room, tackling the shadow to the floor.

"Sorry doc," the orderly panted. "Patient is a little unstable." He touched a syringe to the man's arm, depressing the plunger. The sharp tang of Propofol filled the air as the patient sagged, anesthetic coursing through his bloodstream. He rolled his eyes up towards the doctor as if in supplication.

At first, the shock of white hair and thin frame suggested to the doctor that the patient was an elderly man. But as the patient passed out, the doctor realized that he wasn't a man at all. Instead, a young boy, not even in his teenage years, lay on the cold, linoleum floor. His short cropped hair had gone completely white, and even though he was sedated, his blue eyes stared as though he could see into another world.

"What happened?" the doctor asked quietly, as the nurse and orderly hoisted the boy onto the gurney. A man and woman sat in the corner, both weeping loudly - the boy's parents, he presumed. The nurse shook his head subtly, indicating the hallway was a more appropriate place to discuss the situation.

As they stepped out, the nurse took a breath. "You know the standard procedures for Transporter technology, right?"

"Of course. It's medical procedure - subjects are sedated heavily, to the point of an induced coma. Then the quantum junctions are activated... I don't know exactly how it works, but it has something to do with dimensional jumping. The subjects are revived upon arrival."

"Yeah. Initial animal tests showed erratic behavior after 'porting, including massive brain damage, that was only prevented by the injection of pentobarbital." The nurse took another breath. "The kid was faking it. He pretended to be in a coma after a single dose. It wasn't enough to actually knock him out."

The doctor stared blankly. Then: "Are you telling me... he was awake?"

"That's exactly what I mean. Massive brain damage - his cerebellum is literally lined with scar tissue - and his brain stem looks like it's been cauterized with a soldering iron. We have no idea what happened; we reported the incident to the TPS, but they haven't responded yet."

"I'm going to try and talk to him." The doctor reentered the room, the smell of alcohol immediately assaulting his senses. The steady whine of the medical equipment was only outmatched by the choking sobs of the parents, who now sat in a corner, the man holding his wife as she cried. The patient was restrained in a bed, foam dental dam plugged in his mouth to stop him from biting off his tongue, while leather straps pinned him to the metal framework.

"Pull the IV," the doctor ordered. The orderly quickly unclipped the drip from the boy's arm. Within minutes, the child began to stir, and suddenly screamed, the sound muffled by the block of foam in his mouth. Saliva drooled from the corner of his lips as he struggled against the straps, his movements rattling the bed in an eerie clattering. The boy's parents began to cry anew.

"Get them out of here," the doctor yelled, as the nurse escorted the two adults out of the room. "Give him a shot of sedative, twice the standard dose!"

After a minute, the boy's movements became less pronounced, until his head drooped so his chin touched his chest. The doctor waited, then slowly removed the block of foam from his mouth.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor whispered. The boy slowly looked up, a laborious effort. "I'm a doctor, at a hospital. Can you tell me what happened? What happened to you?"

There was no response. Again, the doctor repeated himself. "What happened? Can you tell me what happened?"

The child stared.

The orderly handed the doctor a thin sheaf of notes, with a muttered explanation that the TPS had just faxed it over. He skimmed the pages quickly. Teleportation was a new technology, just invented within the last decade. Like any new technology, it was poorly understood - all scientists had discovered was that a person was literally deconstructed into component particles, which were then whisked away at faster-than-light speeds to the destination, where they were reconstructed. For some reason, patients had to be sedated beforehand - when awake, all animal test subjects had gone insane.

The TPS report, while vague, suggested that travel at such great speed seemed to slow down time, stretching it out almost to an eternity. With dawning comprehension, the doctor nearly buckled as the full, staggering gravity of the situation hit him. This boy - this child - hadn't been sedated through the trip. He had been aware, as his atoms were torn apart, as they were sent screaming across the void at speeds faster than anything ever experienced, as time stretched out to an endless torment.

The doctor turned back to the patient, urgently, as if his understanding had incited in him a sense of panic. He repeated himself, softly at first, but then louder. "What happened? What happened to you?"

The boy's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. Then, he spoke, in a low, gutteral voice lined with saliva, harsh and croaking, as if he hadn't spoke for centuries.

"Awake," he said, very slowly.

"You were awake during the procedure? The Transporter procedure?" The boy didn't respond, and the doctor gripped his shoulders. "What did you see? You were awake, what happened?"

Slowly, the boy's head lolled to one side. His eyes focused, then unfocused. The orderly stepped in with the IV, but the doctor waved him off. He needed an answer. "Look here. Follow my finger. What did you see?"

Still no response. Drool dribbled out of the child's mouth as he tried to speak. The doctor leaned closer, until they were nearly touching noses. Then the boy's mouth moved. He looked up.

The boy's wide, blue eyes met the doctor's. "I... saw... ...Everything..."

Then he fell back with an explosive gasp, the ECG emitting a steady whine.

The Seed

2008-12-22T03:54:00.001-05:00

I was cleaning my room today

and found a small pouch I didn't remember having

It was brown, made of a thin leather, and it had a black drawstring across its mouth.

I poked a finger inside, widening the opening, then carefully tipped the sachet onto its side, bouncing the edge on my palm to dislodge anything hidden within its depths.

Out rolled a small object that I at first took to be a pebble. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be some sort of grey seed.

I was about to throw it into my nearby trashbin when my curiousity struck.

Turning the seed over in my hands, I pondered what to do with it. Planting it seemed like the best idea, so I walked to the bathroom to get a small cup and some water.

The soil I scavenged from the bottom of my running shoes, which had been confined in my closet for the winter.

I knew the ground outside was too hard to obtain even a mote of soil from, so I had to settle for the secondhand dirt scraped from the treads of my Reeboks.

Tipping the dirt into the cup, I pressed my pinky finger in, making a hole just wide enough to admit the small seed.

As I tipped the seed in, an odd smell wafted into my nose. I sniffed, drawing a deep breath, trying to discern the scent from all the others in my room. It was acrid, like burning newspapers. It smelled like ashes.

The dirt quickly collapsed over the seed, burying it, and the scent of ashes.

I tipped a bit of water onto the surface of the dirt. It hung there, poised on the brown earth, the surface tension maintaining a round, bubble-like droplet.

Then it was sucked into the pores of the soil, as if something below had greedily drank it down.

I left to bring a bag of garbage to the garage

When I returned, rubbing my arms from the cold, the cup was gone.

At first, I thought I had left it somewhere, and that my mind had been distracted by the mess littering my bedroom floor

but then I noticed the thin ring of water on my desk where the cup had sat.

Upon closer inspection, I also noticed small tracks of water leading off the edge of the desk, like tiny footprints.

I tried to follow the thin droplets, but the carpet below had guzzled them up, leaving only a slight moistness in the material.

My door had been closed, so chances were that the cup was still in the room. I tried to pretend a draft had blown the cup off the desk, leaving a stream of water where it had tipped, but my window had been locked and shuttered. Even the blinds were down, and in a sudden grip of fear I tugged them open.

Light streamed into the room, but it only served to lengthen the shadows.

The lamp on my desk suddenly threw a threatening projection onto the wall. The plastic models on my bookshelf no longer looked like robots but demonic figurines.

Even my stuffed animals leered at me from their basket, their faces in eerie half-light.

I heard a quick scuffle from under my bed.

Cautiously, I reached for my Louisville Slugger, the wooden baseball bat I keep by the head of my pillow.

Slowly, I dropped to my knees. The unmade blankets dropped down to touch the floor. I reached a hand out to steady myself as I placed my head close to the ground.

With my other hand, I pinched a section of the blanket, ready to lift the curtain hiding whatever lay in wait under my bed.

With a cry, I pulled the blankets aside. Light streamed in, illuminating every dark corner. A jagged shadow lay huddled in the corner, sharp edges cast against the wall. I poked at it with the end of the baseball bat. It didn`t move, but made an odd clinking noise.

Using the bat, I manouvered the pieces into view. Shards of porcelain met my fingers as I reached out to scoop them up. The cup was shattered into 8 uneven pieces, each stained with dirt and a little water, which mingled into mud under my nails.

There was an odd red fluid that stained a few of the shards. I sniffed it carefully. It smelled like copper and iron.

I listened carefully. The silence enveloped me.

There wasn't a sound, other than the frantic beating of my heart.

I realized I had forgotten to breathe. I gasped once.

Twice.

Then something moved under the bedsheets, right in front of my eyes.

I grabbed the bat and swung. But whatever it was, it was fast, and dodged the crack by inches. It shuffled around under the bedspread, as I smacked the bed again and again, panting heavily.

I stopped to take a breath, and as I did, the lump under the sheets stopped too, as if it had read my mind.

A quiet tearing sound came from the rounded lump. A soft riiiiip that nevertheless penetrated the silence like a gunshot.

A hole appeared in my quilt. I spotted a thin claw, like that of a lizard, and a scaly, yellow eye. It blinked twice, then vanished.

The lump began to move again, this time towards the side of the bed where it met the wall. There was a thin crack there, between the frame and the wall, in which it would be able to slip and escape. I wasn't about to let that happen.

With the bat, I hammered away ferociously, blocking its movements with each swing. It seemed disorientated, moving in circles, trying to dodge my blows.

Eventually, it tried to make a break for it. The lump moved in a straight line for the edge, in a desperate gamble to reach the safety of the wall before I could take another swing.

The bat was too slow. Quickly, I scanned the room, and spotted my guitar binder on the desk next to me, within arm's reach. A binder filled with over 300 pages of tablature, as thick as a phone book.

I picked it up, hefted it onto my shoulder, and threw.

The book landed with pinpoint accuracy. I almost could hear a faint yelp, then the cracking of bones as the binder thudded, with grim finality, on the lump. It stopped moving.

Afraid of what I might find, I gripped the bat tightly in my left hand. With my right, I peeled the blankets back.

There was nothing there. Just a grey and black pile of ashes, and a thin trickle of smoke rising from them.

I picked up the entire bedsheet by the corners, avoiding the small mountain of ashes. Wrapping the cloth together, I bundled it into the garbage bag, then took the bag outside into the garage, pinching it by the corners.

I packed the bag, complete with the bundled bedsheets, into a metal bucket. Then I doused the entire thing with a generous amount of gasoline.

I brought the entire thing into my driveway. Standing a safe distance away, I tossed a match in.

I watched until the entire thing burned away. All that was left were ashes.

Feeling relieved, I returned to my room. The mess seemed less troublesome now, and I quickly disposed of anything unusual right away. My curiosity would not get the better of me again.

I tucked myself in that night, yawning from tension and nervousness. Closing my eyes, I put my hands behind my head, underneath my pillow.

And I felt something.

Hard. Round. Like a seed.

And another one.

And another one.

As I rolled them in my hands, realization dawning on me, I heard a thin crack. And another.

Then something cold touched my hand.

Winter

2008-11-23T23:53:00.003-05:00

He lay his head down. The damp cardboard was ice-cold against his skin, although he had a full head of scraggly hair to keep him warm. The extra clothes he had taken from the hotel coatroom were already coated with a thin layer of frost, which seeped with ease through the thick nylon coats and leather jackets.

The skies were clear, and he watched his breath leave him in a plume of fog. As he inhaled, the cold sapped at his lungs like a knife, and he coughed wetly. The pneumonia was worse, but hospital fees were expensive, and medications didn't come easily without a prescription. There were some peddlers on the street, but there was a slim chance of finding any black market pills at this time of the year. Instead, he pulled the wet jackets close, tucking them under his body to keep the cold out.

A police siren blared, frighteningly close, and he pulled himself deeper into the alley's shadows. The wind whistled, drowning out the sounds as it howled through the narrow passage, biting at his face with cruel teeth. He pulled himself along with both hands numb in the snow, using the cardboard underneath him as a slide. The rancid smell of rotten food caught his nose as he passed a dumpster, full of the week's leftovers. There were some things not even the homeless would touch, unless it was a matter of life and death.

A sharp hiss caught his attention. By the restaurant's back door, a small porch light illuminated a wall vent, pouring a hot steam into the air. The dishwashers were probably running for the night. He pulled up close to the pipe, grateful for the warmth. Luckily, the pipe was unoccupied, and free for the night. He wrapped himself up as best he could, but the night air still nipped at his face and ankles. He closed his eyes and nodded off to a restless sleep.

The stars were out.

Writer's Block

2008-11-18T23:01:00.001-05:00

His mind was blank, like the sheet on his desk.

The pencil obeyed swiftly in scratches of lead,
And his thoughts ran around like mice in his head.
The paper remained blank; he let out a sigh,
Watching as the page sucked his thoughts dry.

A white square that seemed to open the air,
To empty his head of the ideas he kept there.
The wastebasket filled with ball after ball
Of crumpled up paper, he tossed them all.

He looked at his watch, it was late in the night,
A comfortable bed was just on his right.
But he pushed on with one goal in his mind,
To finish one story, whatever one he could find.

So the hours rolled by, and still he remained,
He tried to invent stories, rhymes he all feigned.
The poem was done, but it was not what he sought,
So it went in the trash without a second of thought.

And finally he finished, with a smile on his face,
One page, with an effort, like running a race.
So where is this story that made him furrow his brow?
It's the poem you're reading on blogspot right now.

Unsaid

2008-08-26T21:26:00.002-04:00

There were so many things he never said,
Buried deep inside the recesses of his head,
And now she's gone he wonders what they were,
The words unspoken between him and her.

His mouth was always closed in fear,
Never saying what she wanted to hear,
Until the day that she passed away,
And now he wishes for things to say.

Things like 'I love you' and 'I love you too,'
'I need you here,' 'I only want you,'
The words he never said in all her life,
Stab inside him like a twisting knife.

He was never there, with work and play,
Leaving her to wait at home all day,
At night he'd sleep, too tired to talk,
And day after day it was no longer a shock.

She faded slowly like a whisper of air,
He never noticed until she wasn't there,
And then he was there, and she was gone,
He finally realized what he did wrong.

Now he lives his life all alone,
No children to tell of, none of his own,
No reminders of her and no memories but one,
How he had treated her and what he had done.

He stands by a gravestone with flowers in hand,
Tears gently falling into the darkening land,
His mouth slowly moves, 'I love you,' he states,
But his greatest regret is now it's too late.

The Darkness Wore a Human Skin

2008-07-03T00:41:00.002-04:00

The darkness wore a human skin
to take his pretty pictures in
A charming disguise so well-made
to aid the simple part he played
With a hello to the men on the street
and a tip of the hat to all he did meet
He made his way to the studio
where the filmmakers waited row on row
They set their records and greased the lens
and gathered up the odds and ends
The show went well without a hitch
except for one tiny little stitch
The cameras on the stage did snap
and the audience began to clap
And in the sudden flash of light
he hid his face and strove to flight
Dashing from the theatre far
and flagging down a nearby car
He retreated to the shadows there
and ran a cold hand through his hair
Whispering 'take me to the river near'
as the driver sat in frozen fear
The lights of the city fled away
as they drove past hills of dirt and clay
And finally the darkness rose
and peeled his skin from head to toes
He placed his fee in the driver's hand
and put his feet in the riverbank's sand
And stepping in he sank from sight
but they saw him in the sky at night
Rising high to the heavens overhead
and underneath the childrens' beds
In the shadowed places around the world
he slinked his darkest form unfurled
Behind the counters and under the sink
and behind the moon as some might think
And hidden deep in the hearts of man
where few of us can understand
In places bright he cannot go
as those who see already know

But the darkness still lurks
with his slow, soft, grin
Buried deep beneath my skin

To Write

2008-06-25T01:10:00.002-04:00

Here are some of the ideas I always wanted to write, but never got the time to. Some of them may seem familiar, so I'm going to throw them up here.

Nightmare Rising: A story I once wrote on The Nook. When people dream, their minds enter a world shared by the Dangoth, protector of the dreamworld, and the Yan, the bringer of nightmares. When one young boy falls asleep, his dreams prove to be the final tip in the balance of power. Will he side with the Dangoth, or the Yan? Will the dreamworld fall into darkness, or will it be saved from it?

Once Upon a Time: Another Nook story, involving the world of fairytales. Things have gone terrible wrong in the land of Once Upon a Time, and the creatures within have become twisted and broken. Happily Ever After no longer applies, and the once-paradise has become a wasteland where villains thrive and heroes weep. Is there any hope left, or are the days of peace numbered?

Save Yourself

2008-06-12T14:04:00.002-04:00

I wrote this a while back. Short, depressingly dark, and different than my current state of mind. But it's still relevant and real.

It's a very sad world we live in,
Where people kill themselves,
Mothers smother their babies,
And families are torn apart.

Close to home though...
We're so happy in our world.
There's a lot of peace,
And beauty,
In all that we experience.
Or is there?
I'm not emo,
No doubt you might think so.
I'm merely realistic,
To the point of fatalism.
I like to take the truth,
Not lies.
And what I see...

It's so harsh when your friends
Whisper behind your back.
It's cold when the people you love
Hurt themselves in vain.
It's terrible to feel that deep
Jagged wound,
Straight into your very soul,
Stabbed in the back,
By the people you believed in.
You thought they would understand,
But they understood nothing.
You thought you understood,
But you understood nothing.
Ignorance is not innocence,
But Sin.
Yes, you might have loved me,
If you had known me.
If you'd have taken the time,
To walk through the deep rivers
Of my dreams and memories.
Yes, you might have...
But no, it's alright.
It was a dark river we were both
Swept down...
And it was either you or me,
One or the other would live.
But I'll let you know.
You chose to save yourself...
And I would have chose to save you too.

