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Monthly Archives: September 2013

Secular Romance Pt. 3

               He lays flat on his back upon the cold stone. A million silver cars fly past him on either side of the road. Dangling high overhead, a dream catcher glares down at him, almost daring him to ask for help. His stomach feels as hollow and empty as the cavity forming in his chest.

               He finds himself tumbling along behind the many passing cars, until finally landing abruptly and brutally among the rest of the litter. Devoid of a dream to chase, he cries out to no one, and turns inward. A million trap doors and hidden corridors, he searches everywhere… everything. A solid black door, lies before him. His eyes move to the crimson steel door handle, he reaches out and grasps it. Slowly turned and even slower pulled, the door breaks open and a wave of silence crashes through him.

               Within two women lay writhing on the floor, one could either assume in pain or pleasure. A box, featuring the shape of a serpent painted upon the top, lies in the middle of the room. He takes a step towards the box, and the woman lying on the right side of the room, breaks the silence with a bloodthirsty scream. The woman on the left responds in kind. Shaken, but by no means stopped, he crosses the distance to the box. Both women go silent, before soft pleading begins… no… please don’t… it will kill us… please no… you said you loved us. He had come to far, so many years, no one could have stayed his hand.

               The lid comes off, he sees a passing vision in his mind… the garden… Adam standing beside Eve… the serpent, forked tongue flicking… the corruption… his corruption… his redemption… his damnation… his domination… his instinctual regression. He is the left fork upon the serpents lying tongue, he is the beast, he is the pain.

               Jonathan gasps himself awake. Breathing ragged he grabs a cigarette and heads for the door to his patio. The damn shrink had said the Trazadone would stop the nightmares. Instead they had just seemed to gain in intensity and go on for longer. He flicks his butt and spits and heads inside. Upon sitting down on his bed, he finds himself once again staring at the mural painted on his wall. The woman on the right, the first to scream when he had started for the box, she stares at him from the wall, depicted here as a little girl. Sighing, he again reminds himself it’s all in his head. The house is only haunted by the humans that inhabit it. Jonathan was beginning to doubt several things, however, his sanity foremost among them.

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Posted by on September 29, 2013 in Small Tales

 

Secular Romance Pt. 2

               He sets the last box of his belongings in the middle of his first apartment. The landlord had seemed overly pleased to finally rent the place. Considering the story he had foreclosed, due to some legal clause or another, Jonathan was not the least bit surprised. The last tenant had apparently trapped the fancies of the wrong man, and had gotten herself killed.The worthless animal had then played dress up and did the only good thing he had done in his miserable life, and ended it.

               You know murder suicide aside, he had fallen in love with the place upon seeing the mural painted in the bedroom. A garish house lays the backdrop, surrounded by warped trees, that seem to have a million eyes, camouflaged cleverly among the bark. A field of mournful wheat, lay just in front of the house with the biggest, most menacing, tree in the piece. Hanging from the most warped and largest of the center trees branches, hangs an old warped tire swing. Sitting upon the tire is the image of a very young girl, no older than ten, with limbs as thin and frail as some of the smaller branches of the tree. Her eyes are black, and lips a dull pink. Her unkempt black hair, is as tangled and twisted as the branches of the many trees.

               He had asked the landlord who had painted the mural, and knew the answer from the shadow that had crossed the man’s face. “What was her name?” He had asked. With a pained look in his eye he responded, “Ravyn, with a Y not an E. Her name was Ravyn.”

               He had been an artist since he had held his first crayon. He liked to believe that any art we create in this life, is a piece of our soul left to the world when we are gone. He had never in his life seen a better example than this mural. So much pain held in the eyes of this girl, a lifeless painting that beats with emotion.

               Finally finished unpacking the few possessions he had obtained in his short twenty-two years, he sits on his worn out couch, in front of his outdated television, in his living room, and smiles at the thought. Before too long, the documentary on Mozart he had been trying to watch for months, inevitably sends him crashing deeply into sleep.

