-
17 votes
-
Nocturnal Awareness
I lie awake Your smell lingers on my hand Bringing quiet contentment While you sleep
6 votes -
Tonight (A Noite)
4 votes -
Morning Commute
Illuminated signs Cut through the dark like harsh words Calling out like noisy merchants Vainly reflecting on empty streets
11 votes -
The Egg
Her eyes are fixed on the cooker. — Look. Points at the egg. — What? — Can’t you see? — Has it gone bad? She takes a deep breath. — I noticed the way you broke the shell, but I needed to confirm....
Her eyes are fixed on the cooker.
— Look.
Points at the egg.
— What?
— Can’t you see?
— Has it gone bad?
She takes a deep breath.
— I noticed the way you broke the shell, but I needed to confirm. Can you see how the yolk is soft yet whole, with a small cut in the lower portion slowly leaking a yellow thread at a regular pace?
— Yes...
— Don’t you get it?
— No.
— When the yolk leaks like that, it can only mean two things.
She hesitates.
— You’re either going to murder me...
— What you’re talking about?
— Or you’ll get a Ph.D. in Physics in 2035.
— You’re kidding, right?
— Nope.
— You saw all that? On a fucking egg?
— I knew you wouldn’t understand...
— You were right.
A second goes by. He cleans his throat, kinda embarrassed.
— Honey?
— Yeah, babe.
— I’m terrible at physics.
He holds a knife with a confused expression on his face.
13 votes -
F*** me
1:45 A M Two divided Lonely bed, lonely couch Emotional drainage leaks Seeps into sub floors Foul and sickly Sticky and putrid Fuck me
13 votes -
Blue house
Blue house Foundation exposed Brown threadbare carpet White counters fadded dull Wallpaper curled and yellow Still it's theirs Contentment abounds
9 votes -
SpaceX Falcon 9 landing burn
9 votes -
Untitled Mental Health I
I'm not quite like you A few words and that's it The façade fades Crumbles The carefully constructed mood dies Coping mechanisms defeated The castle is compromised A strong exterior only goes so...
I'm not quite like you A few words and that's it The façade fades Crumbles The carefully constructed mood dies Coping mechanisms defeated The castle is compromised A strong exterior only goes so far Each word pulls stones from the foundation Fragile walls, fragile heart I retreat to my secret home Away from the swords and arrows and fire No one can reach me here Safe and quiet and in control Equally secure, equally secluded
19 votes -
Untitled I
Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise! the water laps at the dam seeking egress, seeking progress everyone inside so thirsty life affirming...
Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise!
the water laps at the dam seeking egress, seeking progress everyone inside so thirsty life affirming liquid but the dam the wall we built to keep ourselves safe our salvation our condemnation seemed a good idea at the time but all our other crimes against ourselves did too how are we so smart yet so stupid it hurts it fucking hurts life without love may as well be an empty gift on Christmas morning but we all do it to ourselves every day so many boundaries and rules and norms all because we’re too afraid to get hurt too afraid to be ourselves too afraid to realize ourselves too afraid to give one another the best gift we can
12 votes -
Untitled Mental Health II, or, but
I’m sorry but I can’t today I want to but I can’t It’s not my fault but I’m guilty anyway I’m not understood but I’m pressured anyway I yearn to create, to do but I just stay in bed I want to live...
I’m sorry but I can’t today I want to but I can’t It’s not my fault but I’m guilty anyway I’m not understood but I’m pressured anyway I yearn to create, to do but I just stay in bed I want to live but I’m too hurt
13 votes -
The Tower Card
Please note, I am no writer of any kind. For some inexplicable reason I just had the desire to give it a go today. I hope someone out there finds some enjoyment in it. After David left I decided...
Please note, I am no writer of any kind. For some inexplicable reason I just had the desire to give it a go today. I hope someone out there finds some enjoyment in it.
After David left I decided I'd better make good on my promise and find a new place to live. The woman from the council said there might be a temporary property available. That someone had recently died at the retirement village outside of Holyhead.
When I finished at school on Friday, I went to David's and gathered up what I thought was mine. As it turns out, almost everything was his. It wasn't long after we'd met that I moved in. It was gradual though. Bits and pieces brought over from mom's in bin bags tucked under the bus seats they save for people and their buggies. As the months rolled on there was less and less at mom's. I'd still visit on a Sunday for lunch but that was about it.
I had this porcelain clock on the mantle at David's, two corgis sat either side of the clock face. David hated it. He had a thing for minimalist art and would order fake prints online. He liked Robert Ryman a lot. He thought my clock threw everything off. He'd often tell me how important it was to appreciate art but what he liked left me cold. I wrapped the clock in newspaper and tossed it into my backpack. I took a last look at the living room. It was something new now.
When I got to the village it was raining. Cold droplets cascading down my jacket. I alternated hands, dropping each bin bag to the ground to rub the speckles from my glasses. In front of the bus stop there was a pathway that led to the complex, flanked on either side by imitation grass astro turf. Beyond that, two identical adjacent blocks. Rows stacked on top of one another like lego bricks.
The woman at the council told me it was flat 2b, "the last flat on the ground floor". I searched for the receipt I'd scribbled the details on to check if I'd remembered it right. I hauled my bags over my shoulder and ran underneath the closest awning. I stared up at the sign fixed to the brick. 1a. I can wait here until the rain dies down, I thought.
From across the yard a woman was sitting in a wheel chair, a mask attached to her face. An enormous tube jutting out from her mouth connected to a canister strapped to the side of her chair. She stared in my direction and didn't move. She's sitting next to 2b, she might be my neighbour, I thought. As the rain died down I walked over towards her. As I approached, I wasn't sure if she was going to take the mask off or not. What's wrong with her, I thought? "Hi, I'm Kate". I extended my hand and wondered if she could move her arms. She didn't reach back. "Mad weather isn't it?". She continued to stare. "I'm only staying for a month or so, I need my own place for a minute and it's all I could get you know? Not that I'm not grateful or anything". She continued to stare. "Ok, well, it was nice meeting you". I took out my key, opened the door and stood alone in the hallway.
David and I usually ate together on Saturday mornings. He'd wake up later than I did and wander about the place yawning. He'd often glorify his exhaustion to me. Some invisible accomplishment he'd been gaining interest on since leaving uni.
There wasn't a kettle in the new kitchen, but there was an electric hob. I poured water over the tea bag, into my cup and peered through the net curtains. The rain had settled and I could see the opposite house and the whole complex in the daylight now, some strange vortex, wholly enclosed. A village of it's own making.
I put on my old slippers, took my cup and stepped out onto the concrete walkway. The woman from yesterday wasn't around now. I thought about knocking but decided against it. Either she couldn't talk or has seen so many people come and go, she doesn't go in for platitudes anymore. Pacing, I caught a glimpse of her kitchen. Pink lino on the floor, almost nothing out on the worktops. It looked unoccupied. I moved back to my half of the walkway and perched on the step to finish my tea. I should get started sorting what I have before Sunday rolls around, I thought. As I got up, I heard my neighbour careen around the corner, up over the astro turf and onto the walkway. She stopped before her door, I nodded and smiled. This time she nodded back in my direction. She then raised her hand and jostled the toggle on the arm rest. Her chair moved closer towards me. She raised her eyes to meet mine and looked back at my hands. She did this a second time. "I'm sorry, I don't understand". She repeated this a third time. I mumbled something and she reached out and opened up my right hand. She surveyed my palm, in all of its detail, looked back up at me and nodded again. "Sorry, can I help with something?". She shook her head, reversed and rolled up the ramp back into her flat.
On Sunday morning I started sorting through the rest of the papers I threw into my bag at David's. Bank statements, a few receipts, junk mail. In amongst them I found a cinema ticket I'd kept from when we started dating. He asked me to go to see the first Terminator, "on the original reel", he said. I didn't much want to go and don't like violent films but thought it'd be a good excuse to get to know one another. We got pretty swept away with each other after that.