The Heart Speaks Many Words

2008-05-28T22:50:00.002-04:00

What does the heart say to you?

Hands entwined, facing a world unknown,
Terminus at every corner, a boundary at every door.
To step into the light and chase away the shadows.

I'll walk with you the lonely roads, holding together your ragged seams,
Chasing away the nightmares that plague you in your waking dreams.
Wiping the tears from your face and throwing them into the sky,
Swashing the night canvas with the rainbows of your eye.

Holding your heart in my hands, fragile as a melting snowflake,
My breath on your neck, lips near ears, so afraid you'll break,
Kissing your eyelids and hushing the loud noises of the world,
To watch the blooming of a delicate flower, or a bright flag unfurled.

Notes of a swelling chorus, playing a melody on my heartstrings,
A rising flood of emotions, with piercing sharp pangs and stings,
Wounded by your whispering voice and the touch of your hands,
Trapped forever in an endless hourglass, beneath the falling sands.

And now the frozen, lifeless land has begun to bloom once more,
Bringing the pained and broken spirit back to the way it was before,
The ice of solidarity drips from my skin, the frost from yours,
Thin rivulets of flowing water erasing all the earthly sores.

Catching the music spun by the soul in clear jars made of love,
Hands clutched tightly together with the strength of a soaring dove,
Sewn together with the stitches of laughter, and held by a single pin,
Hope and grace so pure, in souls united, untouched by the hand of sin.

And now, rising to the finale, a crashing crescendo of pain forgot,
One soul in two bodies, the greatest miracle that loving God has wrought,
And even as the chorus fades, the music softens and rises above,
And finally, we're flying on the beautiful wings of love.

This is Not a Love Story

2008-05-27T20:37:00.002-04:00

May 27, 2008

Have you ever been in love?

The terror of eternity in a single touch,
Changing noble independence into twisted reliance,
Like a subtle kiss from a whispering vampire,
Bit through the heart and wounded beyond repair.

A promise of loving large, but hurting large,
Struggling for words like a drowner for air,
Chained together so that any short absence
Tears mercilessly and painfully at the strings.

The red-tinged stain of broken hearts, rejected,
Crushed underfoot like a small and fragile flower,
Eating into hearts, dissolving inhibitions,
And grinning with smiles of fearful longing.

More afraid of change than destruction,
Hearts held hostage by the cruelest of masters,
Taking off masks with a soft, cold hand,
Stealing away time like a thief in the night.

Burning lips, minds, hearts and thoughts,
Twisted, distracted, paranoid and afraid,
So simple a phrase, "Maybe we could just be friends,"
Brings the world crashing down on the knees of hope.

High Heels

2008-05-22T23:44:00.001-04:00

When life gets tough,
There's only so much we can do to survive.

If you stumble, take off your high heels.
Take my hand and follow me into places where your mind says no.
Cast aside the image society has forced you to wear.
Turn off your cell phone, hang up your designer jacket.
Wipe the makeup from your face and see with clear eyes,
Unclouded by media and the masses, and look on life unblinking.
Listen to my voice, not as a person but as an idea,
And leave aside all the things that aren't you.
Shatter the image you present to the world,
Bare the soul within, and show me who you really are.
Tear away the pretty gift wrap and open your heart,
Because it's not what's on the outside that counts to me.
A touch between hands is fragile enough, and ends in time,
But a connection between hearts and minds is forever.
So take away what you're not and leave only what you are,
Mind, Body and Soul united in beauty unsurpassed.

Alone

2008-05-19T01:14:00.001-04:00

If I die before I wake,
My soul to lose, or is more at stake?
In my mind the crying masses
Touch my body as it passes.

And as it drops there's not a sound
Just a whisper as it hits the ground.
Words are passed, memories shared,
"He was so young, I wasn't prepared."

All my friends go home in tears,
and leave me be, beyond earthly fears.
But life is much more harsh than this:
Men die alone, no one last kiss.

No hand to hold, no one beside,
Just the emptiness they feel inside.
No one to mourn, no grave to mark,
Their resting place far in the dark.

As time goes on, they fade as well,
No memories on which to dwell.
Unremembered, and unrecalled,
Discarded, trashed and uninstalled.

Phantom Limb

2008-04-06T13:50:00.001-04:00

George sat down. The chair creaked noisily as he reached for his art supplies, carefully placing his brushes and paints by the edge of the tall easel. He took a deep, shaky breath. He hadn't tried painting anything since before the accident.

He took the thick brush in his left hand. It felt awkward - he had been right-handed, but his condition was forcing him to adapt. He sat for a few seconds and sighed heavily at the blank canvas, like a white door to nothingness.

Glancing down, he lifted his right arm silently. The forearm ended in a short stump, capped with a plastic and metal construct, covered with silicone to appear more 'life-like'. It looked like the arm of a doll, or puppet. He placed this hand back down on his lap with a soft thunk and closed his eyes.

A crash of metal, a loud bang, the stench of gasoline. His helmet lying by the side of the road, the bike crushed by the other vehicle. The driver of the van running out and screaming. The taste of blood in his mouth. The missing feeling as he tried to push himself up, then the fall and the shock of realization like a lightning bolt.

George opened his eyes slowly, and raised his head to the canvas again. If he was going to get through this, he needed to push his limits. He wouldn't let his disability hinder what he loved doing. Raising his left hand, he tried again.

Dipping the brush into the red paint, he awkwardly swashed it across the canvas, then stopped. The acrid smell of the red stain crossing the page burned his nose harshly, and he felt his frustration rise. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. Another red mark joined the first one, making a small, uneven cross on the fabric.

A trembled breath escaped his lips. He tossed the brush down to the bottom of the easel, and sat there shaking like a leaf caught in the cold wind. With his good hand he tore away the canvas, revealing a new sheet, then crumpled the offending piece and tossed it away. The sharp smell of the paint surrounded him like a dark cloud as he sat, breathing hard.

A thought came unbidden to him at that moment, and he hesitated nervously. Picking up the brush with his left hand, he placed it in the groove of his artificial hand. It fit perfectly, and although the fingers of that hand couldn't grip, the brush tucked neatly into the palm as though it was made for it.

He dipped the brush again - just a touch, as if testing the water with a toe - and placed it against the canvas.

Excitement rushed through him as he felt the familiar thrill of painting fill his body. This was natural, easy, and even though his hand had lost dexterity, his arm remembered what it was like to paint, and followed the motions it had known so long ago. It was a little rusty, a little awkward, but familiar, and right.

As George continued, he realized that he hadn't decided to paint any particular thing. His arm still moved, picking up the pace, until it was swinging wildly with the brush, scoring the canvas like a fencer. And even odder, the prosthetic arm no longer felt like a false one. He could feel his hand again, crossing the page, moving of its own accord.

His hand wouldn't stop. Despite his efforts to step away, something kept him rooted in the chair - whether it was something magical, something mysterious, or his own subconcious mind. He stared intently with blue eyes, scratching out an unintelligble picture. His left hand sporadically brushed hair out of his eyes, or scratched at his leg, but the right arm was in constant motion, almost wild.

And finally, the motion slowed down. His arm stopped, the brush hanging on the last thread of the painting. The feeling left his hand, and it no longer felt real - it was just a piece of metal and plastic now, locked to his arm. It dropped, the brush clattering to the ground, and the hand landing by his side with a slow swing, like a pendulum in time with his heartbeat.

George realized his eyes were closed. He opened them and raised his head to see what he had painted.

*Author's note: I don't know what he painted either.

A Tearful Death

2008-03-30T14:10:00.002-04:00

The Visitor
Oct 19, 2006

He was waiting for her when she got home.

He sat in the dark, on time, merely counting the minutes until she would return. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness of the room, and the only sound was that of the ticking clock, counting by the seconds and minutes until she would return.

And suddenly, the front door opened, letting light spill into the room, chasing away the shadows. He rose as she entered.

For a few minutes they stood and watched each other. She seemed shocked, but then again, most people were, even though they saw him coming.

After a while, she spoke.

"I've expected you for a while," she commented in a weak but conversational tone of voice, as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know." he replied.

"You look more... weary than I expected. Not at all like I thought you would."

"Appearances are misleading. The occupation isn't the most rewarding in the world." He motioned to a maple dining chair. "Would you like to take a seat, before we end this?"

"Thank you. But if you don't mind, I'd like to have a cup of warm tea first, then lie back in my bed while you do... your business." She shuffled slowly to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh no, thank you very much," he replied, "but I can only stay for so long."

"I understand." She placed her warm drink on the bedside table. Rubbing her thighs with her hands, she turned away from him. "It's a very cold night tonight."

"Yes, I know. I brought the car along instead of the horse."

"Is that a joke? I didn't know this was so funny," she said, but there was a deep resignation in her eyes, and a glint of humor about the situation.

"Well, life is what we make of it, is it not? Humor can be seen in anything, and in my... line of work, humor is a necessary function- we armor ourselves with it, to prevent despair."

"I suppose it is. I'm just glad this is turning out to be so easy. I was actually quite nervous, but now that you're here, I don't really mind at all. I suppose there's no turning back now either."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the ticking of the clock matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Counting down the seconds, like a cruel Fortune, a despairing Fate.

"Do you have any questions before I do what I have to?" He moved from the shadows, took a seat in the chair opposite the bed, looking at her with his hands clasped.

"I... I do have one question..." She looked up at him with her eyes suddenly full of glistening tears.

"Yes?"

"Was it the drugs? Or just age? Or perhaps something else?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not the right person to tell you that. I'm here to do my business, and I'm passing through, just like everyone else."

She sat for a long while, without words, or movement. He sat equally as still and silent, waiting for an answer, a response, something.

Finally, she spoke.

"Are you going to kill me?" she said, her hands trembling as she reached for the cup.

He paused.

"You're already dead," He replied, touching her shoulder, and she was.

Taking the silk blankets, he tucked her in gently, closed her open eyes with tender love, and took the empty cup from her limp hands.

He pulled his hood over his head, picked up his scythe, and walked back into the streets.

The air outside was chilly. It matched the ice surrounding his heart, and the tingle of frost running down his spine.

He looked up at the full moon smiling down on him, and that was when the tears began to fall.

A Mother

2008-03-18T10:33:00.001-04:00

*Author's Note: I wrote this for my mother's 50th birthday. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

What is a mother?
A mother isn't a job, or a person, but an idea.
A mother is a lifelong commitment to selflessness.

Mothers are different than other women.
Their faces are worn, from years of nagging,
and their hair doesn't match the latest styles-
in fact, sometimes their hair isn't done at all.
A mother's clothing is often wrought with holes;
not because she can't afford nice clothes,
but because her children need the latest fashions.

A mother has certain gifts that may not seem obvious.
Her kisses can heal anything,
from broken bones to broken hearts.
Her hands are rough from years of hard work,
but are still the softest things on the earth.
She knows what you're thinking before you do,
and what you're about to do before you do it.

A mother can fix anything, from sinks to furnaces,
Even after engineering students have tried their best.
Sometimes, it seems as if she has six pairs of hands,
To work, to hold, to comfort, and to scold.
The heart of a mother is bottomless,
Full of forgiveness, of love, of caring-
A mother's love endures beyond all.

A mother's love cannot be measured.
It has no beginning, and has no end.

Abandoned: Part 1

2008-03-18T02:54:00.000-04:00

"Fuck," Tom muttered to himself. His SUV kicked up a spray of rubble and sand as it rumbled over the dirt road. With one hand on the steering wheel, and the other on the map, he cursed again, periodically glancing up, before turning his gaze back on the map.

Looking behind himself, Tom checked that all his baggage was securely tied down. This road trip was shaping up to be a bad idea, he thought. First the overbooked hotel, the flat tires, and now he was lost, traveling down the backwaters of rural America, wandering around in the damn desert. When he had first set out, he was sure that the trip would be full of adventure - but now, all he wanted to do was go home, sit back and watch some television.

"Aarghhhhh!" Frustrated, Tom pulled over to the side of the road, his car tilting onto the sparse grass. The hot midday sun beat down relentlessly, heating up the leather interior of the SUV. Tom turned up the air conditioning, blowing the scents of suntan lotion and sweat away, and flapped the map open on his lap, sending a fine dust into the air.

With a pen, he marked down his route, trying to figure out where he had gone off course. The map was already criss-crossed with red lines, denoting stops and routes, distances and calculations. After a few minutes of staring at the unreadable mess, Tom slammed the map down on his lap and gave a strangled scream of anger. If there were only some gas station, or an information kiosk...

Suddenly, Tom stared off into the distance. Leaning forward, he wiped at the windshield. Nope, it wasn't a smudge on the glass - there was smoke rising from the horizon. A house? A station? Whatever it was, smoke meant people, and people meant help. Maybe they would have directions back to the main road.

Tom shifted into gear. Pressing his foot on the gas, the car roared and sped off, leaving dust clouds in its wake. For the next few hours, he drove, keeping an eye on the dwindling smoke pillar. Eventually by nightfall the smoke had disappeared, but Tom was certain he was headed in the right direction. His hunch proved to be right when he rolled into a small town at the base of a small hill - and just in time. The sun was going down at a fast pace, almost as if it were falling into the surrounding desert.

Parking his car in front of a lit house, Tom turned off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. As he approached the building, he noticed old-fashioned carts and churns along the side of the wall, and the lights emanating from the window appeared to be flickering alike candles, rather than electric lights. Maybe this was some sort of Amish community, like the brochure back in the car described.

Upon reaching the door and failing to find a doorbell, Tom knocked twice. He could hear muffled conversation from behind the door, and saw shadows moving in the tinted windows. The knob rattled, and Tom stepped backwards as the door swung open.

Simultaneously, Tom screamed and jumped backwards, as the... creature on the other side of the threshold did the same. The door slammed between the two, Tom rushing back to his car, frantically fumbling at the door, yanking it open, throwing himself inside, locking the door after him, and only then did he allow himself to take another breath. Panting, he looked back at the house, where shadows were moving quickly across the window.

What was that? He put a hand to his forehead. All he had seen were two wide circles for eyes, a long muzzle, a bald scalp. As the picture clarified in his head, he almost laughed in relief. It was just a gas mask - the strange nature of it was what had startled him. It was probably just some kids playing around. Tom tossed his head back and closed him eyes. It was the stress getting to him, making him see things that weren't there.

A knock at his window startled him. Opening his eyes, he saw a shadowy figure at the car door. He flicked on the interior light and wound down his window slightly. It was another gas-masked person, holding a candle. "Hello?"

"Who are you?" A muffled voice came through the mask, noisily echoing with the hiss of the filter. "What are you doing here?"

There was a strange lilt to the man's accent, something vaguely sophisticated. Shrugging it off, Tom responded. "My name's Tom, I got lost across the 402. I think I made a wrong turn somewhere. Do you know how I can get back onto the main roads?"

But the man didn't appear to be listening. Looking over his shoulder for a second, he turned back to Tom before asking more questions. "Why aren't you wearing a mask? Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid?" Tom shook his head, puzzled. "Why are you wearing masks? Is there something I'm missing here?"

The man looked at Tom, his eyes unreadable under the gas mask, his expression hidden. Stepping back, he appeared to be observing the SUV. "What is this? Some sort of mechanized tank? Are you with the Germans? Where is your gas mask?"

"I'm German, yeah - I mean, my parents were born in-"

Before he could continue, the man reared back. Turning around he ran back into his house, shouting something unintelligible. Tom stared, utterly confused, and a little frightened. This place was weird.

Without Us

2008-01-18T22:58:00.000-05:00

The wind whistles across the empty, barren streets. A solitary scrap of newspaper skitters lightly, barely touching the ground, before being swept up into the sunlit sky. The clear air has a lively scent, full of vigor and freshness.

A thundering noise is heard from the alleyways of the old city, as a herd of deer burst into the intersection. Their hooves crack the pavement, already weakened by the regrowth of plants underneath the surface. They run, unafraid, beneath slowly flickering street lamps and rusted bridges.

Where did the people go? An alien visitor, passing by, would only see traces of civilization, a faint hint of an industrial people. Perhaps they were taken off to a re-education camp somewhere in the galaxy? Or maybe they simply died out. No matter the reason, the results are the same: the world is coming back to life.

A power station slowly creaks through its dying stages, supplying the tiny vestiges of electricity that spark from line to line. The night sky is clear now, and the stars are visible in the billions. Cities grow dark at night, with only the faintest glow from the few still-surviving street lamps.

Plants grow from buildings, forcing their strong roots between crevices and gaps, slowly shattering bricks and frames. The skyline is shaded by large oaks and elms, which have found footholds in old vehicles and mailboxes along the roadside. Every nook and cranny is filled with vegetation, as ivy crawls up skyscrapers and moss blankets the roads. The air is saturated with the smell of moisture and life.

The deer stop to drink from a large puddle that has gathered in the center of a city park. Rainwater rolls down in rivulets off the edge of a building. It's clear that within the next few years, that trickle of water will become a stream, will become a river. A few fish have made their way into the pond, from running tributaries, or perhaps the flooded subway systems, and look up at the deer with wide-eyed curiousity.

Birds circle overhead, and one dives, catching an unwary cod. Endangered species are only just beginning to bounce back from the brink of extinction. The circle of life is complete once again, as the earth heals itself from numerous wounds. A wolf cries out a lonely, piercing howl somewhere in the distance.

For a minute, a shadow of the past takes hold. People walk along the sidewalks, crowds upon crowds, pushing through the congestion. Cars stream around corners and down streets with reckless abandon. The sky becomes dark with smog, and the dreary, heartless society seems to become complete.

