Beyond Absolution: ProloguePrologue: Sweet Raptured LightBeyond Absolution: Prologue6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I broke the surface of consciousness like a drowning man. Gasping thin breaths, I strained for air against the angry band of pain that crushed my throat to the width of a narrow reed. My fingers felt as thick as sausages as I dug them into the rope. A weak, phlegmy cough rasped air painfully past my throat, dragging me back towards unconsciousness as the pain threatened to spill over.
Im dying, screamed the wild part of my brain. Im dying Im dying Im dying Im dying!
Darkness blurred the corners of my eyes; coughs wracked my body, doubled me over on the floorboards. My pale, snatched breaths werent enough to save me; they just prolonged the inevitable, kept me conscious as I scrabbled about my neck, tugging desperately at the rope that cut into me like fire. A heavy knot was tied at the base of my skull. With my last reserves of
we, the freshIt started with a tiny bottlewe, the fresh5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of hand sanitizer
given as a gift
and at first it was forgotten.
Tossed into his car
the passenger seat.
But it was only a short time later
he strangled her to death
and chopped up her body.
of course, no one knew about it then.
He hid the body parts well
burned some of them
buried the rest
a flawless execution.
He cleaned up his house
and took a long warm shower.
He pulled the steaks out of the freezer
and cooked them on the stove.
He poured of glass of fine wine
and sat down to eat his victory dinner.
He realized he had forgotten to get a knife
and made his way to the kitchen.
With his knife in hand
his thoughts wandered away
pondering what the neighbors might say
if he got caught and they got interviewed
certainly none of them expected it
he was such a friendly neighbor.
But he wouldn't get caught
he chuckled vaguely
and walked back over to his steak
and started to cut into it.
As he lifted the first bite,
he smelled it.
the reek of blood just under his
The Station of a PoetThe Station of a Poet9 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
The station of a poet is one that connects the mind of man with the mind of god into a fluid consciousness. This unity is one that helps the world grow and thrive, amidst all of the heartache, oppression, and depression that can be seen today.
We are the vanguard that continually, in every age and sector, force the envelope that makes people think, debate, and dig into their psyche. Take John Donne, as a prime example: in the fourteen lines of Death, be not Proud, the poet creates both a well of hope, and a clearer understanding of the ideas regarding death, the afterlife, and mortal fear of that death.
But poets and poetry dig further beneath the skin; we, a rather eccentric lot, reach for the curtain that separates man and god and attempt if not to rip it away, then to unveil for a glimpse. Most poets will no doubt understand that the supreme powers we define as god are in fact, scarcely definable, and in most cases difficult if not impossible to articulate in any human tongue. There
Chapter One"So... what's his story? I've never seen someone like him."Chapter One5 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
"Xander? You won't meet another... well, it's easier to tell you the story than to try and explain..."
It starts off real simple... Man finds a book. A tome so old, it's literally falling apart; buried underneath the Earth since time immemorial. Book is said to contain some of the most powerful spells ever devised. The strongest barriers, the most lethal attacks, regenerative abilities that can pull one back from the threshold. Magic so old that the verbal incantations are lost to history.
Through some bookwork, he finds that the words weren't lost, they never were. None of these spells have ever been spoken aloud, because they can't be; not properly. It would come out as unintelligible gibberish.
He also learns some of the massive history behind the book. The confirmed history is that the book itself started as Sumerian, proven by the type of binding and parchment, but the language and spells inside are second to none. So
Ademir ReturnsAdemir ReturnsAdemir Returns5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A Brazilian bricklayer reportedly killed in a car crash
shocked his mourning family by showing up alive at his funeral.
The Associated Press
This is how we will speak of that day
We will say his legs walked him
out of death. We will say his steps
kicked their dust from the road
into the sky, and the sky touches everything
the road cannot. We will say we must
sometimes go forward to get back,
taking the hearts from these things
as we speak. We will say we believe
all we know that his is only one way
for a man to become a stranger among
his own that we see now how he was
unknown to us, but that his eyes
have shown us how to look
at his return. We will say Ademir
is back; he lives like us, still
and again. We will say we understand
that looking is among the hardest of things.
Hope....Hope....5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I will never bring a blade to my skin.
Not with the intent of seeing a
River of Red.