I sorted through the rest hoping I'd find something else, but there was nothing. I stacked the ordered papers on the ground and went outside for a break. There wasn't anybody out, like the day before. After some time my neighbour's door opened. I stood up and checked to see if she needed any help. I found her raising her eyes to her forehead, motioning backwards. "Do you need some help?", she shook her head and motioned backwards with her eyes for a second time. She reversed the chair and gestured for me to come in. I stepped inside. She manoeuvred her wheelchair into the kitchen and positioned herself next to the dining room table. There was a chair opposite to her, so I sat too. "Is everything ok?", I asked. She nodded. "I hope you don't mind me asking, are you able to speak?". She stared at me and shook her head. After a few seconds passed she pointed to a badge on her cardigan. On a yellow background, in all black caps it read, "JANE". "I'm Kate, nice to meet you Jane". This time she extended her arm and we shook hands. "How long have you been here Jane?". She nodded 5 times. "Ah ok, and how do you like it? Do you have family that visit?". She shook her head. "Do you mind me asking, what's wrong with you? Shit sorry, umm, not like that, I mean, umm, are you sick?". She paused for a moment and nodded. She then reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a deck of cards.
I don't know anything about Tarot, other than what you see on T.V but I'm not a superstitious like that. She laid the cards on the table in front of me, either nodding or shaking her head as she passed each of them one by one. The last card in the row showed a stone tower. She looked down, paused, raised her head, but this time, looked right past me. Dust cascaded through the shards of light piercing through the window. Jane starred into it for what felt like a whole minute. Watching the particles dance before her I asked, "Are you ok Jane?", she shook her head. "Is there something I can do?", she shook her ahead again. "I had better be going Jane, I meet my mom on a Sunday for lunch, please let me know if there's anything I can help with, OK? As I said yesterday, I won't be staying too long, but while I'm here, feel free to knock on". She nodded her head. I let myself out and left, the cards still strewn about the table.
I didn't see Jane much after that afternoon and things went on as normal. David called and we hashed things out over the phone but we'd petered out long before that. The council explained I couldn't stay on at the village for another month so I moved back with mom. After a few weeks passed, one evening after work, I opened up my laptop and searched online for "Jane Tarot". Tons of results came up but only one from Holyhead. A local newspaper article with a headline that read, "LOCAL LADY FORESAW DIAGNOSIS". "I knew what was going to happen to me, the fibrosis I mean. The cards speak and I accept, I give myself up to that". I closed my laptop and looked outside into mom's garden. I thought about the tower card and how people do all sorts of things to justify their own lives, to deal with their own grief and make sense of things.
Mom plants Floribunda's every year and they're starting to bloom now. My phone rings. I offer to cover a shift for a new temp at work. I put on my jacket, walk outside and think about Jane.
13 votes -
Cotton Candy
Put your head over here and cry all the yearning away cause thinking will bring you nothing just thoughts and yet more pain Sleep, sleep my child breath slowly that way cause here there is no more...
Put your head over here
and cry all the yearning away
cause thinking will bring you nothing
just thoughts and yet more painSleep, sleep my child
breath slowly that way
cause here there is no more strain
under my loving gazeIn your cotton candy dreams
you embrace with such strength
a cloud above in the sky
sleep, honey, yes, sleep
cause here you're free from timeAnd there I am on this dream
imagining, imagined
the mark of a want, of a wish
a trace drawn in the sky
don't know if I'm the one dreaming
or if I am been dreamed aboutPortuguese original
encosta a cabeça aqui
e chora a saudade toda
que pensar não leva nada
só mais pensar e dor aindadorme seu sono infante
respira assim devagar
que aqui não vai sofrer
debaixo de meu olharem teu sonho de algodão doce
não sei do quê dá risada
e abraça com tanta força
uma nuvem no céu alçada
dorme, meu bem, dorme sim
que aqui o tempo não passaE nesse sonho estou lá
Imaginando, imaginado
A marca de uma vontade
Um traço no céu projetado
Não sei se sou eu que sonho
Ou se eu é quem sou sonhado7 votes -
5 o'clock nostalgia
So many wants that never were But that were mine nevertheless In the joy of many maybes Slow evening Time is cursed, it goes The body is alive and weary And stuck in hour a soul — immense...
So many wants that never were
But that were mine nevertheless
In the joy of many maybes
Slow eveningTime is cursed, it goes
The body is alive and weary
And stuck in hour a soul — immensePortuguese original
Nostalgia das 5 Horas
Tanto querer que nunca foi
Mas era meu ainda assim
Na alegria do talvez
A tarde lentaO tempo é maldito e passa
Ainda vivo o corpo cansa
E presa na hora a alma - imensa7 votes -
Gesture
Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end a phrase with no reticences a shadow lost in the gaze A question you have not made a plot not yet heard a night with no resolution be calm, the sun is...
Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end
a phrase with no reticences
a shadow lost in the gazeA question you have not made
a plot not yet heard
a night with no resolution
be calm, the sun is not latePortuguese original
Gesto
vi em você um traço
um gesto sem fim colocado
vi frase vi reticência
suspiro pela metade
e olhar desencontradoda pergunta ainda não dita
sequer pinçada talvez
da trama'inda inaudita
que a noite não tarda ou finda
mas calma que o sol já vem6 votes -
Hand-crafted lanterns made for a festival contest
8 votes -
My Glowing Pet
Glowing friend, your light has given me everything I know. To run you require a sacrifice I click open my knife forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo, the heart necklace of an...
Glowing friend, your light
has given me
everything I know.
To run you require
a sacrificeI click open my knife
forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo,
the heart necklace of an immature love
and the compass
with the atomic symbol.With the blade I
etch
and cut
and stab
to draw sand
from the glass
long left unflipped.It slides along your surface
sinks in
and is gone.7 votes -
Some squirrel photography
8 votes -
A new painting I made, yet untitled. Oil on canvas, 60x80
14 votes -
lost
lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass lost feelings like love leaving a full heart lost purpose like a crusader without a cause all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated an evil...
lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass lost feelings like love leaving a full heart lost purpose like a crusader without a cause all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated an evil I never invited, never wanted it's not my fault, not my goal innocent yet guilty convicted more like cursed their hatred is my destiny never get back what was lost never recover who I could, maybe should, have been robbed of a life, of a happy, normal life I can't even hate them for it can't even have that comfort I'd be just as bad, repeat the cycle almost sympathetic only path, only cure, is love creamy center of a cyanide pill
9 votes -
fire
This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying. it shines and blazes such light and warmth...
This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying.
it shines and blazes such light and warmth stories told round the hearth cold nights kept a safe distance away beauty in chaotic dancing patterns it promises everything all at once no regard for consequences or the future just passion in the moment no foresight, only enthralling abandon its wake is ash empty, cold, dead no energy never burn again it destroys what it loves what it needs not because it wants to because it is destruction guised as passion
8 votes -
Untitled II
I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is...
I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is an attempt at expressing that difficulty.
Down in the foothills the peak is so perfect Covered in pure white snow Nary a tree in sight The peak carves a visage in the sky In the clouds It just is, it exists peacefully in its austere authority Calm, serene Impossible Yet I yearn to climb To ascend Down in the foothills among the trees The greenof the hills I make my preparations Breath Training Gear I practiceand I meditate I meditate upona life A life of mistakes and triumphs Each breath preparing and steeling It's time to begin my climb Each step and the air, the precious vital air, thins Lungs emptying and muscles weakening And yet I continue Not quite undaunted, but I continue The views are stunning Yet I don't see them, eyes ever on the peak Visualizing success, not the process It's so cold Bitterly, viscerally cold There's no air Even a yogi must stop for air But there's no air The ground slick with snow and ice Snow and ice with the oxygen I need Sealed away in the mystery of the bonds Just as beautiful as it is inaccessible But I continue my climb Slipping and falling, the rocks cut and score Gashes and bruises amass I take a moment and reflect Is it worth it? Shall I ever ascend? And as I slip into meditation, I slip down the mountain All progress lost The world turns around, up and down I lose my breath And land, dizzy and hurt, down the bottom Even further from the peak than when I started.
11 votes -
the city
Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more...
Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more generally. I've never not lived in a city after moving out of my parents' place, and can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Cities are my home, cities are where I belong. I don't think this one is finished, yet; there are a few rough spots, and I'm not sure about the ending. But, like people have said in a few of the timasomo threads, the important thing is to get the words out, to make the work exist outside of one's head.
the city is awake, alive lights dance in the dark of night little lifesigns, each a past and present each a history and a story not yet told subways and busses and ubers the occasional oblivious cabbie (cancer on the streets) each moving people to their goals their dreams veins and arteries in the city's body lights for seeing superstructure in steel and glass inspiration aspiration and ambition passion and drive these power the pulse and the breath each person, each cell shapes and grows the city, the body each experience shapes epigenetics no place the same after the city takes us all in gives us homes maybe not shelter, but homes we are alive and so is our home an energy ineffable yet indelible
edit: A friend has said that this reminds her of the opening of Murakami's After Dark, and I can absolutely see it. Perhaps a bit of subconscious inspiration?
6 votes -
A love poem
This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I...
This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I explore yoga more deeply as part of my teacher training program. There's clear inspiration from Whitman's O Me! O Life!, but the message is very modern.
That the powerful play goes on and you will contribute a verse Why not let the verse be love? It used to be so easy, so easy, just a simple choice Choose love All the conflicts of today and every other time Not enough love For one another For ourselves Not enough love All the religions and faiths of the world All our enlightened leaders All taught love The play used to be about love So many acts ago Only a few moments ago Seems like forever Seems we’ve forgotten the lines But no one to remind us what they are And we don’t get a rehearsal We get one grand opening day One somber closing night No matinee No encore Why choose any other verse but love? Love makes everything else possible Makes everything else worthwhile Everything else builds on love That the powerful play goes on and you may choose a verse Choose love.
note: Posted this with the wrong title first, so deleted and reposted.
7 votes -
Eclipse 2
Logline During the 2017 Solar Eclipse, a thick-skinned female police officer must prevent millennial Shadows from returning from the depths of the Earth to dominate humanity. Notes Post 1 You can...
Logline
During the 2017 Solar Eclipse, a thick-skinned female police officer must prevent millennial Shadows from returning from the depths of the Earth to dominate humanity.
Notes
You can also read it in my blog (no advertising, no annoyances, no bullshit).
- As before, this is not my first language. All criticism is extra welcomed
- I included the previous content - the prelude - just because it's so small@cfabbro, here's the ping you requested! Love to know what you think of it!
Prelude
Before time was time, nights were dreamless. No one narrated the hunts, and death was just a cessation of the body. Births were joyful but meaningless. Statements were nothing more than intentions among roaring, shouts, and racket. Sometimes two sounds came together in funny ways, but meaning was still far away from our primitive cogitations.
In these times of monotony, the Shadows entertained the primitive men. With no timbre or elocution, they came from the deepest layers of Earth’s mantle to tell stories under the moonlight. They lived in harmony, feeding on each other. The Shadows came to life with the laughter and the souls of the Men, and the Men lost the fear of the night with the histories told by the Shadows in a primitive symbiosis.
One day, a man died after eating a tasty looking fruit. Hunting was a gamble, and eventually, men needed to eat potentially dangerous elements. Another, more intelligent man, noted that the juice from his mouth indelibly marked the rock with a pattern that was pleasant to the eyes. He collected more of that fruit, avoiding to put it in contact with sensible areas. This man did not have a proper name. None of them did. They just knew that there was “The Boss”, “The Hunter”, “The Large” and “The Delicate”.
Some men had soft lumps in their chests and above the thighs. Eventually, their bellies got big and other men came out from them. “The Delicate”, who discovered painting, was of this kind. In secret, he drew their hunts in the cave. He made everything bigger and more menacing than it was: the spears, the beast, the joy, the moon, and the flames, that reached the sky.
It took some gestures and vocalizations for The Delicate to make The Hunter understand that that set of traces was him and that the thick line with a pointing end penetrating The Beast was his spear. But soon they understood and had great silence. Followed by a great laugh.
The Hunter imitated the muffled sound of the Beast’s steps and learned to use this sound to talk about the Beast even when it wasn't there. War shouts, death songs, the cutting of the meat, the crackle of the fire, the crickets, the frogs and all animals soon had their sounds, their own “words”.
Men stories gained life by their own making.
The Shadows never came back.
Weakened, they returned to the depths. And, in the emptiness of their soulless existence, felt profound pain.
Chapter 1
Worn books on the balcony: The Physics of the Light, Introduction to Modern Physics and Modern Optics, paid with greasy notes. Stumbles on a rock, knock the books on the sidewalk. On a dark tunnel, fluorescent light flicker irregularly. Hands in his knees, catch his breath and run with the rest of his lungs.
The front is completely black of smut. Turns the key with difficulty. The stairway creaks under his feet. A stack of old newspapers behind the door. Turns on a weak desk lamp. A crack of light comes from the sheets. Closes it with tremble hands and throws himself in the armchair. A thick cloud of smoke leaves Ernesto's relieved self.
The curtain drops with a thud. Behind him, a dark silhouette smiles.
The badge for the "Civilian Police of the State of São Paulo" swing above the toilet. In the ground, two pregnancy tests. Two lines in each. In the holster, a Taurus 38. Impeccable blue jeans. Mariana pees in the third test and waits. Two lines. She's fucking pregnant.
Ernesto's suit seems expensive twenty-year ago. He looks like a bum that made an effort. He holds a thick notebook with paper falling from the edges and a paper folder that seems to be about to explode. Dries his eyes constantly, and there are black spots bellow his armpits. In the edge of the table, it reads: "Mariana Diniz – Commissioner of Police" Ernesto gives her his card: "Eye of Horus - Paranormal Investigations". Below, a stylized eye with Egyptian inspirations. And a landline.
— I don't trust cellphones.
Smiles uncomfortably, trying to hide the nervous tic that makes his head swing like a salamander.
– It may not look, but I'm a busy woman.
Gives her two 15x20 pictures. The first is completely out of focus. The second shows an oddly slim, dark silhouette on a sewer canal. Ernesto sweats like an amphibian having a panic attack.
— For millennia, these creatures have been confined in the interior of the earth. Suffering the monotony of an incomplete existence. Waiting for a chance to come back.
— Yes.
– You don't believe.
Puts the card in her wallet.
– You got my number.
The long hills do not affect Mariana. Sumptuous homes, beautiful landscaping, mutilation, and infanticide. They're all part of the same world.
In a deserted square, eight hood teenagers assemble in a circle. Metal-heads and RPG players never caused her any trouble, but, as commissioner of that town, she has the duty of investigating anything out of the normal. She takes care to not flaunt the weapon.
They ignore her. The kids emit no sound, make no gesture. They're not injured, and their dark eyes are probably contact lenses. They have an ironic smile in their faces. No drug would generate such severe catatonia on a group that size, and there was no law against looking spooky on public premises. Sent two patrol cars to watch the group and went home.
The basic Chevrolet goes through the carefully constructed path, with exotic plants on both sides. Between two neoclassic towers, a slightly lower white house. In the living room, Eliza, short-exquisite-hair, beautiful and androgynous, stare at the TV with thick frame glasses. Notices Mariana's gun.
— Comes with the job.
In slow motion, a voluptuous Marilyn Monroe impersonator pours milk on a bowl of cereal.
– Bruno?
– Upstairs.
A plate brakes in the kitchen. To the left of the sink, dozens of cups organized by color, size, and format. To the other, plastic utensils organized by function and material. Scapular in the neck, Sofia é very white. She wraps the glass in paper, writes "GLASS" in wide letters and ties everything in a thick, transparent plastic bag.
– Your kitchen was too… Illogical.
– Of course.
Mariana notices a red spot below Sofia's long sleeve. She holds the arm of her friend: bruises.
— They're old, diz Sofia.
— Doesn't look like.
Takes the car keys. The pregnancy tests are in the same pocket. Mariana takes a deep breath and looks at the stairways.
Law books on the shelf, almost all sealed. Bruno is on the computer. It's hard to get why they're still married. Mariana has always been stubborn. He's on the computer most of the time. At 40, Mariana has silky black, perfumed hair. Tells good stories in a welcoming way. Mariana loves what the does. She's hit on constantly, by both sexes. And has a way to politely decline that doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.
There's a month since they had sex.