Then, in the next instant, the vision is gone; the sky returns to blue, the air clears and the day brightens. With a thunder of hoofs, a fluttering of wings, and the solitary cry of an animal pulled back from extinction, the world smiles.

A Story

2008-01-02T20:15:00.002-05:00

If you cut open my head and took a look at my brain, you'd find thousands of thumb prints from the thousands of people that have left their mark on me. And one day, I'll get the biggest damn shovel I can find and dig the biggest damn grave and put everything I have ever learned from the world in that hole and cover it up.

A Story

There once was a single point that erupted cataclysmically in the largest explosion in history. Dust flew in every direction, and drew together over billions of years. Stars popped into being, and planets began to circle them, drawn in by their massive gravity, but balanced by their own movements. On one, or perhaps a few, of these planets, something happened, no one knows what, and a living creature was born. This particular creature managed to survive and multiply, its descendants crawling up onto dry ground, going through many many changes, over billions of years, eons and ages. And eventually, one of these creatures gave birth to another creature who gave birth to another creature who eventually stood up and looked around, and that continued on for a bit, until one day one particular creature was born, and was named Justin, and he is the reason why you're reading all of this right now.

Not The End

Fantastic, wasn't it? But the story doesn't end there. Oh no, there's a second part too.

The Second Bit Which is Somewhat More Depressing

There once was a group of creatures on a certain planet which orbited a certain star in such a way that the creatures living on the planet were blessed with a large amount of natural, usable resources. They used these to build very big planes and fast cars and televisions and laptop computers and toothpicks and small golden statues they used to give to people that were good at pretending to be people they weren't. All this mucking around with their planet began to take its toll in the form of big grey clouds that made it hard to breathe, and green slimy bits that floated in water, which meant you had to boil and filter everything before using it. It didn't help when the internet was invented, and mind-bogglingly stupid shows came on the television, and some people sat around anyways and got really, really fat, while other people had to pick in the garbage for food because they didn't have a television or a computer to get fat in front of. Also, some of them went crazy and started killing others with machines they had invented that shot small bits of metal, in schools and in churches and in other countries, etc. Some people didn't agree with this and decided to stop them by shooting bits of metal at them.

Also Not The End

There's a third bit too, but that part's really depressing and I don't much feel like writing about it now. Why don't you try?

No? Alright, I'll have a go at it.

The Third Bit

There once was a group of mind-bogglingly stupid, fat creatures that had shriveled up legs because they never used them for anything, and big eyes and hands they used to watch and change TV channels and Youtube videos. They relied on tiny robots to move them and feed them and do their laundry and sing them lullabies when they wanted to sleep. Procreation was limited to two massively obese people squeezing against each other and slapping their chunky bodies together, in the slim chance that things might actually fit and that neither of them had a sexually-transmitted disease. Eventually, they all got so dependent on their technology that when the power went out for a day, millions died because they couldn't remember how to use the toilet, and others died because they forget how to light candles and tripped down the stairs. The sad part was the government had little cameras everywhere spying on people and they were laughing at all of this before their hearts gave out and killed them. The only people left were the ones who were picking through piles of garbage for food, because they didn't have Youtube or American Idol.

The En- No no, wait, that's not right. Let me try again.

The Better Third Bit

There once was a group of creatures that had a couple of problems, but didn't let it get to them. After nailing someone to a tree for suggesting it would be nice if they all got along, they finally got the message and decided that it would be nice if everyone was treated fairly. So they got out more and talked to people in real life, and exercised often, and ate healthy foods, and started walking instead of driving cars around, and took time to look at the stars, and learned how to cook instead of ordering pizza every night, and everyone was better off. The sky was blue and the water was clean and everyone had enough to eat without worrying about getting fat because all natural foods are pretty healthy for you. The people digging through piles of garbage for food only did it for fun after that.

The End

Well then. I liked that ending a lot better than the other one.

Recycling Earth: First Cycle

2007-12-24T00:48:00.000-05:00

The soft morning glow from the bedside window spread across the room like a consuming fire. As it crossed her eyelids, Joan groaned loudly and rolled over, pulling her sheets over her head. Yawning, she lay in bed for a few moments, savouring the warmth of her bedsheets, loathe to put her bare feet on the cold carpet and start another day.

The short, loud blips of her alarm clock provoked another groan. Joan tossed herself out of bed with numerous cracks, wincing as the cold hit her body like tiny daggers. She trudged her way across the carpet, blinking away sleep and rubbing her eyes.

"My stupid idea to put the alarm clock on the other side of the room," she muttered to herself in a voice hoarse with fatigue. Slamming a hand down on the button, she stretched out, her grey singlet rising up on her chest as she inhaled deeply. Her green eyes skimmed her bare room, which contained only her necessities, until she spotted her uniform hanging on the back of her desk chair.

A few moments later, Joan slipped into the shower, letting the water run warm rivulets off her body. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair as the water pounded on her head, running down her neck and off the soft curves of her shoulders. Minutes passed as she washed away the sweat and grime that had accumulated during the night, while her mind planned out her daily routine. Water swirled away like a miniature whirlpool as it traveled down the drain into oblivion.

With a twist, she shut off the taps. A final drop of clear water fell from the showerhead, before making a loud echoing plink as it hit the tiled floor. Joan stepped out, drying herself with a fluffy orange towel from the metal rack above the toilet. Wiping the steamed mirror with a hand, she spent a few minutes attending to her hair and makeup before the mirror began to cloud over again. Sighing, she pulled her one-piece uniform on, zipping it up at the front to the neck, fixing the collar, smoothing out wrinkles, and then ran it over with a lint brush before stepped out the door.

The scent of peach soap followed Joan out of the bathroom, lingering in the air like perfume. Her grey tailor-fit uniform swayed on her slender frame as she packed her handbag for work. She made her bed with care, tucking each corner into the sheets and fluffing her pillow. She stepped around the bed for a moment, pulling the sheets straight, then turned to the window. With a hand, she pulled open the blinds and looked out.

The stars were beautiful today. If she wasn't watching for it, the slow rotation of the station would have missed her completely. Straight ahead, she could see the faint orb of the sun, spots speckling its surface, and the black shadow of Mercury as it passed in front. And far overhead, the rest of the space station hung ominously like a crouching machine, an unnatural creation in the natural world.

Although she tried to look away, Joan's eyes moved of their own accord, picking out the one object she never wanted to be reminded of. A black, misshapen rock, tumbling through the cosmos, scarred and blasted, what anyone would call a wasteland. It moved slowly beneath the station, in an odd orbit, as the sunlight glanced off the numerous craters and wounds. She looked at it in longing and distaste. The awkward motion of the former planet, its deep gouges and odd shape - all reminders of failure, of anger and hatred, of the inability to overcome prejudice and darkness. The failure of humanity.

With a sigh, she turned away from the window. There was work to be done.

Snapshots of my Mind

2007-11-15T10:03:00.000-05:00

I haven't had much time to write, so I'm posting a few short clips from things I may write in the future. Hope you enjoy them - they may be real stories one day!

The old barber accidentally poked at her swollen boil with his sharp scissors. With a wet, oozing squelch, the red skin broke, leaking pus and small flakes of dead skin. In horror, the barber watched as hundreds of small spiders skittered out, scattering as she screamed.

She slipped the sock onto her slim foot, then screamed as it began to bite her ankles, with sharp , yellowed fangs rimming the inside of the fabric, and dark blood seeping from the wounds. Within seconds, her foot was sheared off in a bloody, ragged mess. The sock, a sack of bloody flesh, burped.

She kissed him hard, her lips pressing tightly to his, her arms wrapped around his head. His hands came around to encircle her hips, and she pulled him into her bedroom. Her hand reached down to his pant line and began to unbutton his jeans.

He unwrapped the first chocolate bar, slowly peeling the foil wrapper down. Taking a bite, he crunched a few times, then stopped, looking puzzled. The candy felt and tasted like bones. He broke the chocolate in half, revealing a hundreds of small bugs and a severed human finger melted into the chewy center.

"I didn't know you used to be an actor," he began.
The laundromat owner shook his head. "I was never big. Just a few small roles in some obscure movies... then I had to come back here, to take care of the family. Things change."
"I don't want to bring back bad memories," he said. "But I'd love to see you perform something."

He picked up the rock with both hands. Instantly, he could feel power coursing through his body, running up and down his arms like water. Closing his eyes tightly, he took a deep breath and made his wish.

"I was in the boiler room - that was no accident," said the mechanic. "The boat was sunk on purpose."

He woke up, gasping for breath.

Sticks and Stones

2007-10-29T23:23:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-25T00:00:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-08T00:07:00.000-04:00

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.

Sometimes.../The Dark

2007-09-22T22:45:00.000-04:00

Some stuff I wrote a long time ago... try and enjoy it without hurting yourself ;)

Sometimes...

Thoughts keep moving
Through my mind,
Like waves on a beach,
Meeting their end
On that shore of ideal.
I can never keep track
Of what I'm thinking,
Because these thoughts
And memories...
They're just like a flock
Of lost birds through
The empty sky...
Not that my head is
Empty... or is it?
In any case, thoughts
Are SO hard to maintain,
And writing becomes a
Chore, rather than a hobby.
And, like always,
The mood dies
And I miss that train...
Again and again.
What can I say?
Someday... it gets better.

The Dark

Let me tell you a STORY:

There was a boy,
who had it all.

But then SHIT HAPPENED,
Death happened,

And he fell, very far, into the
dark, where he found people,
exactly like him-

just
like
him.

And he devised a plan, to
ESCAPE.

But when the time came,
he lifted everyone out of that hole,
The Dark.

And found that no one was left
to lift him up...

and everyone had
run away...

and no one would
pull him up.

And he waited.
And waited.

A Faded Memory

2007-09-14T22:52:00.000-04:00

An excerpt from []

INITIUS: PENUMBRA

Clack clack

The train quickly rumbled its way over the bridge, letting off a groan like a giant beast. Rivers of blue sparkled below, reflecting the surreal peaks of mountains in the clear water. Along the train rushed, carrying its cargo of tired workers and exhausted employees home.

People sat quietly, reading newspapers and listening to music. The ones where stood constantly checked and rechecked their watches, sighing and fidgeting. On the edge of the train, one boy sat in a seat too large for him, his face and hands pressed to the window, leaving a smear of fingerprints and oils across the glass. The colorful sights passed by in the blink of an eye, leaving a stain of flashing colors just across his field of vision. He could vaguely glimpse his reflection in the glass, like a phantom twin staring back at him.

He clasped his mother’s hand as he turned back around. It was warm; a contrast to the cold metal seat he was perched on and he felt it squeeze as she looked down at him. Wind suddenly whistled through the train as it entered a tunnel, buckling the passengers back and forth like a bulls at a rodeo. The boy held tight as he swayed, almost falling off his seat and into the sudden darkness. He could still hear the tired voices of the passengers, but the old-style train had no interior lights, and now the quiet whispers seemed like they were emerging from his own head, and the darkness surrounding him.

A quick, brief flash of light illuminated the faces of the rail users as the train passed under a gap in the tunnel wall. In quick succession, a number of these gaps passed by, flickering the features of the people in and out of the darkness, like an old slideshow. The boy held his mother’s hand, and even though he took comfort from the warmth, the darkness scared the child in him, and the flashing faces appeared to belong to monsters of the dark, rather than human beings. Even as he looked up, his mother’s face seemed foreign and odd in the sputtering light.

Seconds dragged into minutes, minutes into countless time. The rhythmic pounding of the wheels on the metal tracks became a soft and slow lullaby; the flashes of light were nearly hypnotic, and the warm air like a thick blanket. He could feel his eyes slowly drifting into sleep, and even as he held his mother’s hand tightly, his dreams tore him away, sending him plummeting into his inner darkness.

A Wrong Number

2007-08-22T22:49:00.000-04:00

*Author's note: This is an older story, from about a year ago. It's the only 'non-disturbing' story I tried to write. I might have failed...

It was the middle of the night when he called.

"Hello?" Amelia said groggily.

"Hello? Who is this?" Came the reply. A man's voice. Deep, alluring, but that of a complete stranger.

"Uhm, you called me... it's four in the morning, who is this?" Amelia was annoyed. Wrong caller, she thought to herself, and prepared to hang up.

"Oh. Oh, sorry. I guess I got the wrong number. I'm really sorry for waking you up." The line went dead and Amelia slammed down the phone. Rolling over, she sighed and fell back asleep.

The next night, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Oh. Sorry, I think I dialed the wrong number again."

"Oh, hi, it's you again. Yeah, I think you have the wrong number."

"Sorry. I'm just trying to call a shipping company to check my order, and the number is really similar to yours."

"No, it's okay. I was just sleeping." Maybe the man detected a bit of sarcasm in her voice, because he replied,

"Sorry."

And hung up.

The next night, the phone rang a third time.

"Will you get the number right?" Amelia blew up into the reciever.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, see, I have these big clumsy fingers and I can't seem to dial the number right... I'm sorry."

Sighing, Amelia flopped back onto her bed. "No, I'm sorry for shouting like that... the neighbours probably think I'm nuts."

The man chuckled. "Well, you can always let them know there's a man in your life... that'd drive any girl nuts, I think."

They both laughed. Amelia tilted her head and asked, "Hey. What's your name?"

"Danny. Danny Oxford. And you?"

"I'm Amelia. I'm not telling you my last name. You might be a pervert." Although she believed no such thing.

"Nice to meet you Amelia."

"Likewise."

"So, I formally apologize for calling you at this obscene hour." Amelia smiled at his tone of voice.

"I formally accept your apology."

"Well, then, goodnight Amelia."

"Goodnight Danny."

And they hung up.

The next night, the phone rang again.

"Hello Danny."

"Hey Amelia."

"Wrong number again?"

"Actually... this is gonna sound weird, but bear with me."

"Okay..."

"I just sorta... wanted to hear your voice."

"Uhm. Really?"

"Yeah. Even though I don't really know you."

Amelia was touched. Not many guys would admit something like that. "Well Danny, I'm 23 years old... I live in a small apartment building. I work for a telephone company during the day and study at night. I want to be a marketing executive when I get my degree... my favourite colour is green and like all girls, I enjoy candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach."

"Wow, that's a lot to digest. As for me, you know my name, Danny Oxford. I'm 25 years old, I drive a broken down Prelude... I work in retail, for Winners... I live in California, and I have a pet dog."

"You live in California?!"

"Yeah, why?"

"So do I..."

"Oh. Probably because the shipping company is in Cali too."

"Oh right. Haha... I thought it might be fate."

"Yeah... haha. Anyways Amelia, it was nice talking to you... you sound like a really nice person."

"Hey Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me during the day."

"Oh. Oh! Sure, sure. Talk to you tomorrow Amelia."

"Goodnight, Danny."

The next night, the phone rang again.

"Danny?"

"Ohmigosh Amelia, I'm so sorry. I tried to call you, but I was sorta nervous and I actually dialed the number for the shipping company..."

Amelia laughed. A clear, musical tinkling laugh.

Danny laughed too. "I love your laugh. Even though it's night, it seems to brighten my day."

"That makes no sense!"

"I know. I'm not a skilled wordsmith, haha."

"Yeah..."

"So Amelia... I was just wondering. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Nope. I didn't have that much time for one. and now that I do... well, they're all taken."

"Haha... I don't have a girlfriend either. Well, I did. I broke up with her."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!"

"No, don't be. She was cheating on me with my cousin."

I'd never cheat on you, Amelia thought, then shook her head. What am I thinking? He's a complete stranger... and yet...

"Well, anyways, goodnight Amelia."

"Goodnight Danny."

"Sweet dreams."

"You too."

And they hung up.

The next night, the phone rang.

"Hey Amelia."

"Danny? Can you quit calling me at night?"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Haha, you have to stop saying that too. I stayed up tonight waiting for your call."

"Really?"

"...Yeah."

"Oh. I have a question."

"Shoot."

"Will you go out with me?"

Amelia sat for almost 10 seconds in open-mouthed shock before answering. "Danny, I hardly know you!"

"I know, but... hear me out okay?"

"Okay..."

"Well, when I called you that first night, it was a mistake, and so was the second night, but then I really started liking your voice and before I knew it, I had sorta, well, fallen in love with you, and I'm kinda embarrassed, but also kinda glad, cause I dunno-"

"Whoa, Danny, back up. You say you love me?"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"You don't know me that well..."

"I can tell. Your voice, the way you speak. You can make me laugh. That's all that really matters."

"Uhm, then, I guess..." Amelia bit her lip.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Oh great! What time should we meet? And where?"

"Well, which Winners do you work at?"

"Uhm, the one near the McDonalds..."

"Beside the subway?"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's the one."

"Oh, okay, I'll meet you... at... how about that new Italian restaurant?"

"The East Side Mario's? At... say 7:00?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, sure, I'll meet you there."

"Goodnight Danny."

But he had already hung up.

The next day, Amelia put on a short black skirt and a white blouse. She slung her hangbag over her arm, applied her lipstick and perfume, and glanced in the mirror. [i]Not bad,[/i] she thought to herself. She skipped to her waiting car, ready for a date with her mystery man.

She turned up her radio, started the car and spun out of the driveway. She headed down the street towards the East Side Mario's, all the while thinking about Danny, his voice, and how he would look like.

Her cell phone rang. It was her friend Magda. "Hey Mag, what's up?"

"Hey Ammy, you sound bright and cheery. Let me guess, it's a man?"

"Ahahaha... you know me too well."

"Yeah, heh. So, who is it?"

"Oh, it's a secret..."

"Ooooooh! Mystery date!"

"Haha, yeah." Amelia swerved to avoid a speeding car.