No matter how far I fall,
Into that darkness in
No matter how tempting the silver is,
Though I see very little appeal,
I will not let it come to that.
Even if the pain grows nearly unbarable,
And the weight seems to heavy to hold,
I'll push on through the tears.
Because I know,
"The night is darkest just before the dawn..."
And I know
"...The dawn is coming"
The Eleventh HourThe black, polished shoes produced a perfect squeak as they shuffled down the corridor, a single sound bouncing from one wall to the next in the empty thoroughfare. Where ordinarily, there would be scores of people walking this way and that, headed to the various departments of these hallowed halls, tonight was different. The body of people typically assembled were already in a meeting room, sweating over coffee and cigarettes and Mark Johansen was running late.The Eleventh Hour5 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
In their long history, the Supernatural Order had faced world-ending situations before. The splintering of bloodlines which formed the vampire faction they hunted in the first place almost provoked a giant cluster-fuck which ended life as they knew it from their very inception. That had been a millennium ago, roughly. Back when humanity still believed in magic. Sorcerers, witches, and warlocks dotted the landscape of the Dark Ages and one magician in particular drifted further into the darkness, looking for immortality. That wa
Born AfarWe would beBorn Afar7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Matter of fact.
I'd turn into Penelope.
Pen-e-lope, like cantelope;
she was ripe, over ripe perhaps,
withered with the waiting years,
Penny parched from rolling tears-
enough to swim him home.
If he was water you are stone.
Sandstone. Solid. Something -
young boys need to cling to, something -
a bow to fit the string to, something.
That's not me but it's something.
You would be
weighted and one.
Entirely a second son,
a second son and quite undone,
Stay. Smile upon my
wasted weaving fingertips,
shun your father's treasure ship
and hold me close, alone.
Scared Crow - Chapter 1Scared Crow - Chapter 16 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Come with me
It was late autumn. Thick, clammy mist hung low over the country and made the forest trees look as if they were floating in empty space. In the middle of the field, a large puppet stood on a stick. The loose rags barely covering it were idly moving in the wind alternately rushing or fanning over it.
The wind was cold and sharp. The girl stood watching as the crows flew around or sat on the puppet and wondered why it was supposed to scare them. It didnt work after all, did it?
On her way back to the city it started to snow.
She shivered and wrapped her jacket tighter around herself. Branwen always was cold, but today and not only because it was snowing she felt much colder. Her fingers were stiffer, her breath was harder to take and her skin felt dried out. She assumed it was because of the harsh weather changes they were experiencing.
One day it was hot like summer and you could walk around in a shirt and the next it was raining or ev
Death of the ArtistRoland Barthes said, "Death of the Author," and society said, "Hey, why not?"Death of the Artist5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
They didn't actually kill them, and it wasn't just the authors, either, though there isn't much written about the artists in those early days. The theory was to pretend that there was no author, to better separate the text from the experiences of the writer. Of course, that's impossible to enforce. So society went the other way. If they couldn't separate the author's experience from the text, they'd separate the author from experience.
It worked well, at first. What author or artist wouldn't leap at the chance to live in a commune full of no one but other artists and authors? They lived a kept life, with nothing to do but further their art. Everyone chosen to go for those first test runs was ecstatic. So they say.
Non-fiction authors don't go, of course. I've always wondered if they resent that.
I like to think that my parents are glad that I never showed the artistic talent to get myself shut away in one of
Bluster, Part 1Bluster, Part 15 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
This is the story of the Nightwatchman. As an operational officer for the British SIS, he is about to embark on the most dangerous mission of his career. At home, his marriage is falling apart. As near to the brink as he's ever been, he can only confront the latter by raking over the details of old love affairs in his study, while his way of handling the former is a secret he must keep from both his enemies and his allies alike.
Reading through the contents of the yellow folder, I realise once and for all that I was never funny. The jokes in these old stories all fall flat, or have the flavour of something borrowed, while the insults in my letters (print-outs, copies, some sent, some not) carry the sting of genuine animosity cold water on any frisson of wit. My judgement may be influenced, I admit, by the failure of the radiator in the study. It is bitterly cold this January and any heat coughed up by the plumbing seems to be leeched away thro
Resurrecting SylviaResurrecting Sylvia5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
Even amidst fierce flames
The golden lotus can be planted,
So let the mystified crowds begin amassing!