— I'm pregnant.
— Are you sure?
The tests in the keyboard.
— They're from a pharmacy.
— Yep. Three.
She pulls the plug from the computer. Bruno looks at her. His eyes are black.
6 votes -
chocolate.
My phone sits, as I, in silence In my room – alone. I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy To dig into my bones. When I was younger I was told that One day God would call me home. Instead the...
My phone sits, as I, in silence
In my room – alone.
I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy
To dig into my bones.
When I was younger I was told that
One day God would call me home.
Instead the coffin calls my name in whispers
And beckons the unknown.
.
Why do I feed a body with a
Soul that keeps depleting?
When all my hopes and expectations come up
Short and keep receding – I
Start alternating between plotting,
Thinking, pleading
That I’ll make a rash decision, they’ll
Give my organs to the needy.
.
Perhaps I’ll drive a stake into my head and chest.
No one should endure this mind or heart.
Meditation never seemed to give much value,
All the medication felt a farce.
I’m an incongruent, uncompleted puzzle
Dangling from a bridge; falling apart.
I watch my pieces sink below into the water,
As this letter dances all about the hearth.
.
I carried out important shit in boxes;
Let the rest behind to be thrown away.
I hid and watched as they threw in the dumpster,
A bed now wrought with chocolate and decay.
As the memories flashed in to my brain,
Of how we chose to spend that final day.
(Of how) even on the best day of the end of my life,
I ended up naked, chocolate-covered, curled up on your chest and crying,
Begging you to stay.
.
The devil is a myth they tell believers;
Hell prevents their chasing earthly dreams.
I will not go to Heaven, and there is no Great Receiver
Who will comfort me and silence my screams.
There is no purgatory in the ether;
The earth is this one act’s final scene.
Fittingly, the water isn’t beautiful here either.
It’s choppy, warm, and a putrid shade of green.
.
Someone use my hands to write a sonnet.
Someone use my eyes to see a better day.
Someone use my legs to climb a mountain;
Use my tongue to find the words to say.
They’ll use my lungs to feel the oxygen.
Use my kidney when theirs is in decay.
They’ll use my heart to feel in love again.
I’ll rest easier that way.
10 votes -
Eclipse 1 - Prelude
Before time was time, nights were dreamless. No one narrated the hunts, and death was just a cessation of the body. Births were joyful but meaningless. Statements were nothing more than intentions...
Before time was time, nights were dreamless. No one narrated the hunts, and death was just a cessation of the body. Births were joyful but meaningless. Statements were nothing more than intentions among roaring, shouts, and racket. Sometimes two sounds came together in funny ways, but meaning was still far away from our primitive cogitations.
In these times of monotony, the Shadows entertained the primitive men. With no timbre or elocution, they came from the deepest layers of Earth’s mantle to tell stories under the moonlight. They lived in harmony, feeding on each other. The Shadows came to life with the laughter and the souls of the Men, and the Men lost the fear of the night with the histories told by the Shadows in a primitive symbiosis.
One day, a man died after eating a tasty looking fruit. Hunting was a gamble, and eventually, men needed to eat potentially dangerous elements. Another, more intelligent man, noted that the juice from his mouth indelibly marked the rock with a pattern that was pleasant to the eyes. He collected more of that fruit, avoiding to put it in contact with sensible areas. This man did not have a proper name. None of them did. They just knew that there was "The Boss", "The Hunter", "The Large" and "The Delicate".
Some men had soft lumps in their chests and above the thighs. Eventually, their bellies got big and other men came out from them. "The Delicate", who discovered painting, was of this kind. In secret, he drew their hunts in the cave. He made everything bigger and more menacing than it was: the spears, the beast, the joy, the moon, and the flames, that reached the sky.
It took some gestures and vocalizations for The Delicate to make The Hunter understand that that set of traces was him and that the thick line with a pointing end penetrating The Beast was his spear. But soon they understood and had great silence. Followed by a great laugh.
The Hunter imitated the muffled sound of the Beast’s steps and learned to use this sound to talk about the Beast even when it wasn't there. War shouts, death songs, the cutting of the meat, the crackle of the fire, the crickets, the frogs and all animals soon had their sounds, their own "words".
Men stories gained life by their own making.
The Shadows never came back.
Weakened, they returned to the depths. And, in the emptiness of their soulless existence, felt profound pain.
8 votes -
Mun Py: A Fully Automated Mission to the Mun
5 votes -
Eldritch Love.
Longest piece to date? Last night I saw a beast four different heads with blackened eyes. Not black in metaphor, but from the blood that dried inside. Each of seven legs was mangled and the beast...
Longest piece to date?
Last night I saw a beast
four different heads with blackened eyes.
Not black in metaphor, but from
the blood that dried inside.
Each of seven legs was mangled
and the beast was blind
but she could fly.
.
Once upon a night so dreary,
and so dreadful I
came across a weathered bar
a woman stood inside.
She sat me at a table, there was
not a soul in sight
but I felt fine.
.
Then she brought a glass of dark with
something new inside.
Leaned in close and whispered to me
"Baby, close your eyes."
I parted my lips and drank as
her hand guided mine.
My guard resigned.
.
She said "I know a place where you can
truly feel alive.
Each one of your problems fall
defenseless by your side."
And she wrapped her arms around me
I contently sighed
as she took flight.
Her wretched and misshapen legs
held me close to her chest.
She let out her warning cries
i inhaled every breath.
Her claws were creeping out I
fell upon them like a bed.
I laid to rest.
.
I fell into a home so oddly
shallow and recessed.
The walls were made of rock,
a water drop fell on my head.
There was no single light,
the ceiling lowered as she led
me to her den.
.
As I looked around the room birthed
questions in my head.
So opposite the warmth that she
had first on me impressed...
She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin
my heart fluttered, digressed.
I was possessed.
.
She laid me on the floor and stood with
five legs for each end.
One aside my head and feet
another at my hands.
Then she gently laid a blanket
down over my head,
"Shall we commence?"
I still feel it so vividly
each night I fall asleep,
the fused infatuated fear I felt
at a monster's feet,
when that heinous eldritch horror
drained my blood from me,
took me for libation, prayed a tithe
she poured me out.
Her heart could call the kettle as it,
too, went black in drought
She bore her fangs and lowered,
took my body in her mouth.
She then carried me cliffside, like a dog
she threw me down.
My corpse then fell so far, on
impact, no audible sound.
The final earthly thing I heard,
her shriek, "The Gods are proud."
Now upon each night so dreary, she
crawls out to find
a source of poor, defenseless blood
that she can sacrifice.
She'll lure them in with gentle kisses
and sapphire eyes.
We all will die.
Epilogue.
On my way to death, I was met
with a choice instead.
I could end my life or help
ensure the gods were fed.
In the heat of fear and pain I
then nodded my head.
The halls of purgatory filled with
screams and smells of death,
as my eyes dried from the inside
and I then begat
five extra legs.
6 votes -
12:08
So what’s the deal with offices, amirite? What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on...
So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?
What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!
I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?
Fabulous!
——
So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.
Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.
Anyway here’s that piece now.
——-
I remember that time I forgot your
birthday
And that time was today
At 12:08 in the morning
And for a moment
I felt great.
.
My dear that was the first sign
That you were
Slipping on out of my mind
Today I’m sober in the morning
Feelin okay.
.
Well well-butrin what a surprise
When it done
Come on back to my mind
Now it’s 12:09 in the morning
And ain’t shit changed.
.
And in those 60 seconds
Girl I swear
I learned a lesson -
Depression is a woman
With your name.