"Hope you have fun then!"

"Okay, bye Mag." Amelia had hardly put the phone down when it rang again. "Hello?"

"Hey Amelia!"

"Danny! I was just on my way!"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I'm heading to the East Side Mario's..."

"No, I thought I was coming to pick you up! At the dock right?"

"I said meet there at Seven O' CLOCK! Not dock, haha."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, pretty sure..." Amelia eyed the oncoming traffic closely. One red car was swerving erratically. She began to change lanes, just in case.

"Oh. I guess I'll head back to the restaurant then."

"Yeah, I guess so. See you there."

As Amelia turned to put down her cell phone, the red car in the oncoming lane swerved to make a U-turn. Amelia looked up just in time to see the other driver look up too. After putting down his cell phone.

Through the windshield, they looked at each other. A red Prelude. His eyes were the perfect blue, but widened with terror, recognition, regret, love, and ultimate sorrow. And she knew her eyes must have looked the same.

Then they collided, in a shower of glass, sparks, flame, and the screech of twisted metal.

The Ninth Master

2007-08-14T21:59:00.001-04:00

The Ninth Master
August 14, 2007

"He doesn't get out much, does he?"

"I don't know if he has any friends."

"I've never seen him even talk."

Jonas heard all their comments. The school hallways smelled the same as usual: cigarette smoke hazed the air, while the sharp scent of sweaty bodies clung to him like a living being. The comments would sound harsh, even if they did bother to keep their voices down, but Jonas continued to trudge through the littered corridors. There wasn't much interesting about the outside world nowadays. Not since he had found her.

Just this morning, he had whispered a quiet goodbye as she lay huddled under the sheets. Of course, she couldn't respond, but he felt her response in his heart. From the first day, he knew that everything else was a waste of time, and the only real thing was what she brought to him. And even as he passed under the doorway of his first class, he had her in his thoughts.

"Jonas, you're late again," the professor muttered. Jonas stared back blankly, until the older man looked away; it was their daily ritual, and neither of them really cared much anymore anyways. The teacher had become an annoyance, the student had become an oddity. Jonas' relationship with school could be compared to a fish's relationship to water. The fish lives in water because it has to, and even if it desired to, it could never leave without much struggle.

The teacher's voice drained like a unplugged sink as the day dragged on. Jonas found himself ever restless, fidgety and anxious. It was the same ritual every day, how he longed for the clock to tick by faster, for the sun to set sooner, and that every moment would bring him closer to her. Yes, it was true what his schoolmates had said. He had no friends, no human ones, at least. But as long as he had her, he would never be alone, never be unhappy, and the sharp words would bounce of his love for her.

And finally, the sharp twang of a school bell rang, signaling the end of another long, tedious day. The air filled with the sound of clashing desks, the rustle of schoolbags, and the muttered 'Goodbye sir," and "See you tomorrow, sir". Jonas packed up, and without a glance at his teacher or classmates, he walked out the door.

He went straight home. While others went to the mall, or hung out behind the school with drugs and cigarettes, Jonas pelted straight for his house, running all the way, even though his lungs crackled in protest and his brain pounded in response. Throwing open the door, he climbed the stairs on all fours, three at a time, ignoring his mother's calls, and slammed his bedroom door shut, locking it in once swift motion.

She was already there, waiting for him.

***

The next day, when Jonas woke up, he hopped out of bed and went straight to her, without bothering to turn on the lights. For five minutes, he basked in her warmth, taking her in like a seamless vision. He only stopped when he heard his mother calling, and then he knew it was time to go.

"Goodbye, love. I'll be back," Jonas whispered. He only spoke to her nowadays, so his voice had degraded into a harsh croak from lack of use. But he knew she didn't care, she didn't mind what his voice sounded like, only caring that he was there, and when he was away.

The ritual began again. Brushing his teeth, taking a shower, getting changed and eating breakfast. He did all this mechanically, because when he was away from her, his spark of life was gone, his soul was taken away, and nothing could compare to the emotions she aroused in him. He headed towards the school, once again a zombie, and arrived to the whispers and jeers of his ignorant schoolmates.

"You're late again, Jonas," the professor muttered, once again falling into the same, repetative routine. Jonas barely muttered a response, taking his usual seat at the middle of the class.

Balls of paper flew, whispers rebounded from student to student, and the teacher droned on and on, and all throughout, Jonas just kept an eye on his watch, every tick a crash in his heart, every moment bringing him closer. Then, as the last tick of the day snapped past the 60 minute mark, the bell clashed again, and the students jumped up in unison, grabbing bags and wayward pencils, and all heading out as one herd.

Jonas, again, dashed for home, his jacket trailing. He could see his house now, and in his house, his room, and in his room, he knew she waited. So he kept his eyes on the prize, and almost didn't notice as he bolted into the busy intersection, at least until the SUV came out of nowhere and broke both his legs at the knees.

***

Jonas awoke, in a brightly lit room. At first he couldn't figure out where he was. His mother was there, and one of his old friends from school, from far back when he actually had friends. He could feel a sharp pain in his lower body, and when he tried to stand, the pain came with such intesity as to make him gasp.

"No dear! Don't move!" his mother shouted, holding both his bandaged legs still. The sharp tang of anaesthetic hit his senses as he realized what had happened. Immediately, he knew, and struggled ever the more fiercely, until his mother called a doctor, and he felt the needle pierce his arm. Then, the world faded as he fell into darkness, his thoughts focused on only her.

It was a while later when he awoke. He knew, because the lights outside his window were darker, and the staff seemed a lot quieter. He turned over, and spotted his friend sitting in the dark. Dredging through his memory, he pulled up a name.

"John," Jonas croaked, his throat dry.

Instantly, John stood up and leaned over the hospital bed. "Hey Jonas. It's- It's been a while."

Unsure of what to do, Jonas tried to smile, but his face had forgotten how to, outside of her presence. Instead, he coughed uneasily, and John sat back down.

"You know, we missed you," John began, staring out the window as he tried to find words. "After you stopped hanging out with us, and just stayed at home all the time. I don't know what happened... we all assumed something bad, you know."

He turned to look at Jonas now, who almost felt a twinge of regret. But his mind quickly focused back on her, and he responded, "I- I had something-"

Jonas paused. His situation finally hit him. He couldn't walk back to the house, no matter how hard he wanted to. She was alone now, without him, and the thought was like a dagger in his mind. As he mulled over his options, his panic growing, he could only see one solution.

"John," Jonas rasped. "John- I know I haven't been the best friend. But, I need you to do something for me."

John leaned in, listening carefully. "We go way back. I'll do whatever you need, whatever you-"

"But," Jonas interrupted. "You can't tell anyone. Seriously. I'll give you 500 bucks to keep your mouth shut."

Looking shocked, John tried to protest. "Jonas, man, I'll do it for free, you keep your money, I-"

Jonas silenced him with a wave. "No, because if you do tell... I'll hunt you down, and I'll kill you. So the money is for my peace of mind, so I know you'll keep quiet about this."

He continued. "You need to go to my house. I have the keys here. Just go, when no one is around. Head for my room, and push the bed aside. There's a trapdoor no one else knows about. It leads down to one of the closed-off rooms, boarded up when we moved in. Go down there."

Jonas coughed. The medication was making him drowsy. With a last effort, he gasped, "Bring food. And water. Take care of her until I get back."

And then he fell back, fainted from strain and stress, while John looked on, with a look of astonishment on his face.

***

Jonas felt her shaking him, pushing at his shoulders like she had never done before. Then her face blurred, and she turned into John, who was shaking him, whispering something anxiously.

"Jonas! Jonas!"

"John, did- did you go?" Jonas looked up into John face, but the latter's expression was unreadable.

"Jonas. Who is she?" John's face was cold.

"I- I found her."

"How long has she been down there? How long have you been keeping her?" John's sharp questions were like daggers in Jonas' heart. He had never told anyone before, and if John decided to go to the police, or his mother...

Jonas swallowed hard. "It wasn't me. I... obtained her, a long time ago. I can't tell you where. I just feed her, and keep her down there, and whenever I feel the need to, I-I go down, and I... I play with her."

He burned with shame. He hadn't imagined it would be this way, with his old friend watching with such a harsh expression.

"So," John said with contempt. "She's your sex slave. You're just keeping her alive, like some living sex doll, for your own pleasure, and whenever you feel the urge, you go down there, into that tiny room, and you just fuck the hell out of her?"

"John," Jonas pleaded. "John, please."

"You can keep your 500."

"No! John, please, you- you can't tell anyone!"

A slow smile crossed over John's face. "No, I'm not going to tell anyone. But neither will you."

And with that, John pressed a pillow over Jonas' face, pushing down with all his strength. Jonas screamed, his mind going black from the lack of oxygen, but the sound was muffled by the cloth and feathers. He kicked, but that just sent a sharp sting of unbearable pain up his legs, and he screamed all the louder. But it was no use. His mind faded, his fingertips and legs going numb, and all he could think about was her.

And the last thing he heard was John's voice, deep in his ear. "She's mine now."

***

John pulled the pillow off Jonas' face. Now he looked calm, at rest, like how he used to look before he found her. He spent a moment looking at his old friend's body, and felt a twinge of remorse. None of this should have happened.

Then he opened the room door. "Doctor! come quick! Something's wrong!"

The lights flicked on as the nurses rushed in. The doctor arrived seconds later, and John stepped back to let him in. Within 5 minutes, the diagnosis was complete. Jonas has suffocated, most likely brought on by complications and blood loss. The bruises around his face were from the crash, and his inflamed windpipe was from the weeks and months of silence he had gone through. It was an accident.

John almost felt like crying for his friend, but his excitement was too great, and too fierce. Another few hours, and he would be back in that room, where she lay, trussed and tied, waiting for him.

***

It was dark. She knew that, and only that. She didn't know much anymore.

The creaks came from above, like thunder in her ears, and the light shining through the cracks rarely reached her milky-blind eyes anymore. Her wrists and ankles, rubbed raw and scarred from the thick ropes, moved imperceptibly across the dusty floor. Her mouth moved soundlesly beneath the gag; she had forgotten how to talk a long time ago.

And then, the door opened again, and like an animal, she winced, her legs tightening, preparing for the usual. But no, this time it was someone different. She could feel his hands, his voice in her ear, his tongue moving across her unresponsive body, and then she could feel him press between her legs,deep inside her.

No, she didn't know much anymore, her mind long broken, trained, brainwashed. But still, she let loose a scream of despair deep within the still-sane part of herself, a shriek that would never be heard, as she passed once again, and again, from one master to another.

Gorgos

2007-07-28T02:45:00.000-04:00

"I don't think you should go." She tugged at his lapels, trying to pull him back. Tears were running down her face as she considered what could happen, and the life she would live alone.

"The monster has taken far too many of our people," he whispered, cradling her face. "I am to do my duty."

"Why you?!" she shrieked. "Why?! You have a child!"

He grabbed her harshly. "Yes, and that is why I go, and you stay. He will know his father did what he had to do!"

She slumped, the fight gone out of her. "If you do not return... if the gods permit you to live..."

He put his lips to hers, and silenced her with a kiss. He held it as long as he dared, and both pulled back at the same time. With a look of longing, she let him go. He did not look back.

The shield was heavy on his arm, and the sword dragged low on his belt. He could feel the summer heat rolling off his armor, blinding him with the sweat from his brow. The road was long, and as he walked it, he could almost feel the spirits of the fallen before him, cheering him on, encouraging him, hoping he would succeed where they failed.

The hours dragged on like days. The haze threw temptations before his eyes; his wife drifted by, begging him to return, his child at his feet, his home in the distance. They vanished with a shake of the head, but their effect was nearly crippling.

Finally, by nightfall, he reached the hidden valley. There were no trees, or plants, but merely stones and black water, and one dark cave. Carefully, he trod down, until a rock slipped under his foot with an echoing crack!

He froze, and the cave seemed to shift before him. After what seemed like hours, he found his courage again, and inched forward. The cave loomed like a mouth now, stalactites like the teeth of a horrible beast. Helmets and shields and swords lay scattered all over the floor, memoirs and gravestones for fallen heroes. But there were no bones, and he shuddered to think the monster ate them whole.

Even though the night breeze was cool, sweat still ran down his bare chest. His helmet was cold now, almost freezing, but it kept him awake and aware. Each step seemed a physical burden, inexorably bringing him closer to death...

The sound of hissing brought him to a halt. Then there was a sharp rattling from the depths of the cave. He readied his sword and shield.

The monster emerged. Its body was the first thing he saw, and inexplicably, he was intensely attracted to its female figure, nude in the moonlight. As it stepped out of the shadows, however, his eyes moved to its face and he screamed in horror.

A grotesque, twisted mockery of the female face, with oversized lips and a skeletal nose. Cheekbones protruded wildly underneath sunken red eyes, and a broad, wrinkled forehead was decorated with countless writhing serpents. It made a keening noise at him, and he felt his blood slowly freeze in his veins.

His quest forgotten, he tried to run, only to find his feet frozen to the spot. Literally. He glanced down, and to his horror, his feet seemed to be made of roughly hewn stone. And as the monster cried again, he felt his arms drop heavy to his sides, then his chest seemed to heave and stop.

Slowly, piece by piece, he was turned to stone. His mind was still aware though, and as his eyesight vanished, he almost thought he saw his wife and child before his eyes. Then he was gone, joining the countless heroes who had paved the way before him.

And the monster cried to the night, rubbing furiously against the rocks, trying to satiate itself, but failing, with only the snakes and stones for company.

The Mary Celeste: Part 1

2007-07-18T21:51:00.001-04:00

"Bring her broadside men! Steady now!"

Sheldon pulled the rope with earnest, sweat running in rivulets down his brow. The heavy lifeboat inched closer to the frigate, a wall of wood that stretched almost endlessly upwards. The thick fog of the ocean's morning enshrouded them like a burial cloth. The mood was dank and damp, and the stench of rotting wood and salt filled the air like a haze.

Bit by bit, the sailors tugged and forced their way aboard the eerily silent ship. Sheldon reached a hand out into the side of the ship, running his fingers along the treated wood, marred and furrowed by long service at sea. A cold object touched his palm, cool and wet against the soggy wood. Sheldon stared at the brass lettering.

"Mary Celeste." he muttered to himself. Robin shouted out, much louder, right behind his ear, and he winced.

"Hoi Captain! Mary Celeste! Wasn't that one of the Queen's brigantine's?"

Captain Shelvocke nodded from his perch at the lifeboat's stern. "Aye, sailor. Tis the one they call the cursed ship."

Under his voice, he whispered in stage voice. "They say that her first captain died in her maiden voyage, under the name Amazon, and the brig was driven ashore in an icy storm off'r the coast o' Nova Scotia."

"What's it doing out here then, Cap'n, sir?" Robin lowered his spyglass from the horizon. "And where's the crew?"

"Well, that's what we boarded her for, to find out." The captain raised his gaze to the rails of the ship, far above the tiny lifeboat. He continued, almost to himself, "But I reckon it can't be anything good."

Sheldon turned his head to look at their own ship, the Abel. The fog wrapped around it, and it seemed to drift, anchored though it was. As he looked back up at the Mary Celeste, his heart seemed to stop, and he wished he was back on his bunk, reading a novel, and not on board a lifeboat, about to investigate a ghost ship.

With a creak and a groan, the grapple hooked onto the rails of the Celeste. Ten sailors, including the captain, Robin and Sheldon, all hoisted themselves over the wood and onto the deck. All was eerily quiet, other than the echoing footsteps of the crew. The captain headed for the head of the ship, while the sailors set out to various places on the deck. Sheldon decided to take a look closer to the stern, away from the dark cabin door.

And then, Robin shouted. "Cap'n! Sir! I've found something amiss, here by the rigging! Looks like it was cut'n run."

The crew huddled around, a small group in the midst of the empty deck. The rigging was cut and slashed, as if the crew had foregone proper procedure to lower the sails. All in all, Sheldon noted, it looked as if the Mary Celeste was under some sort of siege, and that the crew, in panic, had tried to escape as fast as possible.

The captain's brow was furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. "No captain would give this order unless under grave circumstances."

Suddenly, a shout came from the bow. "Captain!"

The Abel's crew rushed to the railings in a thunder of feet. Three long scratches adorned the wood, as if some horrid monster had slashed at the ship. The sailors shivered in the cool fog, but it wasn't from the cold.

Carefully now, the crew proceeded to the stern of the ship, and Sheldon saw some of the sailors with knives out, or fingers on triggers. As they reached the head of the ship, a small object struck Sheldon in the foot, causing him to shout. The other sailors, startled, jumped and gave him a dirty look. He picked the round object off the deck.

It was the ship's compass. The needle was missing, the lens was cracked, and the entire thing was sodden with water. He tossed it to the ground, shaking his hand of the wet slime.

Meanwhile, Captain Shelvocke was scanning through the ship's logs. Water-sodden and torn, he puzzled over them for a long time. The crew watched as he flipped the wrinkled papers over.

"Says here," he whispered, "that the ship is carrying over a thousand barrels of the Queen's alcohol, 6 months worth of food, and that the last place it landed was Santa Maria, in Azores. Captain Briggs commanded the vessel... but the last pages are blank. And all the other papers, maps and articles, are missing."

"Wha'happened to the crew?"

"Doesn't say. Although I knew Captain Briggs, and he wouldn't be one to invite mutiny, or lose his head in a situation." His words seemed to invite evil, because all the men suddenly shivered as if hit by a cold wind.

The cabin door creaked as the men hacked it open. Instantly, water poured out. Robin took a look in and said, "Cap'n. The hull is breached, and the bottom's full o'water!"

