Cowards die a thousand times, the brave die forever.
Some live seconds with the fay,
Some spend life times, day by day.
The truly cursed don’t pass away,
To see the world where mortals play.
For December Jane,
Though not her name,
Archadia brought a different pain.
Death the only thing she knew,
Not once or twice but more then few.
Her mind a frothy, untamed brew,
By it’s nature torn in two.
Her being siphoned through wire
Plucked from nothing
Cast in to life
Dark matter meeting it’s opposite sibling
A familiar basement
She is nothing
Where are the memories from
A familiar boy
Someone she knew
Someone she loved
Someone who brought her from chaos, screaming in to order
He stares at her
She punches his arrogance
Pieces and parts torn from moorings
Free from her creator
She visits home
What she remembers as home
Her dads are horrified
She is a trick
She is a farce
She is dead
Finds her own place
Safety in abandonment
Gets a job
Goes to school
Tries to create normalcy
She is Jane
She is not Jane
Jane is dead
She is alive
She picks up smoking
Starts hiding from people
Dresses to blend in
They still know
But she is not Jane
And she shows it
That’s when the grinning boy tries again
Tries to bring his love back
And it is killing her
She looks in to herself
Out of her class and through the woods
Order screaming her name
Making her limp
A fellow student and abhorrence
He is a wolf
He is not a wolf
He loves her
They get far away
The screaming stops
And she follows
He loses his mind to the beast
The authorities are called
Both are shot
She is fine
Her body means nothing
He is not
They capture him
She finds friends
They are all strange
But the creator tries again
At school she feels the scream
She tries to get help
She is misunderstood
Unable to blend
She sticks out from the students
An ambulance is called
She can’t fight them off
They take her
She doesn’t want this body
They try to keep her stable
She pretends to be dead
Created, she has no heart beat
They shoot electricity in to her
I am awake and the world hurts.
Nothing like cutting your soul from it’s casing,
And shoving it in to another bottle.
At least I wasn’t suicidal anymore.
I see Carl’s face,
That ass hole, he’s grinning again,
I punch it like I did the first time.
As he reels from the pain,
I kick the nearest thing,
Barrels full of liquid,
Smells like food,
The ammonia that’s the only thing I can eat,
It burns as I smash a lamp on it.
Through the haze of the smoke,
I see that Carl wasn’t the only one this time.
A teacher is engulfed in flame,
I think I killed the math teacher,
Out the window I run,
A single leap and 12 feet is nothing.
Glad I’m still as strong as before.
Later there is sex.
A wolf and a monster destroy a house.
A party, with beer, drugs and death.
The snap of Carl’s neck.
The burning of his flesh and mine.
No flash today readers, it is raining and thundering outside. It makes me want to write. Have fun with today’s vignette, it’s stitched on the tapestry from my life.
The Rain and The Fear and All The Cars
I watch my reflection in the cars morph as they pass by, becoming disturbing characters of masculinity. I shiver, my arms clutching tight to my stomach and keeping me from screaming, “Those aren’t me. They can’t be me because I’m female.” But they are me. The creatures grotesk with broad shoulders and strong chins are me, they taunt me with male growth.
The rain hits my eyes as the traffic light flips lanes, red to green and stop to walk. The rain, or the lights, stop those monsters from finding me, so I walk on. Through the groups of people clumped together on the sidewalks, multitudes and chattering.
I find moving through a crowd when you’re alone pieceful. Surfing from clump to clump, with earbuds in and melancholic music playing; saccharin. Then I see my reflection and I have to stop.
So different from my erstwhile body, picked by genetics and random chance rather than any personal preference. Also, juxtaposed with creature and human. Masculine and the female form intertwined within one, neither fitting in place with the other. I’m fascinated what hormones and pure will can create, it’s always overshadowed by what was.