Again she will rise like a climbing rose,
Lady Lazarus, lifted from soil, decomposed
But lifted, living, sepulcher sprung; she cries-
I have risen again, once in every ten!
Thrusting upon the crowd a demure smile,
Reminding them with coy cast of amber eye:
And like a cat I have nine times to die.
Blame not her tempest-mind for the tragedy,
For amidst those flames of madness and insecurity
Her grave-bloom yet sprouts its mystery-
Her verse, a curse: a blue flame filament
Unfurled from the nadir, a testament
Suckled on the siren song of Lorelei.
From the great beneath she claims: I will rise
Yet again, to bid you recant and to reclaim
A lyrical promise penned in misery:
This is only number three.
So amass, friends, 'round the funerary shroud
Isn't it funny?Isn't it funny?Isn't it funny?8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
How a heart only breaks in the night,
When you're alone,
And there is know one to tell you you'll be alright.
Isn't it funny?
How the tears only fall,
When you have been hit,
And your backs against the wall.
Isn't it funny?
How can you see nothing at all,
When your eyes are wide open,
And your hopes about to fall.
Isn't it funny?
How my heart only breaks in the middle of the day,
Where everyone can see me,
Yet no one asks "are you okay?"
Isn't it funny?
How when my tears fall,
I still stand up straight,
And pretend there not there at all.
Isn't it funny?
How you don't know a thing,
About what's happening to me,
But you see my heart breaking.
Isn't it funny?
How it isn't at all.
extirpate collab01.extirpate collab6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
we've lived in darker places
but this blackness is unbearable
like this hollow feeling i have
in the space where my ribcage used to meet
and the sirens scream louder
when they're refracting dying octaves
and last chance words that spell out "i'msorry"
in the flashing of red lights against stucco walls
and as they roll out the sunny yellow caution tape
that seems so out of place in starless night air
i notice how the floor feels colder under my crooked spine
and i try to figure out when it got so hard to breathe
well, we've been in the cracks for quite a while,
but it feels so different now, and i figured
it's no longer fun when it's only you who's laughing
and it should be an awful sound, but it
sounds like the winterwind singing the prettiest lullabies;
cold, but so, so damn beautiful
and when i touch your peach cheeks
i feel the need to tell you
that you're the sky, the clouds that hide the lights up there
that you're the grass, tickling butterflies and all the little things
New York TimesPolished her nails red and ran away with a copy of the New York Times.New York Times5 years ago in Mystery & Suspense More Like This
She never was of that much use to me, but I believed her to be better than that, all the mystery, all the calamities that she would never speak of made me believe that she would do more than simply walk out of my life.
She left the netting of her wedding gown over the shower curtain rod, the rest of the dress was gone. That was the only dress that she had kept during the year, every week she would buy a new one, and once bought she would throw her old ones into the alley on the side of our apartment. She never stayed there long, but she would look out of our kitchen window, in to the bin where she had placed it, and just stare at it quietly. I don't know if she was regretting giving it to the dogs or if she simply thought it looked beautiful.
I will never know now. I didn't want to find out before but now it haunts me, because she left the veil, but not the dress. And I will never know why.
She took nothing with her
i hear birds.this makes me sad.i hear birds.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it's winter, you beautiful beasts
there is snow on the ground
and there will be snow on your wings
if you do not leave me now.
your feathers will stiffen with frost,
hoary chrysalis over your beaks and bones.
your bodies will fall from high wires
and break like glass
as they hit the frozen earth.
you are the force of gravity
that keeps me grounded
but lets you soar.
leave me to die
so that you can live
and return when the sun
burns hot once more.
Letter to My Chemical RomanceDear Gerard, Mikey, Frank, and Ray,Letter to My Chemical Romance4 years ago in Letters More Like This
Gerard asked for a painting of Mikey, so here is mine. It probably isn't very good, but considering I'd never done watercolors or attempts at realistic-looking people before, I think it's not too bad...
Anyways, I wanted to take this opportunity to give you not only my "artwork", but also this letter. I have no idea whether you will read it or not... I just need to say it.