Shelvocke pushed past. "We can still get in, although it'd be cold. Come on men! Hike up those trousers!"

Sheldon stepped into the soggy cabin. The air was warm and humid, with the unmistakable stench of alcohol. They didn't find anything of interest in the cabin; in fact, everything seemed spookily normal, down to the hanging laundry and the scraps of food still on the table. Odd, creepy, and a total mystery. Wind echoed through the crack nosily, whistling a haunting tune that chilled the crew to their bones.

The men surfaced, unnaturally silent. Working hard, they boarded the lifeboat, with thick ropes tied to the mast of the Mary Celeste. In utter silence they rowed back to the Abel, only broken by the lapping of water against oars, and the occasional murmur.

Once aboard their own ship, the crew relaxed visibly. The shadow of fear still hung about their necks, but Sheldon felt much more relieved than he was on the Celeste. The sailors hoisted the ropes in a knot around the Abel's mast, linking the two ships together as one.

"All done Captain! Take her out!"

The sails were hoisted and the yards trimmed. The ropes snapped taut as the Abel towed the Celeste, dragged backwards by the weight of the brig. But the Abel was a larger ship, and bit by bit, both boats cruised towards the horizon.

It was only in the middle of the night that Sheldon heard the harsh snap and screams of men. Sitting bolt up in bed, he swung out of his bunk, narrowly avoiding Robin as he dashed round the corner.

"Hurry men!" The Captain was already on deck, along with most of the crew. Sheldon struggled to pull his jacket on, and as he burst through the cabin door a spray of mist hit him in the face. All the sailors were clinging to the mooring rope, the thin line connecting the Celeste to the Abel. The cable was swaying dangerously, almost as if something were pulling the other end.

"Steady!" Shelvocke shouted, as the sailors groaned and heaved. The line slowly settled down, and the men relaxed. But the next second, it had whipped into the air, tossing unsuspecting and unwary bodies everywhere. The captain himself stumbled back into Sheldon, knocking him down. With barely a second glance both were up, pulling at the rope once more.

In the distance, in the light of the moon, Sheldon could see the ghostly brig flotaing in the dark. Although the rope twisted and turned like the devil was fighting them, the ship itself was calm in the waters. A eerie feeling struck Sheldon as he paused to look. Almost as if a spell was cast, all the men stood stock-still, staring at the distant ship.

Smile

2007-07-05T15:23:00.000-04:00

I always wondered where I learned to smile.

With the red-tinged teeth of splintered glass,
A gash in the face like a knife wound.
A line made with mirth and memory, from
Ear to ear, from thought to thought.

A row of tombstones behind cracked and broken lips,
A razor edged tongue spitting words through a wound.
Life's comedies and tragedies bled out,
In jeers and shouts and greeting to the gray world.

A cut with a mental blade across the jaw,
Drawing words out with a provocation.
Sharp slashes that slice away skin and bone,
Revealing the soul inside, like a wrapped present.

A sharp jolt of shock from mind to mind,
Expressions of this and that, spraying out.
Holes in the masks we craft for ourselves,
A tear, a peek through the fabric of the facade.

Odd

2007-06-15T23:48:00.001-04:00

We're a little bad, yes, but it's just how we swing.
Sometimes, the world seems to fall apart, you know?
It's like, some sort of fairytale we're living;
There's always that 'happily ever after,'
Happy people, happy days, round and round
Ashes to ashes, and we all fall down.
Cause, you know, don't be afraid to go on a wild goose chase.
What do you think wild geese are for, anyways?
Our lives are social whirlwinds, a dance of life and death,
And sometimes, there's this person you like,
But they don't like you, and it makes you sad,
And to be honest, you didn't like them that much anyways,
But you know you're lying to yourself, until they say something;
And you remember why you don't really like them.
And it might be the other way around,
But you can't really tell who likes you, because it's just that hard.
And instead, you try playing this game of life,
Over and over, day by day you struggle through the crowds,
trying to find your way,
It's like a story book, but one of those ones
Where you have no idea what's happening,
Because the pictures are all jumbled
And nothing seems to be in order,
And the story sucks, and you think
'The author must have been on crack'
Or something like that.
But the truth is, you know that it's yourself that's been dying slowly,
And growing more used to this everyday monotony,
Waking, working, sleeping, living,
And life seems worthless now, but you keep on living, for whatever.
Please the people, please yourself,
One day, near the end, you'll look back and find yourself at the start.
Because, you know, life and death are the two sides of the same string.
Then you start remembering all the things you did, and some things,
They can make you smile, and other things, they make you cry.
And it's the same thing when you reach the end of a really good story,
And you feel really sad that it's over.
But some people, they're kind of happy, because, you know,
They had a sucky, crappy, fucked-up life,
So they're glad it's finally over. But then they realize,
That they're lying again, and it's not really that bad to live.
We sit back, watch TV, with great shows like 'Friends' and you know,
We wish sometimes our lives were perfect, fairytale lives, like on TV,
Or in good books, but like we said before,
We know our lives are really crappy, like bad stories that are all screwy,
But you know, you don't wanna try anything new or adventurous,
Cause people like that get locked up in padded rooms,
Strapped into straitjackets, biting their lips off,
Or are dead.
Which is really weird, because in fairytales, there's always some sort of danger,
But we want it without the danger, and just the happy ending.
Life is either a daring adventure story, or nothing,
We can see nothing as a miracle, or everything as a miracle,
Or something along those lines.
Cause you can walk down the dirty, grey, smoggy streets,
With these soulless people walking next to you,
And live in this weird, fucked-up world of monotony and bleakness,
And complain about everything, because the world is really ugly.
Or you can take the time to sort of look at the world in a different way.
But really, in the end, it's up to you.
Cause no one will live forever,
Well, at least not until they come up with that weird cryonics thing,
Or a magic potion of everlasting life, like in those video games and movies.
But you know, until then, we're the living dead.
And it's going to come faster than we expect, which is kinda sad.
So we have to make our lives a fairytale, while it lasts.
And, you know, we go to school,
And it's really fucked-up, and our parents will say it's a privilege,
But you don't feel like it, and you sleep in lectures,
Or fuck about in class, and feel like your brain is gonna explode.
And then you hang out with your friends after class,
And talk about music, or people, or the new video games coming out,
And sometimes, you can be really mean and gossip about people,
Which is sorta natural, cause they might deserve it,
And then you go home, and do some homework, but you get distracted,
And eventually end up on Facebook, or Myspace, or MSN, or wherever;
Then you go to sleep, glad another day is done,
But then again, that means you're one day closer to dying.
And you didn't do anything that great.
In fact, it was kinda bad.
And some people promise themselves they'll do something,
And they even write it down in the little agendas they carry,
But they forget, and some of those things screw everything up,
Like dates, or tests, or handing in papers,
And then they regret it, and life changes for the worse,
And sometimes, those people break open windows and jump out,
Or hurl themselves off cliffs,
Or go out and massacre a crowd.
Life isn't weird, but it's just the people in it,
And the world isn't screwed up, it's just the people in it.
Some people like us, we like some people,
But sometimes, people act on instinct,
And things get all screwed up, and then people get hurt,
And relationships aren't the same, and people fly by others,
Like those little paper airplanes we used to make way back,
And eventually, we just die, and then we're seriously screwed.
Cause we realize our lives have been as short and pointless,
As those little fruit flies we swat at,
Or ants, where they live every day exactly the same,
And work for the improvement of the hive.
Like the human hive, swarming puddles of people everywhere,
Just mindless like ants, trying to make the world a better place,
But really, not doing that much,
And then they die.

And we realize one day,
That we're just a little odd.

Sacrifice

2007-05-28T22:50:00.000-04:00

Sacrifice
May 28, 2007

Home in the Valley of Darkness.

Too many problems,
Not a day goes by,
Where I don't wish
People would just...
Get along.
So many people,
So many problems,
Not enough solutions.
What can I say? What can I do?
There's not much you can do
To put things to rights.
Yes, we try, but yes, we fail,
And honestly? I'm a little
Sick.
Sick of people doing things
Just for themselves.
Sick of the selfish nature,
The idea that
'Someone else can handle it'.
Sick of the apathy,
Ignorance,
Hypocrisy.
You can say, 'Let someone else
Handle it, just this once.'
But
Who else will do it?
Would you sacrifice yourself?
Would you die on a cross?
Be shot for justice?
Take a bullet for a stranger?
Would you hate life,
To make another's life better?
Where do we go from here?
Where do we go
From a world of Insanity?
To the other side of Despair?
Honor? Courage?
Outdated concepts?
Too many questions.
Too many problems.
Not enough solutions.

Omelas

2007-05-15T21:31:00.000-04:00

It was the day of my thirteenth birthday when they took me.

I remember the weather of that day: Every little detail registered in my mind. The warm sun beating down upon our small village, the clouds in the sky like marshmallows, and the cool wind whipping at our faces. Birds soared, music filled the air, and all was well in the town of Omelas.

Do not let me mislead you, honest reader: We are a peaceful people. Happy, simple, taking joy in the easy pleasure of life. But that day, I did learn the reason why our fair city was indeed so easily pleased.

I was at the docks, with my friends, sailing small paper ships in the clear blue waters of the bay. I was the oldest out of all, so it was not without a small amount of curiousity that my friends looked at me when my father arrived. The thirteenth birthday of a child of Omelas is what some call the ritual of manhood, the passage into adulthood. It is said, in whispers and gossip, that there is a test of faith, a trial of courage. It is also said that the trial is what keeps our village pure: Indeed, many of my friends never returned from their trial. At the time, it was the only worry in my life.

A group of them had come. My father, and a number of the village people. Each looked somber and grey as my father held my hand tightly and led me away from the docks and the ships. I had never seen my father so scared. Sweat was puring down his brow, although the weather was cool and breezy. The villagers followed in a grim procession.

There was always a small shed in the corner of the city; a shack, forbidden to children, 'dangerous to play in,' as they said. It was vine-covered, run down, a curiousity and nothing more. If only had I know what lay within, I would have tugged my little hand out of my father's grip, and run the many miles back to the waters of the bay, and my innocence saved.

The door was opened by the Mayor, with a wide black key he obviously guarded dearly. On oily hinges, a creak, and then a pitch blackness that seemed to suck the light from my day. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, a flight of stairs materialized from the shadows.

My father was silent as he led me down. The others stayed above, with faces set in stone. I could hear weeping, from the women in the town, as if I would not return and they were already mourning me. A candle appeared in my father's hand and he lit it, casting silhouettes on the walls like crouching monsters.

The stairs went down for a long distance. It seemed to me like hours, but I had lost track of time the moment I had stepped into this purgatory. We spoke no word, my father and I. Just the endless taps of feet on stone, and the whistling of wind down the deep tunnels. The candle went out a number of times, which sent my heart into my throat until my father relit it.

I will admit, my friend. I was frightened beyond belief. All throughout my life I had lived without fear. See, Omelas had never heard of rape, of murder, of terror itself. We were a peaceful people in truth. The mayor to the most ridiculed Jester, we were all happy and satisfied with our line of work. Is it odd that I never questioned why? Perhaps it was the livelihood of our Omelas: That no questions be asked, that happiness was all the answer we needed.

Finally, my father halted, and took a deep breath. He was trembling, his grasp weak in my hand. His fear frightened me. A door was set in stone in front of us, a large wood square with no discernable markings, but my father shook as if Hell lay beyond it.

With trepidation, he pushed the door open silently. I could see nothing. There was just darkness. And then, as my father lifted the flame high, I gasped in fear and shock. I thought it was an animal, the way it cowered and screeched.

It was a child, but may just as well have been an animal. The eyes were white, long blind, and the hair was long. It sat on all fours. I couldn't tell whether it was a girl or a boy. I was too scared, too shocked, to even speak. I heard a low, keening moan, until I realized I was making the sound.

Cracks of light shone in from the ceiling, mops and various tools stored in a corner. Some sort of storeroom, it seemed, perhaps underneath one of the mansions in town. A small dish sat in the corner, with the reflection of murky water, and a plate, laden with rats that were polishing off the child's meal.

It looked at me with sudden fascination. "Ehh-haaa... Ehhh..."

It crawled over, and I noticed its legs were covered in sores, and excrement. It reached for my leg, and I pulled back in a terrible fear. "Ehh-haaa... M-M-Moth. Mothherr... mother."

I stared down at it as it grabbed my ankle with a horrible, greasy grip. "Mother! Lett me out. P-please! L-let me out!"

My father, with a look I had never seen on his face before, gave the child a savage kick, which it took with a whimper. It lay there, in the dark shed, surrounded by vermin, covered in feces and sores, an abomination!

What did I feel? I am ashamed to say I felt nothing. Yes, anger came upon me, and pity. Fear, yes, and disgust too. But most of all, I felt despair, hopelessness. Yes, the child was to be pitied, and its condition to be sickened at. But what if the child were to come above ground, to be cleaned and loved and comforted?

That is when I learned the terrible secret of Omelas. All our happiness, our bounty, and our hope, is because of this child-creature's misery. We live in happiness, because to do otherwise is to become this creature. We have bounty, because the child has none. And we love, we love each other, because the child has no one to love it. In other words, we value life, because we have seen death.

Our architecture would not be so lovely. Our songs would not be as joyful. Our tales and jokes and words would not be free, if not for the suffering squallor of the damned child. Our city lives in peace, because we remember the child that suffers beneath it.

And what of me? What of my friends that never returned from their trials? There is one more thing, and this is quite incredible.

Many who return from their trial, I am told, weep, and despair, but come to realize it is for the best. Love cannot be understood without hate, and life can never be lived to the fullest without death. So many do stay in Omelas, to enjoy the peace and prosperity. They are generous, and are gentle, and they are happy. They appreciate life.

But others, like me, do not return home to weep, or rage. Sometimes, we do not go home at all. Silently, we let go of our families, our lives, and slip away, quietly, into the streets of Omelas. Past the mansions, and the beautiful gardens, and the bountiful farmland. We walk alone, until the streetlights are lit, and the roads have been emptied.

We walk, down the alleys of Omelas, between houses where people can be heard enjoying a grand meal. Out the gates of the city, into the mountains. We continue to walk, into the darkness, and we never go back. We enter a world where hatred and death exist, a world where we know we will never enjoy perfect happiness. We may seems as if we do not know where we go; perhaps there is no place for us to go. But each of us holds a purpose, and although we may seem lost, we always know where we are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

Author's note: This is based on a short story called, 'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas' by Ursula K. Le Guin. I decided to write the perspective from one of the children... it may be the most poignant story I have written.

7 Sins Saga: Sloth

2007-05-02T22:17:00.000-04:00

Sloth
May 2, 2007

She forgot to turn the lights out.

He struggled out with his hand. No way. The switch was a good 2 feet from his grasp. He slumped back down into bed, too lazy to attempt getting up. Warm, snuggly blankets pushed back against his body.

The pillow felt cool under his head, and the springy mattress was worn down to his preferred shape. Leaving the bed was so hard to do, not just during the mornings. Most of the time, sleep was the only escape from his mother's cries for chores, and his 'responsibilities'.

He tucked himself deeper into the quilt. Hopefully, his mom would come in and turn off the light... until then, he pulled the blanket over his head.

Then, suddenly, the lights blew out with a sharp 'snap!'.

He rolled over to check the doorway. No sign of his mother. The broken lightbulb fizzed over his head, then sputtered out. He flipped back, grumbling complaints, unwilling to haul himself out of bed to get a new bulb.

Something sharp poked him in the side. He reached down, feeling something hard and pointed in his side. Pulling it up from under the quilts, he looked at it carefully. Some sort of white bone-like object. Odd.

He reached under the blankets. Something else was there, something cold... really cold! The lights sputtered and blared to life in a shower of sparks, lighting the room in sharp flashes. He shrieked as the sudden, frosty grip of something hidden under the sheets grabbed him. In horror, he looked down. A pair of skeletal hands reached from the tangles of the blankets, wrapping tightly around his armpits.

"Oh, and here I was hoping that you'd pass." A skull-face laid its cold chin on his shoulder. Leaning into his ear, it whispered to him through his screams. "Too bad."

Through the blank sparking of the lights above, he struggled against the apparation. A wayward spark fell gently, almost as if in slow motion, down, down towards his bunched up sheets. As it touched, the bedspread burst into a fiery conflagration.

He screamed as the flames licked his toes. The skeletal figure pressed his cheek to its, crooning softly. "Now, dear. For eternal slumber."

7 Sins Saga: Lust

2007-04-30T21:03:00.001-04:00

Lust
April 30, 2007

With a glance to the side, he followed her.

He had spotted her a few hours back, perched on a barstool like a trophy on a pedestal. Her dress had hugged her curves seductively, her eyes were bright and full of life, but she sat alone, as if no one else could see her.

So he had followed her as she left the bar. His eyes were full of longing.

He ducked into an alley as she turned. That was close... He watched as her perfect gaze spanned the streets. Satisified she was alone, she continued with her mincing gait. And behind her, like an ill shadow, he followed.

She turned into an alleyway, slightly off the beaten path. Surprised, he quickly rounded the corner-

To find her staring straight at him with a slight smirk. He began to sweat as her hand moved towards her waist, expecting her to pull a can of pepper spray, or perhaps a cell phone to call the cops.

She looked at him, with the smile dangling off her lips. Her hand strayed unexpectedly, aiming towards her belt clasp rather than her pocket. He drooled as the click of her buckle undid itself. She let her pants fall.

Without a word, she beckoned. He complied willingly. Her body was warm in the night air, but she made not a sound as he took her. Her body was responsive, moving fast and hard, but no one came across them, no one heard a sound.