10 votes -
fotózás
fotózás i wonder what it must be like to remember your life. i wonder what it must be like to record it with a flash. i wonder what it must be like to pass those memories down. i wonder what it...
fotózás
i wonder what it must be like
to remember your life.i wonder what it must be like
to record it with a flash.i wonder what it must be like
to pass those memories down.i wonder what it must be like
to be normal like that.6 votes -
nyáj
nyáj in the shadows of a great unrest stand hallowed halls yet undisturbed by collapse. to be untouched by revolution is a lucky fate for a place like this— so stable in lives and yet always...
nyáj
in the shadows of a great unrest
stand hallowed halls
yet undisturbed by
collapse.
to be untouched by
revolution
is a lucky fate
for a place like this—
so stable in lives
and yet
always received
with such hostility.oh, to be a church—
a great meeting hall
for those of
the faith—
is to be us,
the people of this place
who dare to
keep their fire alive.we are but a
little congregation,
coming together
once in awhile.
giving praise to
what had been;
remembering what
our time had lost.we bear upon our weary backs
a legacy
and hope one day
to restore it.but
we must rest now,
and resign to our dreams
what could be again.5 votes -
And I Deal With It
A free form poem. You sing the devotion song and your people drink from your font of well-meant falsehoods. They sway in the breeze, roses ripe for cutting, so you reap. And I deal with it. Brain...
A free form poem.
You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
nothing.
And I deal with it.The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
against me.
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.7 votes -
The Lab
This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as...
This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as flash fiction, I think it works well enough. I hope you enjoy!
She was three floors from the bottom of the sunken tower when the crying first reached her. A quick swipe earned her a pair from the rack nearby and she continued her descent.
With the aid of technology this process had been streamlined and systematized such that these checks were only needed once a month, but everyone dreaded them. She had drawn the short straw this time and, though it had been years since last she’d ventured to The Lab, she still remembered her last haunting experience. It wasn’t that she was a dissenter or rebelled against that which needed to be done. This was a necessary evil to save their species, but she was still a human being. Seeing them all like that, all tubes and tapes running from frail flesh, was enough to turn any stomach.
A pair of heavy iron doors sat ominously in her way as she bottomed out. She could see the white, crisp interior of The Lab beyond and pushed forward, swallowing her hesitance as best she could.
Before her lay a large room with clean white tile, walls and harsh, flourescent light. It smelled and looked like a hospital because that’s exactly what it was. 10 rows and columns of small, clear, plastic boxes stretched between her and the far wall. The muffs were doing their job exceedingly well, but she could still hear the awful racket bouncing around her memory. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and started working.
Her primary duty was to make sure the machines were functioning correctly, mostly the arm that glided to and fro above the boxes, administering medicine or changing bags of various fluids as need be. She would also be checking the tubes for clogs that may have been missed by any old or worn out sensors; this was the part she dreaded the most. She flipped the lid on the nearest box and checked the left, then the right, and lastly the tube running into its belly button, and closed the box quickly.
It couldn’t have taken her more than 5 seconds but that short time was enough for the anguished face to plaster itself onto her mind. Everyone does their part, she reminded herself, from the start to the end. It didn’t serve a purpose to bemoan that which she could not change. She moved on to the next crib, hoping this would go by faster than she expected.
Halfway through her checks she hit a snag. There was a clog in Crib 54. She could register the fault in the system and it would fix it on its next hourly cycle, as were her orders, but it was such a small clog. The tube simply needed to be changed, and as a nurse she was well-versed in the procedure. In that moment it was decided.
The tubes themselves were specially designed to be thin and flexible, but rigid enough to fit the shape of a tear duct. Her first task, after finding a pair of gloves, was to gently remove the tube currently in the eye. She hovered over the crib and gently pulled the tube out of the right tear duct. It came slowly, millimeter by millimeter, each bit covered in more goop and mucus than the last. It wound its way up into the sinuses which meant, by the end of it, she had pulled at least five inches of tubing. This she discarded.
Next she had to insert the new tube (these were kept in abundance in a draw underneath the crib). She grabbed one, snipped it to length with a pair of scissors hanging from the IV stand, and took a moment to recent herself. Inserting the tube while the child was crying would be much more difficult than removing it.
As gently as she could she reached down and, with her index finger and thumb, pried open the eye of the little one. With one came the other, the muscles young and unwilling to work independently, and she found herself staring into a pair of brilliant green pools. Her heart melted and, for the briefest moment, she thought of taking it. She could smuggle it out. The bed being empty would trip the system but she could clear the error and explain it away somehow. But no, that was silly. This wasn’t a decision for her to make; things were done this way because there was no other choice.
She pushed the tip of the tube into the tear duct confidently, shoving the traitorous thoughts from her mind as the child’s cries were renewed with pain. She was here to do a job, cold and emotionless. It wasn’t her place to question the way things were done. The tube went in without a hitch and the child’s eyes snapped closed again once she released them. The little bundle of agony before her squirmed and she saw the tears begin to flow anew. With swift, definite movement she closed and latched the lid.
The rest of her checks went smoothly, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that now ran rampant in her gut. She hated Lab duty, and she expected that would always be the way. With a heavy heart she signed the documents needed to record her visit, noted the tube change in the work log, and left The Lab through its heavy iron doors. The trip upstairs would be long and tiring, but at least she could try and forget ever having been here.
12 votes -
A rather sensual macro shot i took of my ex girlsfriend's belly button in 2004
11 votes -
Jake Is Writing | "The Weird and Wicked Wildlife of West Virginia" available now
6 votes -
My best night-time photo from Prague: City Ducks
9 votes -
I know nothing
I know nothing nor do I want to: a blank brain is all I want! I have nothing nor do I want to: I want to be, nothing else do I want!
5 votes -
Throwback Thursday: The Smallest of Bunnies
7 votes -
Pins and needles
Pins and needles in my left leg. As I minimally move they acute and grave. I sleep, I shall wake up; what will it have been: a circumflex, or an umlaut?
10 votes -
June.
You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets. Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for...
You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.
Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.
Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”
I thought your voice was music
And your beauty - work of art.
I found your jokes amusing,
Ponygirl, a golden heart.
Your company, a journey
Which I never could depart
I really felt I loved you,
Well, I did once, at the start.
.
See, music can be different
Some songs good, and others crap.
Some begin melodically,
Then get crashing in a snap.
Starting subtle violins,
Then it blares with metal scrap
They lure you malevolent
Some music is a trap.
.
Some artists Donatello,
Others Jackson Pollock.
Some art goes well with wine,
Some turns you alcoholic.
Some is deep and intricate,
Some is purely bollocks
Can’t call this a masterpiece
I’m not sure what to call it.
.
Thought your lips were pure cuisine
And your beauty - work of art.
I never thought the kitchen
Would have mold and rot at heart.
The oven sent asunder
All the counters ripped apart
You’re a diner with one dish,
And it’s a dry and sour tart.
7 votes -
enikő: a story written on the edge of sleep and sanity
enikő a story written on the edge of sleep and sanity The dreams never seem to come unless they're tortured memories or painful reminders of some ill-begotten past nobody wants to remember. To...
enikő
a story written on the edge of sleep and sanity
The dreams never seem to come unless they're tortured memories or painful reminders of some ill-begotten past nobody wants to remember. To sleep is to live with that reality, but there can be no sleep in such reality either, and neither can there be peace. In the reality there is Enikő, eyes strained against an all-consuming darkness, and the many fractured people that exist within.
"No sleep," mutters Enikő into the void. There are no people around to hear that, except the many fractured people within. Enikő flashes out of existence at once and the fractured people take their spaces, dance their dances against the blackness.
"You know," scolds Alyaza Birze, who flashes at once into existence, "you must cease to suppress me one of these days!" Probably Enikő is not truly around to hear this in the reality, for Enikő is just as nonexistent as all the other people within the darkness. Alyaza pays it no mind, for she is accustomed to such.
"Why must you always tax yourself so, Enikő?" calls Alyaza out to the void. "You know as I that you must sleep. The nightmares are no more common than the daydreams, and neither too are the thoughts. They are not often for you. Rest at once." The void does not answer.
Alyaza flashes back into nonexistence, and so takes her place is Natja Avidina. In some other place in some other space, it is so that Natja and Alyaza exist as roommates. In this reality though they are consigned to singular existences, never seeing one another. They are opposites, yin and yang, and in this reality yin and yang cannot be at the same time. Natja cannot exist where Alyaza does, nor can Alyaza exist where Natja does. Natja pays this no mind, for she too like Alyaza has long resigned to the void reality.
"Why do you make yourself suffer, Enikő?" slips the quiet voice of Natja into the void. "Surely you too must be tired, even with the nightmares and the thoughts, and surely you too must realize that there is no guarantee you will even remember them if you rest?" And then Natja too snaps out of existence and is replaced by Enikő.
