Tag: simple things

Night Sights

I approach my house

Single light illuminating

Not much beyond the porch

And as I glance down the side

Along my house

In the dark

A vague crimson haze

Bloody mist

Which whispers with the wind

Coalesces with help of memory

Just a bush of Azaleas

And as I stare

A moment longer

Something stirs

Against the breeze

And eyes peer out

Feline hiss

And she runs away

Oh how my mind plays with me

Making monsters

Of every shape

Finale

“Of course, hun

Everything will be fine…”

The last lie I told her

A loyal deception

Perpetrated from a place

Of warmth and love

Affection coating its edges

Hiding what lay beneath

The promise of loss

What loss inflicted

Infliction’s relief

No more waiting

The final end

I squeezed her hand

She sighed

And relaxed

The tears slipped down

Dropping dark pools on her dress

I was alone in a stark white nothing

Smelling of antiseptic and lemon

The silence she left behind

Bigger than the room

Engulfed those seconds

The moments before I let go

Of her already cooling hand

Goodbyes

Our lips pressed

A kiss like a goodbye

And as she leant back

I saw how something died on those lips

An “I love you” never to be spoken

And in her eyes

I saw what she had already made of me

Another mistake

In a long line of men

Whom had wronged

And moved on

So I fixed my hat

And with a nod

I was gone

Directional Ambiguity

“This way!”

I cried to my companions

Backpack jostling

As I crested the top

A sea of pines

Spilled out below me

Stretching on beyond horizon

Completely unbroken

I stopped

And hesitated a moment

Pulling out my map

Squinting at the formations

Then flipping it over

Considering all angles

Soon my comrades caught up

“Well?”

One wheezed as he collapsed

Pulling out waterskin

And quenching thirst

“I may

Or may not

Have absolutely no idea

Where we are…”

Christmas Gothic

A man in beard and corpulent belly calls for all to sit upon his lap. Tell him your desires. If he deems ye worthy, great fortune… if not…

All over town lights flash and strobe to unheard music. Signs instructing us to listen to the airwaves. We do not. Those few who do drive slow and listless as mindless drones.

Our living rooms are dominated by pine adorned in garish color and light, garland dragging carpet. Somewhere, someone is singing its praises in a language you do not know.

Relatives from all over come to your door. Who are these people? Have you ever met them before? They devour your hard won meals with fervent greed.

Carols at the doors. We dare not open. They call for wassail. Banging and wailing as lost souls. We pretend not to be at home.

It is late. The children sleep. Within their house something creeps. A man in cheap red suit and cotton beard places surprises for those little ones to find. He is prepared if one should awaken. He crunches cookies with a snifter of scotch.

Presents beneath the tree. Children stare on in shock. Who delivered them? When? While they all slept, ignorant and secure.

Parents stare on in dull silence, eyeing children tearing at wrapping like wolves upon a deer. Eyes are sunken and dark. They sip brown brew and silently thank they made it through another year.

Quint Tackles Writer’s Block

Furious boiling rage

Fists clenched and facing typewriter

“Damned words come out!”

Voice ripping static aside

Grasps sides with pale gloves

Set leaning down close to keys

“I’ll find you in there

You’ll come out

If I have to come in there myself

And drag you out screaming!”

The static then actually cleared

Teeth lining up on screen

Sharp toothed and dripping bile

Spreading slow and growling

The typewriter sits silent and stoic

Frustrated groan twirl away arms up in defeat

“Fine then!”

He grabs his port

Tipping back onto screen

Where teeth are open

Poured into

Past screen

Into mouth?

Or something close

Quint groans as he sets it down

Rubbing a glove over screen

“Give me SOMETHING!”

He bellows slapping the desk

Typewriter dings

As it reaches the end

“…

You’re mocking me aren’t you…”

He grumbles

Slouching back in his chair

He idly fiddles with a key

Gloved finger

Tracing its edge

Then depresses

Then another

Another key

And more

“I told you I’d get it out of you!”

He cries triumphantly

Fingers flying freely

And back we pull away and into the dark

Our Every Morning

Dawn breaks

Thin shafts piercing dark

My arms are full

But heart is fuller yet

As I awaken

To find you close beside

You sure as well

Eyes open slowly

Deep pools of dark

I would gladly get lost within

Instead I pull you closer

And let forth a growl

Deep and full of lustful intent

You gasp and smile

Kissing my neck

Oh yes this is how it starts

My nails claw at your form

This close, still too far

We both know the only distance

That will finally be enough

Gasps and groans

This heat kills me

Little deaths

And I hope this night

Will end the same

And every day to come

Writer’s Gothic

You’re working on your next story. The inspiration struck you part way through your last story. Your stories never end. Your laptop open on twelve projects all labeled “WIP.”

The glare of the page hurts your eyes. The idea of what to write hurts your head. Your hands ache from hours of writing. your fingers nearly blistered. Why is the page still blank?

Eureka! The breakthrough needed to conclude that manuscript you started years ago! Now… where was it? Where did you keep it? Was it on the flash drive? External hard drive? Gigabytes of data, but not the few kilos you require.

Ah the old story blog you started in college… maybe you should start it again. Passwords spill out of you and all are wrong. You were clever and made the password relate to the story. Too clever. The email is the same. A simple quip no one would see and you have forgotten.

A publication’s email “submission requested” and the promise of exposure… yet no payment. You eat your cold ramen. It tastes like exposure, completely without value.

You scoff as you read an excerpt from a new e-book. You can write better than that! So why are they published and you aren’t? Your twenty unfinished novels eye you sadly like puppies in a pound from their folder on your desktop.

A rejection letter in the mail. You set it with the others. A few more and your paper craft castle will be complete. You jokingly refer to it as your “house of leaves.” No one gets the joke.

Just keep writing. You get better with practice. We don’t look back on where we came from. Those were dark times. Just keep writing.

You’re depressed because you haven’t written. You don’t have the energy to lift your hand, let alone create. You berate yourself for not writing. This makes you more depressed. The cycle continues, every day the same.

You just need a cup of coffee to start your day. After this cup you’ll begin. One more then it can really get under way. A few more sips and you’ll have it. The cups are a mountain range lining your sink.

You finished. Finally. It’s over. You look back and instantly are filled with the unstoppable urge to delete everything. It is an affront to god and should not see the light of day.