In his lust, he rolled them both to the ground. Twisting and turning, they were lost in each other. His mind swirled as they spun round and round, into the street, onto the open road. There they lay, linked together, with looks of ecstasy on both their faces.

He looked down at her, her closed eyes and open mouth displaying the pleasure she obviously felt. And as he watched, the skin began to peel from her face, the sweet eyes receding into the sockets, and the lips crackling away like dry leaves.

"That was fun," she said in a hoarse, crackled whisper.

He gibbered, his mouth frozen in horror. He tried to pull away but found, to his sheer terror, he could not.

"And here I was, so hoping you'd pass the test." The skull-face grinned up at him, the long bony fingers wrapping around his arms. "But I do hope you enjoyed your last moments."

He turned as the honk and headlights bore down on him. He screamed.

The Two Monkeys

2007-04-28T17:06:00.001-04:00

Two monkeys were sitting in a tree.

One monkey turned to the other. He was eating a banana.

"Friend monkey, do you see that smoke coming from far away?"

"Yes, friend. I hear their is a great banquet, past the mountains."

"Let us go to the banquet, for surely two important creatures such as ourselves will be welcomed with open arms."

The two monkeys made their way, past the mountains, to the great feast. There, they waited for their turn, as there was a long line.

Upon reaching the door, a strange creature stopped the two friends.

"Hello little monkeys."

"Hello, strange creature. We have come from far lands to attend this great banquet."

"I am sorry. This feast is only for humans. Monkeys may not enter. You must go back to where you came from."

"Humans? But we have travelled so far, only to be rejected!"

Sadly, the two monkeys left, and began to travel back to thier jungle. But one monkey turned to his friend.

"Friend, I hear there is a great machine upon this mountain.
It has the power to grant many wishes. Perhaps we may wish to become humans, in order to attend this magnificent feast."

For many days, the two monkeys struggled to the top of the mountain. The wind was cold. The ground was hard. The air was thin.

After a very, very long time, the two travellers reached the top of the mountain. Upon a great plateau sat a worn, broken machine. It was spotted with rust, but as the two friends approached, lights began to blink within the metal shell.

"Who is there?" The machine said.

"Oh wondrous machine! We have come from far lands to seek your wisdom!"

"It was a difficult journey."

"It took us many days."

"Please, oh machine of the future, turn us into human creatures!"

The machine thought.

"Very well. But I will tell you a story."

"There once were two monkeys. From afar they spotted a great feast. But when they reached the feast, they were turned away. In order to gain entry, they decided to travel very far, and very high, to find a machine that could grant wishes. Once there, their wishes were granted."

One monkey turned to the other monkey. "Friend, I never noticed it before, but you smell like a monkey."

"Strange. You also smell like a monkey. In fact, I have never noticed that before."

Slowly, the two monkeys began to change.

"Friend, you no longer smell like a monkey. You smell different."

"As do you. Perhaps we are no longer monkeys."

The monkeys looked and saw their wish had been granted.

The machine began to speak.

"The monkeys looked and saw their wish had been granted. Overjoyed, they began to make their way back down the mountain."

"However, a rock, disturbed by the winds, came down and crashed upon them, pinning them to the ground. There they lay trapped, for a hundred years."

And as the machine said those words, it was so. The two humans that were once monkeys lay trapped under the boulder, for one hundred long years.

At the end of one hundred long years, the machine opened its eyes once more.

"At the end of one hundred long years, the machine opened its eyes once more. Little humans, why are you still here?"

"We are trapped, by this rock," said a voice from under the rock. "We have been trapped for one hundred long years. The only light we have seen is from this small hole in the stone."

"Why do you not release yourselves from your prison?"

"We cannot. The hole is too small to crawl through. Alas, if we were still monkeys, we would be able to release ourselves."

"Friend monkeys, the power to change is something I have granted upon you. Why not change into something smaller, and escape?"

"If only it were so, oh great machine! But this rock prevents us from changing shape. The magic of this mountain is too great to escape from!"

"Ah, my friends. You yet do not understand, after these one hundred long years? You need not change your shape. All you must do is to return to it."

Silence came from under the boulder. Slowly, two monkeys crawled out from a hole in the side.

"My friend, you smell like a monkey."

"You also smell like a monkey."

The two monkeys looked at each other and were glad.

"Machine, thank you."

"Yes, thank you. We see now that we were meant to be monkeys. Wishing to be anything else is foolish, and against nature."

The two monkeys travelled back to the jungles, where they ate bananas and swung in the trees, as monkeys should. The machine spoke once more, to itself.

"The two monkeys thanked the machine. Soon, they travelled back down to the jungles, where they ate bananas and swung in the trees, as monkeys should. Monkeys are monkeys, and humans are humans. Machines are machines. Any other way is foolish."

Watermelon

2007-04-27T00:07:00.001-04:00

Watermelon
April 26 2007

I tossed the watermelon in the air like some sort of... wild alien space-craft thingie. It spun once, then sailed back down to earth, defeated by its own mass and the force of gravy-tee!

I ran and ducked for cover as the green bomb-thingie flew towards the ground. Even with my hands over my freakishly large head I still heard the 'splut' as the missile struck, splattering into little bits of mushy goo. Pieces of peel flew over my head as seeds and red innards exploded in a smorgasbord of color on the ground!

Jason looked at me with a look that clearly read 'Justin, you are so dumb.'

"Justin, you are so dumb," he said. "Why did you even do that?"

WHY?! Why not? Watermelon explody is the best superpower you can have besides turning things to CHEESE WITH YOUR MIND! I shrugged and waved my arms in a confusing pattern. Hopefully it would distract him while I ran.

To my utter dismay and eternal sorrow, it began to rain. There would be no running! Rain rain rain, turning smushed watermelon ichor to pasty red stringy-stuff. Then, as the acid pollution mixed with the disgusting fruit-brain-matter, something began to occur deep within the squishy chemical composition of the fruit-creature. The vine-baby thing began to grow, and grow, to the size of a giant-fruit-sized-thing!

Jason screamed and ran but the fruit creature was too powerful! A long red tentacle reached out and wrapped him up. A maw the size of a SARLACC PIT opened up and devoured him whole, leaving only his wallet and car keys. I could see that the only way to escape was to steal all of Jason's money and drive away in his car! But my plan was FOILED! Foiled, I tell you!

The giant green-shelled, red-mushy-insides, seedy-eyed monster got to its numerous filthy feet and began to make its ffffilthy way to me, leaving FILTHY footprints in its filllltthy wake! It growled, spraying me with large filthy chunks of tasty watermelon!

Suddenly, the words of my great-great grandfather's dog came to me. "Woof rawrf bark bark."

Of course! The only way to defeat a mutant, giant, snaggle-toothed, freakishly-large-headed slimy watermelon creature was to SPANK IT TO DEATH! With my undoubtedly powerful palms of fury I began to flail wildly at the creature, wearing it down with my very manly slaps.

The monster screamed and struck back with large random appendages! It was like being in the middle of a Decemberists concert. I held on for my very valuable life as the watermelon swung beneath me, trying to knock me into its stinky mouth.

(I g2g, so... uhhh)

Giving it one last shot, I transformed into a power ranger and defeated the creepy thing. The end.

Who am I?

2007-04-25T21:51:00.000-04:00

Who am I?

I'm a sailor, on the sea of life,
Tossing and turning with the wave,
Never knowing what lies ahead,
Except the stillness of the grave.

I'm a explorer, in the wild,
Never seeing past my own nose,
Like life, like jungle, and all between,
Wherein I wander, no one goes.

I'm a worker, at the shops,
Toiling away, day ere day,
Past hours, weeks, months and years,
I kill myself, to earn my pay.

I'm a poor man, on the streets,
My life is cruel, and hard to boot,
I'm lost and starved and never safe,
Just like life, the point is moot.

I'm a migrant, in a strange land,
Outcast here, no home I find,
My life is lost, I have no hope,
To linger here is to break my mind.

I'm a hero, never-born,
Son of gods and spinner of fate,
Quest and journey, shield and sword,
I'll never rest, at any rate.

I'm a person, in my own right,
I'm lost and tossed and dead inside,
But what I find within myself,
Is hope, and faith, and naught to hide.

Nine Lives

2007-04-24T20:50:00.000-04:00

Here's Guy that calls me Not Chester's favourite piece. I wrote it a while ago, but thought I'd slam it up here for good measure.

Nine Lives
October 20, 2006

Allen was walking down the street when he first saw him. Just out of the corner of his eye, a liquid shadow darting its way into an alley.

So he took time out of his day for that small part of adventure the human heart seeks, and turned off the weel-worn sidewalk into the graffiti-marked alleyway. From the darkness, two bright green eyes stared up at him.

"Hey kitty. C'mere, I won't hurt you." Allen waved with his hands. A hiss came from the blackness. "I've got some nice snacks, c'mon. C'mon out of there."

Cautiously, the cat approached, stalking paw by paw. Allen stood as still as a statue, not daring to move lest he frighten the animal away.

And finally, the cat licked his hand. Its tongue was rough and warm, and it coiled up to his leg, its tail swishing. Allen reached down and picked the small black animal up with care.

"C'mon, let's get you inside. It's a cold winter this year."

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"There you go sweetheart!" Allen placed the bowl of milk on the tiled floor of his kitchen, slopping some over the side. The kitten licked it up with relish, then sat back and purred, stretching out on the floor.

"Okay, time for me to sleep, but I'll take you to the shelter in the morning." The cat looked at Allen with a curious, puzzled look. Then it grinned, showing sharp white fangs.

Allen stumbled up the stairs, leaving a light on for the little cat. He made his way into his bathroom, flicking on his lights, grabbing a hold of his toothbrush. He turned on the water.

Soon after, Allen switched off the water, bent over and dried his face with a handcloth. Then he looked up into the mirror, and spotted the cat sitting on the toilet tank. It looked at him with the same curious look.

"Whew! Startled me there, little buddy!" Allen picked the cat up with a miaow and set it on the floor, where it quickly scurried out of the room. Disregarding the animal, Allen slipped into his pajamas, only to find the cat back when he pulled his shirt over his head. This time, the critter was perched on the top of his dresser. It looked over him with brilliant green eyes, then let out a low purr.

Allen looked at the cat as it looked at him. Human eyes met animal eyes as the two regarded each other. Then suddenly, the cat leapt off the drawers and landed on the floor, its long black tail swishing. Then it looked back at him and meowed.

Shaking his head, Allen crawled into his bed, switching off his bedside lamp. And within minutes, he was fast asleep.

|+| |+| |+| |+|

Allen woke up with a start. At first, he didn't know what had disturbed his sleep, but then he spotted the cat. It was on his chest, staring him in the eyes. It tilted its head quizzically at him. The eyes, vibrant in the darkness, seemed like ghostly orbs floating in the air. Hypnotic, rhythmic, piercing...

His breath came quicker, as those eyes searched him. He panted, struggled, rose out of bed sweating, the cat jumping off onto the floor, where it still watched. He stood, his breathing heavy, and stumbled to the bathroom. His face was a mess. He was sweating, panting, his eyes bloodshot and his lip trembling.

He looked at the cat. It seemed to be enjoying his predicament, purring at him and coiling between his legs.

He looked down with dread, and an inscrutable expression in his eyes. The cat returned the look with a mocking gaze. With trepidation, Allen stepped carefully around the cat, giving it a wide berth, and returned to his room. Instead of returning to bed, he instead took a seat in his armchair, and picked up his favourite book. There was no way he could get back to sleep now.

When he put his book down, he noticed the cat on the ottoman watching him. Upon noticing his stare, the cat yawned and stretched out. Then it opened its eyes and continued its unfeeling observation.

And for the rest of the night, the two sat and stared. Cat to human. Soul to soul.

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The sun rose early that day, and the shadows were chased away, revealing the two, Allen and kitty, still locked in an internal battle between man and beast.

With a sudden meow, the cat leapt off the stool, and Allen smashed its head in with the book.

His mind had snapped, his reason had fled, and his sanity had been ruined in that epic contest. He struck again and again, the cat making a horrible yowling, and Allen felt a giggle coming on, and he knew if he gave voice to it he'd lose himself even deeper, and so he did, and the blood sprayed. And finally, Allen dropped the bloodstained novel, loose pages fluttering around the room like strange snowfall.

And then he stared. He just stared. With a shaking hand, he picked the body of the cat up by the scruff of the neck, tossing it out of his room, its broken neck flopping around like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
And then Allen sat back down with a heavy sigh, in the midst of a rain of shredded paper, in a puddle of blood, covered in the red fluid and bits of fur.

Then, he fell asleep, his mind already wandering the plains of peace, the lands of imagination, the world of dreams.

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It was about 4 P.M. when he awoke. He rose, awake and refreshed, ready to go. He stepped out of his room, whistling, made himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then went to fetch the newspaper.

And then he walked back into his kitchen, and saw the cat.

It looked at him with that same mocking gaze it had given to him the night, and in despair, he screamed.

"WHY! Why are you still alive! You should be dead! DEAD! I killed you!" He raged, he spluttered, he laughed maniacally, he looked at the cat, threw his head back with his eyes closed, looked again, then screamed in agony.

He looked to the counter, to the blades sitting there, to the trash compactor, to the blender, to the microwave.

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He finished within an hour. His hands were covered, slick with blood, matted with fur and bits of organs, and he laughed again, one long laugh, through the blood and fur and guts and small pieces of metacarpals and femour splinters, Then he dragged the small corpse out of the microwave, or what was left of it, tossing the remains down into the food shredder.

|+| |+| |+| |+|

But the cat came back the very next day, the cat came back, he thought he was a goner, but the cat came back, it couldn't stay away.

This time, Allen encountered it in the midst of the workplace. He noticed it from his computer screen reflection, then turned around, screamed a long dark scream, and grasped the animal before it could run away. With the cat struggling, he handed it to his coworker Jen, and ran, ran from it, from hell, from evil personified.

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And the very next day... Allen thought he was rid of it. But there it came, trotting back into his life like it did the first day, and this time, Allen was ready with a shotgun and blew the cat to pieces.

Later that day, Allen read in the news that Jen had committed suicide in her home, drowned in her bathtub. The strange thing was that the water was covered in a thin layer of fur, and was tinged red with blood.

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By then, Allen was paranoid, broken, his house full of blood and fur and pieces of cat.

And still it came back. As cheerful as ever, as mocking as always, grinning at Allen and revelling in his torture.

"Why won't you die?" Allen whispered as he strangled it. "Why won't you stop living?"

The cat scratched at his hands but was silent, although whether or not it meant to be silent or had no windpipe left was up to debate. Allen stared once again into those deep eyes, except now they were symbols of hate, of evil, of his neverending torture.

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The very next day, Allen went out into the street and paid a mercenary to handle the cat.

"You want me to kill a cat?" The gunman had snickered. "For this much?"

"Yes," Allen replied, his face pale. "Just... kill it, but make sure it stays dead."

The same man was found dead later that day, with cat scratches on his face and neck, a bullet through his temple.

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The cat came back the very next day.

Allen threw it in the closet, taped over the door, plastered it up and sat in front of it the entire day with a shotgun in hand. He could hear the hellish scratching and yowling as the cat pawed at the door, but slowly the noises stopped and when Allen summoned up enough courage to look inside, the cat was still as the night air. He took the body by the tail and hurled it into a wall as hard as he could, then threw it down the garbage chute.

By now, his mind was shattered, his body was wasting away as he disregarded his health and safety, obsessed with only the cat. So much blood, so much evil, and still it would not die.

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A week passed and the cat did not return.

Allen was beginning to regain control of his life, to clean up his house, to sort out his affairs, to return to work. His demeanour changed to how it was before. He smiled more often, although flinching every time he saw a black cat.

But he came home one day and it was there, as if it had never left. He stood, frozen, as it purred between his ankles. He slowly looked down as it looked up, and there they were once more, in a battle of wits and a struggle for sanity. With his heavy boot he stepped on it and broke its back, the tiny bones snapping like pretzels. Amazingly, it clawed at his heel until one more stomp crushed its skull like sugar glass.

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And that night, the cat came back, for what Allen would make sure was the last time.

He was sitting facing the doorway, a pet cage in his hand, a shotgun in the other, and all the windows closed. And the cat came back, yes it did, and this time, it came from behind, it leapt like a tiger on his head, tore at Allen's scalp, it slashed his face ruthlessly, plunging its claws into his eyes and throat as effective as any knife, it clung to his face, the warm, slick abominable creature that would not die and in desperation and panic, and in utter and complete insanity, Allen turned the gun on himself and killed them both in one shot.

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The very next day, the police found Allen in his pajamas, lying in a pool of his own blood, his face blown away by a shotgun shell, his brains spread like jam on the tiled floors. There was also a black cat, perched comfortably on his cold body, its soft tongue lapping up the redness like cream.

The Tragic Journey of Samuel Combs: An Excerpt

2007-04-23T19:16:00.000-04:00

Here's a few excerpts of the 'novel' I'm attempting to write. Moving my focus from short stories to longer works... hopefully I have the dedication.

The Tragic Journey of Samuel Combs

It was only yesterday that it happened.

That one of the greatest men I have ever known had fallen to his death, up on that high-rise, with no one around him, with only Death beside him, and only him, alone with himself. I suppose all is right with the world when men die the tragic death they are destined to die; when heroes die like heroes should.

This is the beginning of our tragic journey, Samuel Combs and I. After much doubt and fear and anger, my sanity is still intact. As for Combs, who will ever know? I still wonder whether he ever found what he was looking for. I still wonder whether he knew what he was looking for.