"I don't want the thoughts or the nightmares or the dreams." says Enikő from reconstitution. "I have dreamed and thought like a crazy person for years and every day my sanity slips a little more because of it! Must I be consigned to suffer then like every other facet of life simply because you two demand it of me?"
Enikő's eyes drift, and into the void Alyaza calls back a simple "yes" before disappearing again. In the void little figures dance to the rhythm of a silent melody, one-two like so then one-two again, not figures like Alyaza or Natja but the manifestations of the thoughts and dreams and every little thing the brain conceives and conspires to employ in this god-forsaken hellspace of a reality. Fire and brimstone could never compare to the void that taunts and harasses the very depths of soul and sanity.
Enikő's eyes drift back into the void. "I refuse," she says with conviction. Sleep will bring upon this void all the figures dancing to the invisible beat a thousand times over complimented with the worst machinations of the mind. One thousand times too many has this happened and one thousand and one will not tonight.
Enikő gives way to another shard of a body, the one that always confronts the thoughts. The eyes of Twilight Sparkle methodically survey the void for the usual actors, the ones that seem to recur every time she is spirited to this curious place. This is not her home, nor has it ever been, and why she is here she never does seem to know. In another place she is lauded but anxious perpetually, sent against fate and time and gods themselves in the name of an abstract concept she supposes she represents. Here, she exists as a mixture of reason and reaction, and in the void it is never certain which side dominates. She has never been used to the void, but the void cares little for such things.
"The thoughts aren't anything you haven't experienced before." she says carefully. "If it were my call, I'd take it. Better than what the rest of the mind can spit out if you stay in this void for too long."
The manifestation of reason disappears, and reaction it seems has lost the day for once. But Enikő responds only with "I refuse" and vanishes once more into nonexistence. The Thompson-esque scene must shamble along once more, resembling more and more an acid trip gone awry with its talking purple ponies and radical socialist gryphon-kind. The void answers the call with frantic pace, the one-two double timing without a breath to spare and the void reaching with the first tendrils of abject paranoia. The void must call its call and spread until entropy overcomes its will. Sleep must one day win over void, or void must overcome all things otherwise.
But Enikő only pops back once more to refuse. "I shall not sleep, and none shall tell me otherwise. No void shall overcome me, no matter what, and I would sooner die than feel the thoughts once more."
Alyaza Birze has a plan. She is no strategist of course, and pays no claim to being such, but just as Enikő was the body within which all of the fractal personalities contained themselves, Alyaza was a person into which Enikő could project. And just as Enikő knew Alyaza, Alyaza must then have known Enikő.
The one-two one-two staccato of the void grew seemingly always more and more discordant, for which Enikő would no doubt pay in short order. But the void reality was not the only reality into which all of the fractal personalities could contain themselves, and Alyaza Birze knows this. There are many vectors by which to project yourself into another reality, and this too Alyaza Birze knows, but it is a very specific reality that Alyaza Birze seeks. And so into the void, with sudden rhythm, is a familiar humming.
Doo do, doo do do do.
Do do do do, do do do do, do do.
It is some indiscriminate time, in a place that is less so indiscriminate. Alyaza Birze is on a podium at the head of a sea of curious lifeforms in a reality that places her in a Thompson-like Battle of Aspen. But far from Aspen, this reality invokes some mayoral election for a town named Ponyville in a land called Equestria, in some god-forsaken reality that demands words but defies them and calls for no less than six tabs of acid. It is Birze, the uncharismatic but ever convention-defying radical speaker who raises a Gonzo fist to a species with no opposable digits and recites with conviction "All you maggot-smoking fags on Santa Monica boulevard." No explanation for these words or their significance to the Birze campaign is given, nor for the Gonzo fist, and the reality at once seems to shatter into a million ill-fitting pieces from such an illogical state of being. Birze pays none of it mind.
Somewhere to the side of the sea of life is a Twilight Sparkle equally oblivious of the void and all too aware of it, cringing at every word spoken by Birze and no doubt trying to distance herself from every syllable that is enunciated on that grand podium. No self-respecting person would be caught dead wholeheartedly agreeing with some platform literally based in nothing in this reality (except of course for the vast masses already doing so but without saying so). But then all of this is irrelevant and Twilight knows this and it is merely pomp and circumstance to the call of the void which exists and eats away at everything like a malignant cancer even in so far away a place as this. Behind the thinly veiled, multicolored sets of this reality jolt the rhythms of the void reality, ready to expand and consume here just as it too shall consume Enikő. And so it is under that circumstance that exponentially titled future Mayor of the Reality of the Freak Power Ponyvillians Alyaza Birze and shattered personality Twilight Sparkle meet both knowing and not knowing why it is they meet.
"To what pleasure do I owe speaking to the visit of our presumptive mayor?" asks the purple pony in the Thompson-esque scene. The void at least will not eat these words, so there is point and purpose in the intonation put on them.
"Someone as smart as you surely must know why I am here and not anywhere else today. Void is void, Tevilias. It is another one of those." said Alyaza with reservation. "And certainly I am no mayor, for the record."
"You must forgive me," Twilight strings together with lackadaisical attitude, "but what would 'one of those' mean?" There is an air of resignation in the words, like the inevitable weight of a hundred-million realities is about to crash down on this reality and consign it to some bad acid trip where it belongs.
"Well you know as I, Tevilias, that in twenty-odd hours I shoot all of you to that beat and tune, that bullshit line of "All you maggot-smoking faggots" in this strange smoke and mirrors bullshit reality that exists. That is where the thoughts go, that is what the void calls, and it is you who will die there too in agony a hundred times any other. And no doubt you know that I have no desire to do that. We've been through this a hundred times, haven't we? And we know what happens if we do that."
"Sure." The resignation is enviable.
"And so we will not let that happen, will we? Because it's not like I want to murder. And you know what will happen if we do." The three-headed cerberus that inhabits the void makes itself known then.
"I WILL MURDER YOU ALL IN COLD BLOOD" bays the first head. The second nods solemnly as though carried along for a ride it never asked. The third head is manic, bearing no mind to anything but the vast and acid-like surroundings and teetering back and forth on the cusp of some far off reality from here. All of them are Alyazas, stuck in a body that never represented them in a world that never cared for them, or so it seems. No one head ever seems to dominate, except when it surfaces and becomes The Alyaza Birze, the one that people know. And never is there a time when one knows which one is The Alyaza Birze or if none of them are The Alyaza Birze, the one that everybody interacts with. Perhaps twenty-odd hours from now it will be the first that will do the killing.
"So perhaps," says Alyaza Birze, the cerberus disappearing at once, "we should make this quick then." And Twilight Sparkle can merely nod as one of the fragmented personalities once in her own reality and soon to again no longer be.
The void cannot pace itself any longer, and the discordant harmonies cease at once to contain themselves. The thoughts grow darker and drearier as they always do and the figures in the void give way to the schizophrenic happenings of the night. The shadow figures that once were become again and reanimate against the pitch black, the vividness ever greater. Sleep is enviable, but the void shall not overcome. The thoughts shall not overcome, not the dreams of dying or doing the death dealing nor the inenviable and inevitable thoughts of wanton mutilation. "The void will not overcome me, and I shall not sleep." says Enikő, and the void surges its tendrils once more.
Alyaza Birze and Twilight Sparkle and all her friends and all the other fractal personalities but Natja Avidina constitute themselves in the void once more, humming the refrains to a song which they all care to know as fractal personalities to a person. What a thing to be a witness to the sunshine! What a dream to just be walking on the ground! Into the void must strum the beat to something more cheery, something to at least dispel the thoughts and the agonies and the void for awhile, something that isn't so depressive and destructive. Don't get so upset, the refrain cries, the world was never fair--but there are ways yet to get through the day and so too perhaps the night. None of the fractal personalities sing, for singing is never quite their tempo. In some other, non-void reality perhaps this is so, but here they simply drown in the thoughts. And the thoughts are drowned, slowly, but inexorably, by the feelings of the music.