But what can I say that you haven't heard before? All the "thank you" and "you're amazing" and "you saved my life" must seem repetitive and cliche to you by now. Well, with your permission, I will say it once more.
I have fortunately never needed saving, but I do often need encouraging words and empowering melodies (aka a swift kick in the butt) to carry on through the harsh times. Your music has provided me that time and time again, making me see things from a different perspective, helping me make new friends, and even making me dance. Your music is incredible, but sin
Waltzing with the DevilIn a house, apartment, in a palace pulsingWaltzing with the Devil5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
away from that idle pressure on my nape,
I possess minds which are courtesans: my cured
extremities are waltzing with the devil.
You might think of a sentient rhythm, a drone
sashaying in a cruel intercourse
wearing Venetian masks in mockery of
those gods compelled to eat burgers after caviar:
I love it when your china is spread on toast.
A thought would hover, a buzzing tinnitus
reminds you of a kindly perverted uncle
flagging down a platonic boy, blindfolded
by a riddle of locusts: come Abaddon
in a pitch of flies smothered by Beelzebub.
You would think I am the illegitimate
by-product of lazy rituals, couples
idling on the fence with hanging genitals
watching a pornographic film: during the
day I am Asmodai, a braying lust held
in a choke-hold at night when dutifully
I pray for the deliverance of daylight
ushered by the roaring birth of Lucifer.
Never Give Love a NameNever Give Love a NameNever Give Love a Name6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the Chachapoyas did not call
themselves the Chachapoyas
this name an invention
by the Incas the history
of the Chachapoyas recorded
in ruins fragments
of bowls tombs
tucked in mountain cliffs
breath caught in the throat
erodes the lungs scratches
against the empty caves
left by the ribs the broken
bowl of a shoulder blade
twisted bridge of the neck
that can no longer be crossed
ridges of the spine
a chipped necklace
memories of a kiss embalmed tucked
in the folds of an ear
now there is only this
Objects in SpaceThe general gazed pensively at the viewscreen. He was tall and slender, clean-shaven, his hair greying at the temples. His bearing was rigid, yet his posture betrayed some unease.Objects in Space5 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"How far away is it?"
"It's just passing Pluto," said the science officer, a short, bald, bespectacled man. "At its current velocity, it will reach our position in approximately seven hours."
"And it's alien."
"Well sir," -- the science officer licked his lips -- "it doesn't fit the known trajectories of any comets or asteroids, nor does its composition match any of those. It's definitely man-made... except mankind has never made anything like that. Not to mention it's coming from the wrong direction."
"Seven hours, then. Initiate first contact proceedings."
Seven hours later, they assembled in the largest hangar on the space station: five men and two women. The general stood in the centre of the group, tall and proud, unmoving. Next to him stood the science officer, fidgeting nervously. The others were lin
sneaking in a pharaoh's crypti think in tangos;sneaking in a pharaoh's crypt5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
haikus, but this
isn't some haiku
you can fuck up;
this is cleopatra
doing a famous
in a pyramid of
a jackal, a black
servant to the lord
of the mummies--
in a tomb fit
for a king or
a queen like
yourself, but suck it
because i live in the nile
and you just live in denial
and these tombs
aren't big enough
for dead skin cells
(you were always
like a desert, with
a dry dry sense of
humour, as scarabs
fornicate on top of
the sphinx has no rhythm,
and i'm no snake charmer,
but for the first time this era,
could you please be my cobra?
you'll never know what i knowyou fucked this up.you'll never know what i know5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you fucked me
up; down; up&down
so sit down
and shut the fuck up
because i'm a little too avantgarde for you,
and you don't even know what that means
i can see it
in your eyes,
in your skin;
you hate me
(hate me with
the lights on)
just so you know,
you're pretty awful at hiding
it from me
(i will find out)
just so you know,
you're pretty awful at hiding
(i will find you)
just so you know,
you're pretty awful
(you won't find out)
just so you know,
(i've given up)
not like you've
bothered to get
to know me,
and i can't
say i know
"us' all too
but i do know: the emptiness of my bed
but i do know: you don't believe (in) me
but i do know: the equation for distress
(you+x-clothes)/legs = love
[but you never solve my problems,
just cause them]
i can't do math, but i do know:
that you've slaughtered me for
the thirteenth time this deca