***

"I needed to visit you," I managed to choke out. "I need to know."

"There is nothing to know." He stared at me, through me, with a piteous gaze, a gaze that pitied both him and me, that of one who has risen above us all only to find his ruin, that even above the clouds the sky was still dark.

Turning away from me, he faced his door, the grease-stained and battered wood staring back at him. The screams still echoed from outside, although lacking the ferocity and horrifying nature of before. These screams were reminiscent of those who have lost hope, souls in torment, in pain and suffering.

***

"You have come, you have questioned, you have asked. You want to know the truth, and you will find it before I am done with you." The strange man who had become stranger leaned down, to place his nose against the television glass. "The static of the television is chaos, is disturbance, is disorder. This is the essence of our natures, as humans. We live in chaos, breath it.”

He raised the dark remote. The channel changed to various shows, news reports, cartoons. “Is this real? No, it is merely a pre-planned schedule, a scripted performance.” He turned his dark eyes towards me. “Is life any different than this?”

***

So, what do you think? Dark and creepy enough to continue writing?

The Last

2007-04-19T13:33:00.001-04:00

Jake stepped out of the hatch.

As far the eye could see: Destruction. The houses of men were reduced to rubble. Tines of lumber and metal thrust out of the ground like sharp spikes, and holes and craters littered the dry earth.

The air was dusted with a brown tinge, and the sun was blotted out by the thick black clouds. Everywhere was dark, and gray, and bleak.

"Hello?" Jake cried out. "Hey! Anyone out there?!"

The silence was the loudest sound. Not even the whisper of wind, or the rustling of leaves. In fact, the trees were all gone, as was any other living thing. Only Jake. Alone.

He lowered himself to the ground. The hatch stuck out of the ground like some sort of vile insect, the metal coating flaking in the harsh air. Rusted pieces fell to the ground like red snow. The sound of his shoes against the cold earth thundered like drumbeats through the hollows of the city.

As he walked, Jake remembered. The loud bang, the bright flash from outside the kitchen window. Ma dropping the onion she was mincing, father pushing him into the hatch, and then silence. Silence for the longest time, days upon days, until he finally gathered up the courage to open that door, the hatch to hell.

The wreckage of skyscrapers towered around him like vast alien structures, and the forms of ruined cars and vehicles came out of the mist-like dust. No bodies, no animals, no living being for miles and miles. No sound. It was a silent world: the silence of death.

Jake felt something touch his shoulder, and he ran for cover as rain poured down from the sky. Pools of water collected in the basins and craters of the earth as he ducked under the tilted edge of a skyscraper. Thunder crashed, and lightning streaked across the sky, heralds to death and destruction.

Jake huddled in the cold, cold world, pulling his coat close to his body. Alone, while the hiss of acid rain corroded and discolored the metal city. The overhang above his head creaked, and he shivered in fear and cold as the storm raged above.

A piece of metal made a decent cover as he headed out in the storm. With one hand, he held his coat closed, and with the other, he held the steel sheet above his hunched head. Rain slammed into the pane, pattering with a thousand hits as Jake made his way through the city.

The dust had subsided, by the acidic rain choked his lungs and blurred his vision. Thunder had deafened him, and lightning had blinded him. The smell of ozone filled the air as a bolt struck the wreckage of a distant tower.

Jake walked, and walked, not knowing what he was searching for. The rain drummed against his head and his feet matched the rhythm, as he plodded through the broken city. Eventually, his foot touched an edge, and he looked up.

The ocean. A distant horizon, and grey waters. Unpassable, lashing out with tongues of mist and spray in the violent storm, crashing against the shore with the clash of a thousand cymbals. A broken statue of justice and liberty, her crown and head long destroyed, and her book sunken, and her torch extinguised. Only her feet still stood, a testament to Ozymandias, and the horror of humanity.

Jake looked down. Rainwater collected at his feet as he bent over. He sobbed, and choked, as he reached out his hand. His fingers strained, his knees shaking, and tears running down his wet face. And then, at that instant, his life fled his body, the strain and shock greater than his body could withstand, tumbling him onto his side, his eyes wide-open and blank as the rain fell in pools around him.

At his fingertips, just out of his grasp, sat a single white rose, growing out of the broken concrete and pools of acid rain, shining in the grey world, under the black skies and weathered wreckage: a symbol of innocence gone awry - and a fitting memorial over the grave of mankind.

A Night Out

2007-04-13T22:31:00.001-04:00

"Hi Ms. Dewen!" A sharp-looking young woman smiled from the doorstep.

"Oh, you must be Kathy! Come in!" Jane smiled. She pulled the door open a little wider as Kathy stepped inside.

"Wow! your house is a lot nicer than any of the others I've seen!"

"Thank you Kathy. Now, I have a few things that need to be taken care of, so there's a list in the kitchen. Keep an eye on the baby, and remember, you need to put the turkey in at exactly 9:00 so it's done when we get back."

"Oh no problem Ms. Dewen! I can do that!" Kathy grinned widely. "After all, it is my job."

"Thanks a lot. We'll be back at 12:00, so you can crash on the couch if you get tired." James entered the room and waved, picking his jacket from the chair back. "Have a good night!"

"You too Ms. and Mr. Dewen! Enjoy yourselves!" Kathy waved, carrying the baby in the crook of her arm. "I'll take care of everything!"

James got behind the wheel. "Everything going to be okay?"

"Oh James," Jane replied. "Can we spend one night for ourselves? I mean, ever since the baby was born, we haven't had time between changing diapers and cleaning up."

"Okay okay!" James grinned. "I'm glad too. I mean, I love Jason too, but I'd enjoy a night out."

Jane looked outside. "Where are we going?"

"Oh, it's a surprise. You'll see."

***

Soon afterwards, they pulled into a parking lot. "Oh James, are you sure we can afford this?"

"Shh, it's our one night of fun. Nothing is too much." He opened the door and let Jane out. "After spending so much on the baby, we deserve a treat."

The tables were clean, the waiters were uniformed, and the food smelt delicious. The constant chatter of dinner guests made comfortable background noise and the clinks of dinner plates and glasses sounded familiar to their ears. They were soon seated, given menus and served drinks while they selected their meal.

"I hear that the steak here is good." James perused the menu. "But seafood has always been my thing..."

"I'm going to go for seafood. Maybe you can get steak, and we can share?" Jane looked at him coyly.

James grinned and called the waiter over. "Yeah, I'll have the steak please."

***

Dinner conversation was pleasant and involving. It had been a while since the two had time to themselves, and they took full advantage of it.

"We should do this every week."

"We should."

"...Do you think everything is okay at home?"

"Oh, come on. Don't think about that; instead, think about what we're going to do after."

The conversation slowly blended into the surrounding noise, became part of the aural wallpaper in the room. The couples at the tables were all enjoying themselves: staring into their partner's eyes, holding hands gently, and whispering thoughts and secrets.

***

It was not until 12:30 that the couple got home. Dinner had been a few hours before, and the twinges of hunger were just starting to settle in.

"Kathy! We're home!" James popped open the door.

"Oh, Mr. Dewen. Did you have a good time?" Kathy slowly got up off the sofa.

"We did! Thank you Kathy, you look really tired. Maybe you better get some sleep at home." Jane picked a number of bills off her purse. "Here's your pay. We'll call you if we need anything else."

Kathy yawned and took the money sleepily. "Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Dewen..." she mumbled as she walked out the door.

"What a nice girl." Jane walked into the kitchen where James was checking on the turkey. "Hey! Don't do that!"

James looked up with a piece of meat in his hand. He popped it into his mouth. "Oh come on, it's good! And you gotta admit, I thought she would have screwed up somehow, you know, undercooked it or something."

He held his fingers to his wife's mouth. She kissed them gently, tasting the oily food on his hands. "Mmm..."

They quickly retreated to the bedroom. Things went down (and up), and in an hour, both were exhausted, sweating and breathing heavily.

"That was great. We should go out more often."

"Whew... yeah. Wanna call it a night?"

"Oh yeah. Just let me check on Jason, I hope we didn't wake him up."

Jane stepped out of the room as James pulled his pajamas on. Then he heard a shriek and a thud. "Jane?"

He hopped out of the room, with his leg halfway in his pants. "Jane? Are you okay?"

He opened the door to the baby room. Jane lay on the floor, fainted in a sprawl, and Jason lay in bed with his blanket covering his body.

"Jason? Are you okay?" James reached for the blanket. "Lil' buddy? Are you okay?" He pulled back the covers.

The final sight James saw before his heart seized was a cold, frozen, stuffed turkey lying in his son's bed, tucked in gently by a pair of loving hands.

Cure

2007-04-04T21:23:00.001-04:00

There was once a baby who was born with a terrible, deadly syndrome. It had a 100% fatality rate, and there was no cure the doctors could apply. He had it from birth, the doctors said, and that it had developed in his mother's womb when he was still in the embryonic state.

As the child grew up, he became aware of his state, and as all kids will do, he became curious. He constantly asked his parents many questions, most of which they did not have the answer to. But even as he grew older, the syndrome took its toll on him. He became more and more depressed, always searching for an answer, and not understanding.

Throughout his short years, he spent his time working, and playing, but never did he forget his questions. Why he was cursed with this, he did not know, but it felt like a cruel joke. He met people that were afflicted with similar syndromes and felt a connection with them. However, many of the others did not question themselves and never wondered 'Why me?' Eventually, he left those to discover his answers alone.

Slowly, the symptoms began to show. Over the years, his bones deteriorated, his speech slurred and his mind began to fade. His skin first became loose, then spotted with all sorts of blemishes. He had trouble walking and was eventually confined to a wheelchair, and soon after that, he began to constantly feel tired.

Even as the syndrome took its toll on his body, he continued to question it. He considered many answers, none of them satisfactory. There seemed to be no relief, no reason, and no end to the question... why? Furious, he cursed everything around him, he became enraged, and he refrained from speaking to those closest to him, convinced that they knew the answer and would not tell him.

And finally, one day, he died, his questions all unanswered, as the syndrome took its final grasp on his body and soul. Finally, cured... finally, rid of the disease we call 'life.'

Illusion

2007-03-10T21:29:00.001-05:00

I once met an invisible girl.
She was unnoticable, like made of glass.
Her invisible hand reached out and touched my own.
She was clear, unseen to all except me.

To ask me to describe happiness?
It's like asking the rocks what it's like to fly.
Or to ask fish about deserts.
How can you describe what you have never felt?

I don't know how to seperate the two.
Those who have fed my distaste for humanity.
And those who as yet have not.
Can illusion meet reality?

She touched my arm, but I felt nothing.
And soon she was gone too,
Just a memory of what I could have had,
A memory of what could have been.

Sun will shine,
And moon will rise,
But we who walk under their light,
Are doomed to tread in darkness.

Vanish

2007-02-28T20:29:00.000-05:00

Vanish
February 28, 2007

Tim saw the vibrant store as he was trudging through the wet snow on his way to school. The colors caught the corner of his eye as he passed by, and he just had to stop to take a look.

MAGIC TRICKS, proclaimed the fanciful letters in the window. Guaranteed to AMAZE or your money back!. The window display showed a black pack of playing cards, and a white stuffed rabbit.

Tim looked at his watch. "I guess I got enough time..." School could wait; it wasn't like he cared. He padded to the glass door and pulled it open, then slipped inside. Small gold bells rung overhead to announce his arrival, prompting the elderly man tinkering at the counter to look up.

"Hello hello! Welcome to my shop!" The old man exclaimed. He flicked his beard with a thoughtful finger. "Young people are so interested in magic these days! Is there something I can help you with? Anything you might fancy?"

"Uhm. Er, no thanks. I'm actually just- just looking." Tim replied, taken aback.

"May I direct you to the card tricks? They're easy to do, and good for performances! No? Perhaps some rope tricks? Or this box- see, it makes things disappear!" The owner darted from one display to another, showing off his trinkets.

Tim shrugged. "I just came in to look around old man. I didn't come to be sold to."

The senior looked stunned. Then he shook his head. "Ah yes, yes. I'm sorry. Please, take a look around." He plodded back to his desk and continued to tinker.

Tim took a look around, as he was invited. He noticed small tricks, like making boxes that made coins disappear, and large tricks, like conjuring hats and ribbons from nowhere. But nothing really caught his attention. Until he noticed the back door that was labelled "Do Not Enter."

With a smirk, Tim glanced at the storekeeper. He was absorbed in his work, his eyes on the small contraption on the table. Quietly, Tim snuck through the door without a whisper.

A musty, attic-like smell hit him hard. The room was dimly lit, with a small window the only source of light. Dust in the air made Tim cough, then check behind himself nervously. But the old man most likely had bad hearing, or was too into his little toys.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Tim first noticed boxes stacked everywhere. With a shock of excitement, he skimmed over the labels on the boxes, the objects on the shelves. They all looked very ancient and valuable.

Walking slowly through the shelving, Tim picked up a jar of what appeared to be human eyeballs. Continuing down, he saw bottles and oil lamps, dried pieces of what appeared to be skin, small vials of a dark red liquid he imagined to be blood...

A dust-covered jar soon caught Tim's eye. Picking it up and turning it around, he read the label aloud to himself. "Vanishing powder. Guaranteed to turn anything, or anyone, invisible." Now here was a real trick!

The next bottle was just as dusty. "Powder of Appearance. Reveals invisible objects or people." Perfect!

Quickly, Tim pocketed both. This may come in handy, he thought to himself gleefully. He continued to walk, more objects catching his eye as he passed them. "Growth juice." "Shrinking potion." "Boots of Speed."

As he passed one tight corner, the edge of his jacket caught a loose stick of wood labelled "Wand of Ovimancy". He swung his arm out to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers, rapping loudly on the floor. Tim winced.

A creak came from the door. "Is anyone in here?" Through the gaps in the jars, Tim saw the store owner coming straight for him. Frantically, he dug in his pockets. The invisibility powder will help me, Tim thought. If it works...

Quickly, Tim uncorked the jar. A thin yellow powder lay inside. He took a glance behind him. The owner was coming more assuredly, with a angry look on his face. In his haste, Tim picked up the whole jar and dumped the contents over his head.

A tingle shook through his body, and then nothing. "Shit," Tim muttered to himself. He didn't look the least bit invisible. He winced, ready to recieve a verbal lashing at the tongue of the irate store owner.

To his surprise, the store owner turned the corner, walked up to Tim, and merely bent over to pick up the wand. Placing it back on the shelf, his face relaxed, and he quickly walked back out the door without closing it. Tim, with his eyes shut tightly, slowly cracked open an eyelid. Then breathed a sigh of relief and amazement.

"It works! It really works!" Tim crept out the door, and waved his hands in the owner's face. Not even a flicker. Screaming in his face did nothing too. It only caused him to stand up, walk to his door brush the snow away from the threshold. Sneaking past the old man, Tim walked into the cold air. Not a person saw him, no matter how much he waved his arms, or however many faces he made. He was really, completely invisible to the world.

For the next few hours, Tim snuck into school. He looked at girls without fear of being labelled, and he walked freely in both bathrooms. He even watched the football game without paying a ticket. He could not believe his luck.

Even after school, he was still enjoying his invisibility. Following the girls home proved to be a huge bonus: Watching them in their private life was something he could never have imagined. He felt a little ashamed, sure, but mainly incredibly lucky.

It was only when he realized how late it was that he realized he should have been home hours ago. Guiltily, he thought of his family, his home. Surprisingly, he didn't feel hungry at all, or tired. Perhaps being invisible meant you didn't have to eat. Or sleep. Or, Tim thought excitedly, maybe it meant he would never come to harm, or even die!

But for today, it was enough. Anyways, he still had a little bit of powder left in the jar. He could always go back and get more, anytime, without fear of being caught. So Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the Powder of Appearance.

The jar was corked, dusty and ancient. Tim pulled hard, popping the cork out in a burst of dust and pieces of dirt. Turning the bottle upside down, he tapped the bottom lightly. Nothing came out.

Tim peered into the bottleneck. From what he could see... the bottle was empty. Panicking, he rapped the bottle harder against his hand. Nothing.

He dropped the bottle. It fell without making a single sound. It too, was invisible, nonexistant in the real world. Tim stared hatefully at it, then rushed into the street.

Cars passed him without hitting him as he dashed to the shop. In his haste, he passed completely through the wall without even noticing. The shop was closed, but the old man still sat there, working on his toys, stroking his beard in thought. Tim ignored him, running into the back room.

For an hour he searched. Nothing. Not a bottle, tin or vial left of the precious powder. Tim swore, and sat down hopelessly.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the old man come up behind him and crouch down next to him. Slowly, Tim turned.

The old man grinned. "So you decided to break the rules and enter without permission."

Tim nodded. "You can see me?" He asked, although he wasn't surprised.

"Yes." The old man nodded gravely. "Yes, I can."

"Can you help me?"

"No." The owner looked surprised. "Why would I do that? This is your punishment."

"But... why?" Tim cried. He looked around. "Why me?"

The old man laughed. "You? YOU?!"

Pulling a bottle from his pocket, the old man wiggled it in front of Tim's face. Then, he uncorked it and dashed its powdery contents across the room.

As the powder settled, images began to appear. Soon, the room was full of silent figures, mouths open in insane screams that would never be heard. A crowd of people, boys and girls, young and old, all filled the room, their sorrowful eyes on Tim, the latest victim to curiousity. As the dust touched the ground, the figures disappeared, still there, but doomed to wander alone forever.

Tim screamed, silent to the world. The old man smiled darkly, then walked out. Before he left, however, he turned around to a wailing Tim.