It rains harder, destroying work and creeping cold down my spine. It feels wonderful. Like sitting in a bath of caustic soda, layers of bullshit stripping away to leave me unburdened; clean. Suddenly the world seems less hostile, through my wet hair I see no creature, no fallacy from past nonsense.
For a moment, I am perfect. For a moment, I’m not a monster. But that moment passes as the herd flows around me and breaks the moment the rain created. Once again I am malformed.
Welcome, once again I see you in my digital fortress. The one place, through anonymity, I can fully stretch my legs and get comfortable. It’s strange the things we hide from ourselves and the ones closest to us. You can spout your whole life story to a stranger and, as they look at you with bemused exasperation, wonder at how easy it is to explain yourself to those who can’t judge. It’s closeness that brings fear of loss to stay the tongue of those with secrets. Or, as a wise man once put it, “Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”.
Today’s yarn is from my own life, ripped out and sewed to the page with twine. It’s a doosy by topping out 200 words more then any other post on this site so far. So sit, take a knife and dig in.
I hope you’re as hungry as I am.
The End Of It All
My hand trembles above my enter key, the result of it’s decent will burn bridges and free my soul. There has been something that’s been haunting me since I was young. A twist that brought me out of the scope of normal and in to the sight of Weird. The vexation and uncomfortable nature that I find in my physical form.
All my life there’s been a throbbing pressure pushing against my consciousness, a feeling that I’d been born wrong. An incomplete freak without a hope of fixing what hormones or genetics had failed to do. Eventually the pressure turned to frustration which in turn flared in to pure hate. It ended with me, 18 years old and on the floor of my bedroom with a scalpel pressed to the flesh of my leg.
I hated my body so much that I needed and relished destroying it. I think the rush I felt must be akin to the way vandals feel, a mix of primal rage and desire to see something ruined. I found it terrifying and still, even now, strangely attractive. It ended when I had a bout of melodrama and took a serrated cooking knife to my arm, a stupid act that I’m still ashamed to have done.
I set my hand on the side of the keyboard. I’m not ready to tell my story. Not ready for the hurt. I need to mull things over more and brace myself for what may come. I run my hand along my calf and feel the three scars there, drawing strength.
After that I broke through a ceiling of denial that I had built half a decade ago. No longer overshadowed by my step-fathers hateful words after finding me sneaking around with clothes that weren’t mine. Sick of hiding myself from myself, I proclaimed me free to research a solution to what was wrong with me.
When I was a little thing, barely able to read and still believing in things that weren’t tangible, I remember the nights that I lay awake for hours and prayed. I prayed that all would be well and I would be fixed. I would find a magic coin or a Djinn. As the years passed and nothing happened I grew more frustrated, asking for violent things to happen instead to make it more plausible. That I’d get cancer and have to have things striped away. I prayed that some horrid accident would take away the undesired parts of me and I’d be able to ask the surgeon to fix me the way I wanted. And still I waited.
I didn’t get help from that direction. I’ve gotten here by my own volition and the help of my loved ones. It’ll be the same from here on out, I’m sure.
I shudder, not wanting to bring my hand to it’s previous nest and wait to pluck myself away. I have to. I won’t be able to face myself otherwise. I won’t be able to look at my family without wondering.
At 7 I recall the moment that I first put my feeling to words. I had teamed with a friend to flesh out my math homework, lets call him Ray Somethingfrench, and I proposed a special day in school. “They should have a day,” I said,” Where you could take a pill and become a girl for a day.” Ray looked at me with a bemused squint and an awkward moment berried our math homework. “It would give shopping a whole new experience.” I said with a laugh, trying to make a joke of it. I failed and I only managed to liquefy the tension by asking about the next home work question. I doubt Ray Somethingfrench even remembers it, I do though and it’s one of the few memories that I hold in my forespecail memory box.
That’s my big secret. Something I’ve held in my heart for decades. Hidden. Safe. I want to be a woman. Something so hard to do since I was born male. Something that may drive away some of the people I love the most. But, I think as I depress the dreaded enter key, I have to tell it. For my sanity. For my self worth. And to get on with my life.