                  He’s in his room, sitting at the foot of his bed, looking at the mural. The trees seem to sway, as if under the influence of a fierce wind. The girl no longer sits on the old worn out tire swing. Instead she has climbed to the utmost point on the central tree, and is waving her arms excitedly. She is screaming something he can’t quite hear, and is pointing emphatically behind him. He turns, but he seems to move in slow motion, almost as if every muscle in his body is pleading with him to stop.

               His eyes finally meet the bed behind him, two lovers are tangled under his sheets, he hurriedly turns his head away, face red in embarrassment. Standing in the corner, on the right side of the mural, is a large muscular man. His face is obscured by the darkness but his eyes, his eyes stare straight into Jonathan’s, and all he feels is hate. All he knows is rage. Jonathan stands and walks to his dresser, opens the top drawer to find a shiny silver pistol. He grabs the cold steel, and holds it close to his eye, admiring the snub nose revolver as if it were an old lover. He turns back to the bed, points the gun at the two lovers, and empties all six chambers.

               He gasps awake, the couch under him is soaked from the sweat that still clings to every inch of his body. For a moment he almost grabs the keys to his car and heads back to his parents house. The thought disappears nearly as fast as it was conceived. After all, no reason to panic over a silly nightmare.

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Posted by on September 27, 2013 in Small Tales

 

Secular Romance

               The smell of bleach and flesh mingles with the coffee brewing in the kitchen. He holds her cold, stiff hand in his, as the bleach gives her skin a paper white complexion. He knows no one could ever understand just how deeply he loved her. He knows no one will ever understand why it was imperative he kill her.

               He closes his eyes and sees desperate gasps, he sees heated glances and feels electric contact. Lips red like the devils flesh, peer through his consciousness, tearing every inch of his willpower to shreds. Faceless children peer through the darkest part of his mind, begging for a name.

               He opens his eyes. Her hair floats about her, eyes closed, her breasts heave no more. They will call me a monster, his thoughts declare, he will be publicly crucified posthumously. He doesn’t care. He moves to the kitchen and pours himself another cup of blessed coffee. The first sip burns his tongue and again he is pulled away into a memory.

               She’s biting his bottom lip, with an urgency he can read in the shallow breaths, crashing like waves against his face. He tastes blood, it makes him even more rigid than he ever dreamt possible. His physical yearning matches hers. Clothes are thrown with little care of where they will land, and then he is inside her. Trying to exercise both of their demons with every thrust, sweat gleams across both of their naked bodies. He feels her come and she pulls him with her into ecstasy.

               The glass shatters and coffee soaks the wall where he hurled it moments before. He returns to the bathroom, where she was once vibrant and alive she is now colorless and dull, yet still, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. He pulls the drain and the water begins its slow descent.

               He hears her cries, hears her plead with him to leave her apartment. He hears himself scream about promises made in the dead of night, entangled in love, she had sworn to die with him. He crosses the room, wraps her in his arms and tells her she will… she will die with him. His hands find her throat, and her fingernails find his face. He stares intently in her eyes as her face slowly turns blue. He wants her to know he loves her, he says, and that he will see her again soon. Her hands claw less and less. Her eyes shine no more.

               He pulls her body from the bath and carries her down the hall to their bed. He picks out an outfit that he remembers from last Valentine’s Day, and lovingly puts it upon her limp frame. He lights a pine tree scented candle and dims the lights. He moves into position next to her on the bed, puts her head under his right arm, and his left arm over her stomach.

               She turns to him and kisses him softly awake. She lays still and cold next to him. She pulls his hair in earnest release. Her chest is motionless. She comes and screams his name into the night. The pistols steel is as cold as her translucent flesh in his steady hand. He raises it to his mouth, whispers meet me by the shadow of the moon, and sends himself tumbling after her into oblivion.