The void begins to slow, and entropy takes its course as does inevitably for all things. Soon the dreams are gone and so too go the thoughts with them, and at once there is a true void where the nightmares and the thoughts frolic no longer.
"Well that was not so hard." says Alyaza Birze. "A work done well by everybody, I suppose." Twilight merely scoffs, and says nothing of it before she is reconstituted into her own reality, to perhaps be shot again sometime in not-so-far-gone future. So too out of existence and into their own blink her other friends, ever present in this void from time to time as she but never quite players in its major doings. One day in the not-so-far-gone future it is they too who may die at the hands of some Alyaza Birze. But tonight they are merely fractal personalities in a large symphony of them, called upon ever and remembered never.
Into the night Alyaza Birze skitters onto paper a little testimony she picked up on a day she can no longer remember but which sticks into her mind evermore.
It reads:
In my own country I am in a far-off land
I am strong but have no force or power
I win all yet remain a loser
At break of day I say goodnight
When I lie down I have a great fear
Of falling.And then she too blinks into nonexistence, perhaps in some not-so-far-flung future destined to be as she was this night to kill, perhaps destined to rewrite the words of testimony, but ever destined to repeat the cycle of doing and being and defusing crises on this night and all others a million times over now and forever more.
And for the first time in a long while, Enikő is at peace and sleeps.
6 votes -
Sample Story and new Patreon Page
5 votes -
Snowdrift Fight
8 votes -
I am very excited to share these Origami models I folded over the course of last year. What do you guys think of them?
40 votes -
Man of the Train
Another story. The narrator is not well and slips into periods of "extended daydreaming" where they image they're someone else or that the context of their life is otherwise different. I thought...
Another story. The narrator is not well and slips into periods of "extended daydreaming" where they image they're someone else or that the context of their life is otherwise different. I thought about coloring the text differently for those moments but couldn't figure out a way to do it well.
No one walks out to this place. Why would they? It’s too far for children to be playing or for teenagers to sneak away to, there’s no beauty or interesting landscapes or scenery for hikers, and God knows it’s worthless for development. I walked out here because I knew I couldn’t stay at home and I kept walking because I knew I had nothing to go back to. Then, brooding, thinking that I would just continue walking until I died of exposure (which would have taken a while in that day’s mild weather), I stumbled across this place. I stopped to explore it of course, how often does one’s life yield such a whimsical sight?
I started daydreaming as I walked through the trains. They looked ancient, the cars were buried up to their wheels in the dirt and huge patches had lost their paint and rusted over. The interiors were stripped, but I spotted some kind of hatch in the roof (by the pile of leaves and other debris below it) and clambered up. Then I was standing astride the car looking down at the whole scene. Two neat little rows, five cars in one and four in the other, with the only sign tracks used to run here being a small corridor where the trees were shorter.
I loved it. It was a sort of post-industrial twist on the railway bum, you know? They would hitch rides on trains and travel all over the country, seeing everything it had to offer and adventuring everywhere they went. I had, in the past, been disappointed I didn’t live in a time where the vagabond could thrive, and was delighted to imagine the 21st century equivalent. Sitting in a rusted old abandoned train car, the Seeker (I always name my characters like that) sat by his gas fire watching the rain pour down and spatter across the corrugated walls. It was lovely. I felt much better and after playing around a bit more headed back home with a smile, all the while dreaming of the Seeker. The evening passed comfortably and I slid into sleep imagining I was the man sleeping out by the trains.
I pulled my blanket closer, clutching it around myself. I had found something, and tonight II was able to rest peacefully because of it. The night breeze flowed over me in soft, regular breaths. It was sweet and pleasantly cool, and carried memories of cheery days. All else faded always as I walked into them, leaving behind the blanket and the breeze and the night itself.
When I got up the next morning though the levity had vanished. I dragged myself through the morning and lacking anything real to do and completely out of distractions for the afternoon I headed out for another wander in the woods. Alone with just the half-leafless trees to speak to I very quickly fell into my thoughts and my world of pasts, real or imagined. I don’t know how long I walked, just that after a while my breath was coming out in ragged bursts and that I was approaching the top of a hill. Attaining it I realized with gloomy resignation that I was somewhat lost, and that the cup of tea I was desiring now more than most anything would be a while yet. As I started back in the direction I more or less thought town was I imagined how the Seeker had trudged through the same damp leaves and browning grass. Autumn would quickly change from the mild early days to the coldness that marked the start of winter, and this landscape would be unrecognizable. Even this escape would not last. Just like them. More gloominess. Pushing through a thicket of young trees I was surprised to be face to face with the train wrecks from yesterday, and, after briefly marveling at the occurrence started back home. I was throwing off my shoes and starting the kettle in just over an hour.
At home I picked, for some foolish reason, the blue teapot (of memories) and was soon sitting at the table and warming my hands on a steaming cup. I was shivering. Sometimes I don’t realize how cold I am until I’m back inside. I need to dress warmer. For a while I could pretend to be content sipping at my tea and feeling myself thaw out a little, but after a few cups I started thinking about what I would do for the rest of the day. That’s why I had gone out in the first place wasn’t it, that I had nothing here? I didn’t feel warm anymore. And since I had picked this pot (it was three years ago, why should I care?) my thoughts slid further and further back until I was recalling the conversation we had over it. And how I had laughed and taken your picture holding it and you had smiled as the wind whipped your hair back and I couldn’t stand sitting there and looking at it anymore. I fled to the couch and fell face first down into it.
What was I doing? I couldn’t sit here for another eight hours waiting to go to bed and dream, I was gripped with sinking panic just at the thought. No, I couldn’t stay. And I didn’t have to. If I could tell myself a story about it, I could do it myself, right? I could just leave. I could make it real. Go to another town, or sleep in a car, or, go camping. Yes, I could camp for the night. I did tell people I was an outdoorsman after all, even if for the past few years I hadn’t done anything more than day hikes to run from my reality. I had all the gear, I knew what I was doing.
Twenty minutes later I was out the door, heading back the woods for the second time today, this time with my pack slung across my shoulders. As I walked I thought about how unpleasant this would probably be and I was pleased. At least it would be because of something else. Something immediate. I went to the trains because where else would I go and also because I knew they were isolated and I wanted to be sure no one would be out harassing me over lighting a fire or being a vagrant. It was perfect.
And as evening fell the fire was lit. I had set camp in between the two rows of derelict cars to provide some shelter from the wind.
The heat from the flames sank into the metal siding of the cars and soon they were radiating back a friendly warmth. Touching it felt almost like being warmed by the sun. I leaned back against one now and stared at the fire. It was a comfortable scene, even if the ground was cold and hard and all I had to do was sit and think and brood. It was basically what I would have done at home anyway, but now I was not drawn into despair. No, out here all these feelings were beautiful, and if it was beautiful I could enjoy it. Some time and drinks passed and I became outright elated. Considering the whole absurdity of where I was right now I had to laugh. I might curse my life every day, but it was, if nothing else, interesting. Even if I was the only one who would ever know. Just look at where I am! I grinned and kept laughing and drinking and soaking up the intoxicating woodsmoke and tender light that flowed from the fire. I loved that this was something I did. And later as the flames hid back in their coals I climbed into my tent and floated right away on a dreamless, happy sleep. Lord of my little realm of heat and smoke. Good times for all. All for good times.
I sat at the edge of fire’s light clutching my cup closely. It was a bitter tea, what one could brew with just a cup over a camp fire, but I sipped at it greedily anyway, burning my lips on the rim. It would hold the blaze’s heat for a while yet, the cup was almost painful to handle even through my gloves, now streaked with ash. It had been a long, cold day. I had almost lost myself, but now, resting in the half-light at the edge of reality, it was alright. I smiled and, tipping my head ever so slightly up, whistled out a few bars of some song or another. Yes, here it was alright. There was a lot I didn’t know, but that was fine, I knew I was, as was the fire and the smoke and the warmth and the tea.
I refocused on the fire, source of the little world I had found myself in. It was as if I were gazing through into my own light. A welcome feeling, as I had felt a dull cold more than anything recently. I looked more intently, allowing the firelight to wash out the surroundings until I and it were all that existed. Like this I could see hints, now and then, of what had been. Perhaps if I looked too greedily the flames would even take me then, shattering the gracious illusion of the light in the process. No, echos would have to do. They were all that was real anyway. I stared for a long while, lost in burning contemplation.