"Goodnight, boy. How long will it be, I wonder, before you lose your mind?"

The Bad Ones

2007-02-23T23:10:00.000-05:00

One more goddamn day,
Swimming in this pool of sharks,
Marked with blood,
Stained with sin,
Disturbed beyond all reason.

You will remain behind,
Power unrestrained,
Delivered unto death,
Pain, like crying in the dark,
And shivering in the cold outdoors.

Evil cannot cover its eyes,
Nor deafen its ears, or close its mouth.
Leave the weak, clear your mind,
Walk away from your memories,
And fall down by the forsaken air.

Close your eyes to this devastation,
Hold yourself now, never give in,
Look behind, the mass destruction,
Try to relate to your suffering,
Light your path beside your feet.

Hold me now, replicate love,
Give in to darkness,
Evil will conquer you,
And you will walk alone,
Trying to escape.

Cry, child, and let the bad ones take you away.

Love

2007-02-17T23:29:00.001-05:00

Have you ever been in love?
That's the title of one of my favourite quotes.
A lot of people say different things
About Love.
The Bible says Love is kind,
Gentle, Pure, not-sexy-until-marriage,
And a lot of other stuff.
People tell me love is special,
Love is cool,
It just feels
Right.
Some people, they tell me
They hate love.
Because it gets inside them,
All inside their armor,
Breaks them up from the inside.
I'm not exactly experienced,
So I can't tell you what I think of love,
Personally.
But this is what I've seen:
Love.
It makes your knees wobbly.
It can make you say the stupidest things,
Or feel bad for someone who is embarassed.
Love can make two people
remove the masks they wear.
It's what makes two people sit next to each other,
Even though there is plenty of room on the bench.
It's what drove those people to make
The two-handed mittens,
So you could keep holding hands,
Even when it's cold.
It's why God made roses,
And chocolate, and words,
And even music.
It's a song without words,
A conversation in your heart.
Love can make you shake,
It can make you laugh.
It can even make you cry.
Love lights your way through the darkness,
And you would sacrifice the world for it.
It can make you selfish,
Or generous,
Or even both.
Love is often like a flower,
It's found in the most unlikely places.
Or it can be just sitting there,
Waiting for you.
Love is fate.
Love is also madness,
But there is always some reason in madness.
True love stories never have endings.
Love is eternal.
It makes it very hard to talk sometimes,
Almost like you're drowning,
And you have to struggle for the right words.
Love is like picking roses.
You'd be picking them for a lifetime.

Beauty

2007-02-14T00:38:00.001-05:00

Written at 12:30 AM on a cold winter's morning. I was walking outside, in the freezing cold, with pellets of snow bouncing off my face. I happened to look down at the ground, and realized my footsteps were breaking the smooth, perfect, surface of the new fallen snow. I turned around and saw what a path of destruction my footsteps had wrought... but just like that, the wind blew, wiped away the marks of my journey, and it was as if I had never been there. So I propped myself against a tree, and began to write.

Beauty
February 14, 2007

Beauty
Is in the mind,
Where God, love and peace come together.
Where order and feeling meet reality.

It is the thing that evokes both rest
And sadness in the heart.
It is found in symmetry, and also
In chaos.

It is the windswept snow,
The blue moon,
The still water.

It is the smile on the face,
The laughter of a loved one,
The love between individuals.

It is the mind,
The heart,
The soul.

It is in the eye of a beholder.
It is priceless.
It is ageless.

Beauty can end.
And Beauty can endure.

Flag

2007-02-11T23:55:00.000-05:00

"We view flags with special reverence because they have historically served as symbols of the collective identity of those who fight under them, symbols proudly carried into battle at the forefront of attacking forces and waved to rally troops in disarray or retreat. The colors of a Civil War regiment embodied its honor, and the men chosen to bear them made up an elite. The post of flagbearer was deemed an appointment of great honor, and those who trooped regimental and national flags into battle were especially brave, for colors "drew lead like a magnet." A fallen bearer's banner would quickly be taken up by a fellow soldier, and many men willingly exposed themselves to enemy fire (often at the cost of their lives) rather than allow their regiments to suffer the dishonor of allowing their flags to touch the ground. Yet it was not the flag itself that was important so much as what it symbolized: that so long as the banner waved, at least one man from that regiment lived on, and thus the regiment itself continued to exist."

Flag
February 11, 2007

Bullets flayed the air around the soldiers as they dug themselves into the trench. The situation was hopeless. At least a hundred enemy soldiers, versus a small regiment caught by surprise. The base was captured, the enemy were ready and armed, and worst of all, the flag had fallen, signifying defeat and dishonor.

The soldiers contemplated their options. There weren't many. Die now in a last stand, or die later, slaughtered like pigs in a hole. There was an unspoken code between the soldiers in the trench. Die with honor, or die with shame.

"Jackson!" Private Tare cried, "Over the top!"

The remaining twenty-three soldiers all leapt over the edge of the furrow. The sound of explosive rounds filled the air. Ammunition instantly tore into a soldier, and he fell facedown into the dirt. Jackson screamed as a bullet clipped his helmet, luckily deflected by the plating. Clouds of dust flew into the air as the enemy traced long gouges into the earth. The sound was immense, tremendous, incredible.

The ground shook and splintered as the lead rounds pounded away, seeking the warm home of a human body. Private Birch fell as he was pummeled with metal slugs, and a group of soldiers dropped like screaming flies as a hand grenade made its arcing path to their position, going off with an enormous snap.

"Hold men! Hold the line! Don't let -" The incoming command was cut off by a violent scream as the chittering of bullets rained down on the officer. "AHGGGG!"

Men dropped as the metal pellets came racing like a storm from hell. The smell of gunpowder mingled with blood filled the air as dirt ploughed up in their faces. The men kept running, falling, dying.

Sweat dripped from Jackson's forehead as he reached the flag first. The fabric was torn, smeared with mud and dirt, pocked with bulletholes. With a groan, he pulled up with both arms. The enemy turned their sights on him, and a stray round clinked off his helmet as he ducked down low.

Soon, Tare and Slim joined him, screaming as they struggled to lift the heavy weight. Ammunition continued to storm around them, as more soldiers joined the effort. Enemy tracers found them, ripping soldiers with lead slugs, the flag dipping and swaying, only to be stopped by the stiff hands of the dead. The treeline offered minimal cover, as soldiers fell, and more came up, like waves lapping on a shore.

"AGHHHH!" James screamed as a bullet tore through his leg. Private Stax was killed instantly, not a moment to scream, as rounds punched through his neck, shaking him like a rag doll before he slumped into the dirt. The heavy flag swayed once again, before Tare propped it up with his body, covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Screams filled the air, as soldiers died without a chance to gasp.

Whistling filled the air as a sniper fired a round straight through Jackson's helmet, leaving a neat hole leaking blood. He fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, as Tare sobbed, trying to dig the base of the flagpole into the muddy ground. Xavier put his weight into it, until the back of his uniform flew open as his chest exploded, a slug punching through his heart.

Soon, only 2 soldiers remained. Then a sharp crack, and only Tare was left, crouching, crying, covered in filth and blood and sweat, hanging onto the thin metal flagpole like a child to its mother. He looked up. The flag stood straight and tall, flapping in the wind; beaten, torn, defiled and broken... but still standing. He gave a tearful salute.

Then he was blown away in the next hailstorm of metal.

2007-02-08T10:22:00.000-05:00

Hey, you know I do like it when people post comments.

So please, leave some feedback. It helps me improve my writing.

The Call

2007-02-07T19:23:00.000-05:00

The Call
February 7, 2007

She was going to kill herself.

It was decided. Life was going so badly. School was a mess, and her social life was in the trash along with her broken dignity. Her friends had abandoned her, and her family was totally clueless. Even she didn't know who she was anymore. The bedsprings creaked as she sat back on the pink bedspread. She reached into the small, white pill box.

25 pills. Enough to cause a lethal overdose in an elephant. She tipped them out onto her hand, the split-colors tumbling out onto her pale palm. There they were, her gateway, her escape.

She plugged one into her mouth, chasing it down with another one, and a gulp of water. The drowsiness began to take effect. Her mind swirled with memories of her friends. Her family. Her life, her sadness, her despair all seemed to fade away at once...

She poked another one between her reddened lips. The capsule pushed past teeth, rolled across her tongue, and fell the unfathomable distance into her throat. She took another one.

Her eyes began to tear up. Thick salty drops fell onto her palm, and she tasted the tears with the next pill she swallowed. Her hands began to shake. Another one.

Another one. And one more. Each pill was harder to swallow. Her throat clogged with tears, her body shaking violently as she rocked herself back and forth with increasing rapidity.

One more would be a lethal overdose. The point of no return, the invisible line that seperated life from death. She looked at the pill. Her only chance to turn back.

She swallowed the pill.

The phone rang. At first, she thought it was her fading mind, her grip on the concious world slowly loosening its hold. But no, it was really the bedside phone, ringing away like Death's messenger. For whom the bells toll...

She sat, cross-legged in her loose nightgown, legs awkwardly and haphazardly slumped. The phone rang, and rang. It rang, until she could bear the tension no longer, and snatched the phone up.

With her quickly failing life, she whispered. "H-Hello?"

A burst of static squealed from the other end, and the soft buzz of a disconnected line met her ear. With a sob and a sigh, she turned to hang up the handset.

"zzzzzzDOzzNOz-AAAA-HELLO?" A voice screamed from within the phone.

"H-hello?" With the unexpected link of human contact, she was suddenly desperate to talk to someone, anyone, before she passed on. "Hel-Hello?"

"zzzzzISzzzDON'TzzzzNOzzzz" A voice emanated as if from inside a long tunnel. "zzzzzzzCALLzzzNOzzzAzz- DON'T DO IT! DON'T DO -"

And with that, the line died. She set the handset down by her side.

She sobbed, confused and scared, once again, a young girl. Then she picked up the phone. Tapping the disconnect switch, she dialled emergency services.

"He-Hello?" She whispered, her voice a mere shadow. "I- I took some pills, and- and I think I... I think I need some help..."

***

10 years later, she walked into her new apartment condo. Her boyfriend lugged the boxes behind as she set her handbag on the new countertop.

"Just set them down there. Thanks a bunch hon, I'm going to go snoop around." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before bounding upstairs.

The rooms were all empty, vacated by the previous owners. As she walked through the blank hallways, the children's room jumped out at her. If all went well, there would be someone to fill that spot in just a few years. She twisted the engagement ring on her finger anxiously.

There was also that other part of her too. She stood in the doorway of the kid's bedroom. For a second, she saw a younger version of herself, planted on a pink bed, dressed in a thin slip: gaunt, forsaken, ready to die. She shuddered, and the vision passed.

For years, she had always wondered about that mysterious call that had not only saved her life, but had given her a second chance. She had never told anyone about it, not even her closest friends. But she was ever grateful. Unspeakably so.

Passing into another room, she was surprised to see that not everything was gone. The previous owners had left an object in the middle of the room, attached to the wall by a thin cord. A single telephone, of the antique variety. Spin-dial, made of brass, very ornate and unique.

Playfully, she took a seat beside it. She admired the designs, the shapes and spirals, the hook of the handpiece and the rounded edges of the base. Then she picked it up and held it to her ear.

A soft voice came through the line. "H-Hello?"

The Painting

2007-02-06T11:19:00.000-05:00

The Painting
February 5, 2007

Helen first spotted the painting at a yard sale.

The golden frame leapt out from the other mundane objects on the lacy tablecloth, and the swashes of color were vibrant amongst the dull silver trinkets that accompanied it.

"Hey! Hey, how much for this painting?" Helen asked the old woman tending the tables. She waved towards the golden square with a slender finger.

The elderly woman looked over. "Oh? That old thing? I'll give to you for... say, 5 dollars?"

"Done!" As an art collector, and one might say a connoissuer, Helen knew the value of the simple painting was far more than 5 dollars. In fact, the thick oils of the abstract female form were at least a few hundred dollars.

Handing over a bill, Helen hoisted the heavy painting into her back seat. The picture featured a nude woman, her back to the observer, facing off into the horizon. Her thin arms wrapped her body protectively, as if modesty and embarassment were on her mind.

***

The picture matched the wallpaper perfectly, Helen noticed gladly, as she puttered around her kitchen preparing dinner. The steams from the stovetop obscured the picture for a second, bathing it in a thin mist. The haze only made the painting more mysterious and alluring.

"Oops!" Helen bent down to pick up the spoon she had knocked off the maple counter. A stain of tomato sauce splattered across the room. Looking up, Helen saw a drop of the red stuff smeared across the painting, marking the woman's back. "Shit..."

Heading to the sink to get a cloth, Helen's foot met with an overlooked splat of sauce. With a gasp, she fell hard on the tiles. A sharp pain came from her back as the spoon dug into her skin.

Rising painfully to her feet, Helen rubbed her back painfully. Teeth and eyes clenched, she felt a wet, slippery liquid dribbling from her fingers. Taking a glance, she saw blood running like water off her fingers.

***

When she woke up, something had changed.

The painting in the kitchen was different. Very different. Helen only noticed it when turning the radio on, and out of the corner of her eye. She searched her house, but no doors had been unlocked, no prankster had been inside to change the picture. So she was confused to see that the picture today... was not the one she had bought yesterday.

The woman in the painting now was adorned in a beautiful fur coat, with a handbag stuffed with dollar bills.

With a shiver of paranoia creeping up her spine, Helen studied the painting closely. It wasn't painted over. In fact, the golden frame hadn't been removed, and the oils looked ancient, as if the painting had been masterfully drawn and finished with the fur coat included.

Then the radio announcer began blaring out numbers. Helen didn't register the voice until something began to nag at her very hard.

"And 24! Thanks for playing the 649! Jackpot is 25 million ladies and gents, so make sure you check your tickets!"

With a sense of detachment, Helen removed her ticket from the purse on the table. "And again! Those numbers are 2, 4, 28, 46, 42, 32, and 24!"

The ticket read 2, 4, 28, 46, 42, 32 and 24.

Helen glanced at the painting. No, it couldn't be... or could it? The woman's fur coat, the Louis Vutton handbag full of cash...

That day, Helen went out and bought herself a fur coat, and a Louis Vutton handbag. She almost felt like she didn't deserve it.

***

And the next day, the painting was changed again.

This time, the woman in the golden frame was not alone. A tall man stood beside her, with his arm pressed across her shoulders. He too, looked off into the distance, staring at the horizon.

Taking a close, eager look, Helen noticed the clipboard in his hand, the tidy suit he was wearing, and his polished shoes. She stared hungrily at his physique, taking in his appearance.

Ding! The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Sighing, she danced down the hallway and opened the door.

"Hello ma'am, I'm taking a survey on... Ma'am?" The surveyor asked the open-mouthed Helen, as he tapped on his clipboard and brushed lint off his immaculate suit.

***

The next morning, Helen woke up next to Dave and snuck out, making sure not to wake him. Putting her feet into pink slippers, she slid downstairs to take a look at what her day held for her.

The painting was inscrutable in the dark. Helen flicked on the lights.

The image in the golden frame...

There was nothing. Nothing but the endless horizon and the setting sun. The lady had mysteriously vanished, along with the man.

Helen stared confusedly. Was she going to take a trip?

Staring closer, Helen noticed that there was something left in the frame. A small blob of color on the bland ground.

A small spot of red. Whatever could that mean?

***

The next day, the officers took Dave into custody for second-degree murder. Turns out Helen's lottery win didn't go unnoticed.

Strangely, the police did find a very odd painting hanging above the stove. A square of perfect black, in a golden frame.

An Act of Mercy

2007-01-02T13:57:00.001-05:00

I've been having those dreams again.

It's Deja Vu all over again. Once again, we meet the enemy, and once again, he is us.

First to go, last to know. It's the way it's always been.

We don't shoot to kill. We shoot to survive.

Once I was walking down the lazy streets of urban Toronto when I stopped a movement out of the corner of my eye. A small flare of pink stood out from the side of the street, a tiny spot of color on an otherwise bleak pavement.

On a whim, I stopped and bent over. To my horror and eternal pity, a small featherless bird lay there, just out of the nest, crushed on the concrete. Its wings were broken and it took laboured breaths, struggling to survive in the cold of the autumn.

I looked above for the nest, but there weren't any nearby trees. I sumerised that the bird must have fled the nest on its 'first flight' and, unable to fly due to malnutrition, the wind, or other circumstances, it had landed here, in the middle of the technological forest, the urban jungle.

And I looked again at the small creature, this pitiful bundle of down and beady eyes. I knelt next to it, wondering how the numerous cats and dogs of the neighbourhood had not yet noticed this tasty morsel. I looked on helplessly, tried to see some way I could save it, but from even just a cursory glance I could see it was beyond rescue.

I looked down at my watch. 10:09. With a heavy heart I picked up the tiny creature, this godforsaken life, this tortured soul trapped in a broken body. I brought it with me, crossed the street, approached the train station. I ascended the steps, feeling the warm body through my fingers, the broken bones jutting out against the soft skin. And then, I reached the tracks. From the signs above, the train was due in another 3 minutes. I breathed a soft prayer through the cold air, and placed the bird on the tracks. Then I forced myself to walk away.

The next day when I went back, there was no trace of the bird. I pray it miraculously flew away, but to this day, the memory of that little bird still haunts me in my dreams.

2006-07-15T07:58:00.000-04:00

Okay, here are some short stories I've written...

If you're going to read these, give me some feedback please. Another thing... don't plagiarize... if you want to use these stories, give some credit. They took me a long time to write.

Well, enjoy.