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Posted by on September 24, 2013 in Small Tales

 

Thought Purge

He lies naked upon his bed, laying in the same position as Christ in his most triumphant hour. His hands, unlike Christ’s however, show no signs of harm. His wrists tale of a crimson tide. Also unlike Christ,  he dies for no one but himself. He used to be able to feel it, there in the back of his mind. Much like a cancerous tumor, it stretched and pulled, pushing always beyond the boundaries of it’s confinement. This strange sort of rage mixed with uncompromising hate, this thing inside. The bitter black that had appeased the beast, had in turn left it’s prison weaker in it’s wake. He tried to lie to himself, tried to convince himself of brighter days. The downfall of intelligence is being able to peer past our own delusions. In the end it was his mind that sent his spirit cascading into the abyss. Story untold, dreams trace broken hearts in the sky like smoke from a wildfire. Ashes like hope fall from the sky, much like a distorted version of Christmas morning. Angels can be heard on high, sobbing out their grief like mother’s burying sons. Demons rejoice below, laughing at the futility behind the frail, arrogant, things above. He is found floating somewhere near the moon, a whisp of an idea, yet as substantial and everlasting as the galaxy he hides within.

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Posted by on September 21, 2013 in Paradise Drift

 

Triumphant Pain

Her fingertips lightly trace the features of his face, hidden within pale moonlit hours and dusty romance novels. Sentences written in a disappearing ink, found and clung too, by the hopeless. Wrapped in white lace and bathed in innocent succulence, she awaits him in a fantastical land. Monsters and shades litter the landscape, strangling the fight from any foolish enough to combat them. Demons lurk behind pale blue curtains, just waiting for the performance to end for the final bow. Chemicals provide solutions for any problem to be named, trapping and murdering any growth from the pain. Stretching through time and space, he bends to the beat of his overextended heart, allowing it to freefall through his memories collecting scraps of hope throughout. Pain is knowledge to those intelligent enough to feel every inch of it. He embraces the waves of torture, screaming with a primal urgency, for he seeks truth amidst the gallows. Those others yoked into slavery by sheer foolish faith, watch in awe as his body is beaten and ripped apart. The screaming reaches a fevered pitch, as his heart beats to the rhythm of the beating. Just as suddenly as it began, the ferocious assault ends. Against all probability, his shoulders pull back, raising his head in pride. A smile finds it’s way onto his bloodied face, for if pain is knowledge, he has now become God.

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Posted by on September 18, 2013 in Paradise Drift

 

Night Asphyxiation

As the sun sets on a same old yesterday, a memory creeps inside. Drunk and stumbling. Stoned and grumbling. He introduces his swollen head to his feather down. He embraces the images flowing through his mind. Memories of a distant time, before the scene of the crime. Before this flowing blood blurred his vision. A goddess wrapped in lace and ancient answers, hovers over him, just out of reach. He loses himself inside her blue, and fades further as sleep breaks through. Her hair turns from golden, to shaded black. Her eyes dull from blue, into an icy white. She pleads with him to flee, before the crash. He doesn’t trust her, doesn’t know how he ever could. He sits down on a chair of judgement, and explains he will be going nowhere. Tears flow like regret from her eyes, she silences her pleas however, and stands next to him till the end. The car approaches, a shadow, without a face or name, steps out. Glinting, like a diamond worn in an engagement ring, the blade looks at home in the specters hand. Everything freezes, he looks from the featureless head of the shadow, to the goddess mourning him before he has been taken. Very quickly, it seems, the blade is inside his throat. Just as fast it is gone, and now sitting dangerously close to his heart. He takes two steps and falls. He hears the shadows escaping motor, and looks up into her pained visage, returned now to normal. He wakes before he dies. The bed is too big. The couch too small. His mind, too goddamned loud.
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Posted by on September 16, 2013 in Paradise Drift

 

Breathe out

Something boils within. Survival instincts kickin in. How to find where it began. Clicking tocks and falling sand. Choking the sanity of this desperate man. Hand in hand, with hellish intent, waves of energy burnt and pathways bent. Sitting on the sidelines, as heaven and hell combine. Intertwined like sacramental wine and exaggerated time. No roles content the soul and when it’s villian and victim, it’s real easy to break him.

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2013 in Paradise Drift