That was a... number of days ago. I haven’t counted exactly. For the first few I was at home most of the day, only heading out for the trains in the evening. The first morning I didn’t plan to come back at all and tore my whole camp down. But around mid afternoon my listlessness would become unbearable and I’d flee from the prospect of another night in. So I started leaving my tent pitched, figuring I’d do this as some kind of therapy until I got better and figured out what I was going to do with myself. And I did get better! Or at least the more time I spent in the woods the less time I was sinking in the mire of my thoughts and the more I marveled at them. Maybe they were still dragging me down, but I didn’t notice anymore. Soon I was spending the afternoons out as well, and then I was only going back home in the morning to grab food and water.
I’ll probably be forced out by the weather soon. It’s been getting much colder these past days, but I don’t want to leave yet, I like this routine. I like the work of building the little stone wall, or clearing the ground around the fire pit I’m slowly carving out of the stiff ground, or sketching my map of the area around the camp. It was more than I had back there.
As the last of the purple in the sky was swept away by the darkening blue I stretched out alongside the newly rekindled fire. I had known for days that I was not going to find it here. I would have to go back and see what was next for me. But it was comfortable here, and for that I could pretend I had a reason to stay, at least for a little while longer. Yes, I’ll have to leave soon, but for now I can just enjoy the fire. I can walk in dream a little while longer.
9 votes -
The Andromeda Galaxy (M31) shot from my backyard
19 votes -
fuck you.
God put me at ease deliver me to peace. if you're above deliver me to love. there's not a sign you're months without a call. i begin to think you never cared at all. in winter breezes hang me from...
God
put me at ease
deliver me to peace.
if you're above
deliver me to love.
there's not a sign
you're months without a call.
i begin to think
you never cared at all.
in winter breezes
hang me from the trees.
god i'm sick of
never feeling enough.
make me crease and
break me at my knees.
tarot prophet guide me
with your crystal ball.
.
read the names i've
written in my skin.
banish me to walk
alone in cold.
hit my face and tell me
this is it.
kill me, say you
never cared at all
.
screaming in your car
you said you'd call the cops
if i don't take my seatbelt off
on our way home and walk.
.
screaming in our home
you'd always slam the doors
and leave the silence ringing
in the halls
.
alone in dark i wailed
you didn't care.
as you sat there on your phone
and talked and talked.
.
always acting like
i wasn't there.
even asked me to pretend
that we were not.
.
remember back in college
when you made some friends
and tried to make me hide,
not show me off?
.
tried to tell them
i was just a friend.
and when i protested
god you told me off.
.
but when i made you mad
how mad you went.
and appeared inside my room
without consent.
.
i walked in and found you there
sat at my desk.
it should've ended there
but i regressed.
.
i said we would grow past it
never did.
always made me second guess
the life i live.
.
it's not my fault
that you stayed home alone.
why do i slash and cry and pray
that you'll pick up the phone.
.
tell me why i love you
when it's wrong.
.
.
.
tell me why i want you
when you're gone.
.
.
.
i want you to ignore me,
miss my calls.
.
.
.
if at least you'll speak
to me at all.
fuck you.
i'm sorry.
i love you.
fuck you.
fuck you too.
12 votes -
Who Miss a Lil Durnk Bishop
BISHOP NEHM MICH UNTER we off the drink we off the emo shit esskeetit peep the inspo track sat the bottom or we cant be ffriends sold my soul to the devil so that i could feel valued remember bein...
BISHOP NEHM MICH UNTER
we off the drink we off the emo shit
esskeetit
peep the inspo track sat the bottom or we cant be ffriends
sold my soul to the devil
so that i could feel valued
remember bein in a empty
home with a vacuum
former straight-edge
off the drink, off the valium
wanna go back to our
mornings with the cartoons
made my heart a whale
then you hit it with a harpoon
bleedin on the beach, staring
up at the full moon
sometimes life rains
down in a monsoon
i'd be glad to drown if
it means i can love you
.
but i cant even hug you
can't even text you.
antidepressooos
bishop 5'6" but he tryna
be big news.
.
tryna get big so you
cannot forget me
honey your love is a
xanny it's deadly
how'm i supposed to
forget about kelly
or bout all of those nights
that you called me, unsteady
wish i loved you correctly
shit got unsteady
i was just tryna get
us a few pennies
put you in a bentley
put you in the fendi
wasn't rich enough so
you got all offended
on the offensive
antidepressents
fuck that bullshit
it just makes me sedated
.
dont wanna feel shit
if i cant feel you
prayin that you'll text me
"let me heal you"
you got 50 shades of grey
i can see through
but somehow still
made me believe you
ignroed all the red flags
so i could keep you
mistook for an angel
whenever i'd see you
but now you a model
you said "i don need you"
looking for a camera
you can show your tits to
then the devil approached me.
said "i can guarantee you."
.
so i went to the sea
heard a voice, "take a knee"
so i nodded, agreed
and he said "you will serve me -
Boy listen closely
each one of your dreams
surrender control to
you want the money,
someone to devote to,
4-k square foot house
to go home to.
this, i can construe
if you submit to
living your life, all despite
where you'll go to.
i now control you
your soul - i have claim to
but think of all the things
that my hands can bring you.
so i bowed on my knees -
now this man, i submit to.
.
ave satani
i give you my body
my soul, it was drawn, he
took it, made a copy
forgot about mommy
woke up smelling coffee
looked in the mirror
did not hate my body
the sky was all foggy
and greyed-out, but oddly
i liked it enough to
not waste the day nodding
or off of the molly
or in my room rocking
with her voice talking
.
ave satani
the blood and the body
the dark it is calling
and i find it calming
it's sated the longing
lil bishop's evolving
let's go to the graveyard
i feel like walking
and talking
and nodding
inspo tracks: peep this shit
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w--D1S8SrCQ
8 votes -
la dernière fois qu'elle m'a chanté
i headed home from the store last night hair kinda fucked up red in my eyes stared at the road not a car in sight looked up at the sky sunset looked nice drinks in the seat drugs on the mind...
i headed home from
the store last night
hair kinda fucked up
red in my eyes
stared at the road
not a car in sight
looked up at the sky
sunset looked nicedrinks in the seat
drugs on the mind
looking for a way to
go numb for the night
then the clouds came down
sent a fog up high
couldn't see ahead
something didn't feel righti was five minutes out
so i pressed on home
accompanied by another
feeling of alone
turned on the radio
put down my phone
tried to shake the nerves
with a half-good songpressed on the gas
and the fog pressed low
saw something flickering
with shape unknown
it was just dead ahead
then a mile up the road
then i came to a halt
from my seat i was thrown.--
front-end smashed,
not a soul was around
i called out for help
but nobody heard a sound
i crawled to my car
and i looked all around
then i looked up to god
and the rain came downthen my radio sang,
and i turned my head 'round
reached for the volume
my hand knocked out
heard a voice, "listen close"
as my back hit the ground
then the radio spoke,
in my head, heard it shout
i awoke in my bed
with no pain in my neck
rushed out to my car
no sign of a wreck
didn't know the day or
the time, had to check
8am again, the crash
didn't happen yet.i tried to think back
memories on a thread
but something stood out
ever clear in my head,
the song that i heard
with the words i can't forget
had to write em all down
i ran back to my desk
i rushed the words down,
i almost felt myself mad.
the song made me miss
a love i never even had
that's when it clicked,
i finally understand
finally took a look
at the world in my handsshe was never perfect,
negatively drove you mad
all the pain, the hurt,
anxiety, you felt at her hands
you remembered all the exits,
and escapes that you planned
but you persevered through,
now she loves another man
but fuck it, that's good
she only ever made you hurt
all the times you felt alone,
and mistreated by her words
all the foolish fights she started,
all the stupid shit she stirred
look past all the beauty, boy
abuse, you don't deserveit's a big-ass world, boy
you'll find a better girl
take a look back for yourself
and see how things really were
go on, my son,
you'll inherit the world
because the love that you miss,
you never had back with her.9 votes