It’s been a while my binary friends. Come, sit down and grab a bottle of black goo. We have much to talk about.
I think we’ve all had a time where we’ve felt alone. It’s part of the fuzzy thing called being human. Tonights’ words are about the voices that wait until that loneliness sets in, how one must drown them out or embrace them. To shun or be consumed.
I hope you’re as hungry as I am.
Audiance for No One.
Calls in the night, silent and audiant,
Lonely is the toyling girl,
She sings her songs to hush her audience
Her songs are wrong, the pitch too varient,
And though it’s needed, she’s embarrassed for the world,
A sullen and petulant way to vent.
The lilting melody travels far to tortured ears,
And silences the false voices,
To distant for her to staunch with more then fear.
Be the change you wish to see in the world. What if you want nothing changed? Does that make you nothing? Today’s stories are about the loss of creativity, ambition, and motivation.
I hope you’re as hungry as I am.
What’s that feeling that stretches the back of my brain? The one that sucks my ambition away and replaces it with apathy. I try to claw my way through the fog to the redness on the other side and the battle is hard.
Shadow of a Child
I am the end. A shadow that flits along the ground and eats the dreams of small children. I stare out from under the bed of my soon to be victim. “So Bobby, what do you want to be when you grow up,” the woman asks her child. “I want to be an astronaut,” says Bobby, “No wait, a cowboy.” His voice falters as I begin to feed,” or someone who makes cartoons. A newspaper writer.” Delicious, I finish syphoning as the boy thinks. “A T.V. repair man. I want to be a T.V. repair man.”
The best stories are the ones never told. As authors, writers, and story tellers we do the best job possible to unearth the details of the worlds we’re excavating. Unless you want to write endless fluff about the fascinating customs of the American housewife instead of continuing your pseudo 1930s England coming of age, with necromancy, bells, and a white cat. You are going to miss something,write too little about, or skim over a hook. For today’s flash piece I have a Steven King inspired tail about the disgraced gunslingers, sent west to fight an endless battle with Farson.
I hope you’re as hungry as I am.
Ride Cully, Ride
We ride west. To wash our names from the lineage, we ride to die.
The good man will fall to our shot, mind not hand and faces forgot.
The thunder of our horses hooves send the bumblers and snakes running like tumbleweeds along a desert floor. Oiled belts creak from the death we carry, each shell to find a heart.
As the darkness closes in we begin the fight again.
Screaming light comes from the barrels of our guns and thunder breaks the night. We drive our mounts through the trenches to drive the cullies out.
A man whose pail face grows like flowers bloom. he becomes a widows man, laying in his tomb.
Granados and white prosperous help us see the men. The muddy clothes and rotting faces are targets for our guns. We shoot many, lose few, draw the fire of bigger guns. That is our ken, our ka, the fate of those who forget the face of their fathers.
Live by the gun to die by a gun, ironic twist of fate. By the time the lead finds us it is far to late.
Hello again my binary fuelled friends, I’ve been thinking abut the other side recently. What is it like to be the unknown other or the unknowable other. To have an intellect vast and echoy. To be devoid of morality so nothing has true consequences. To actually enjoy mustard. It sends my mind reeling in horror every time .
Today is a light one folks. I have two short pieces, one deals with nonlogic and the second deals with the duality of the for mentioned “Other.” To paint or not to slay, that is the question. I hope you’re as hungry as I am.
Twabble(100 word story)
Fifty Two Card Pick Up
“Pick a card, any card,” The magician cried. I drew one of the fifty two he held. I looked at it and smiled. I drew The Death.
Abstract On Parchment
Hung from my apartment wall by barb and wire,
it is there every evening and is gone in the morning.
I get my tools.
Paint brush metallic, clean; it shines in the light.
Paint springs from the cured hide as if water pressing to silk.
Two blue stars I snuff with strokes of orange,
silver flashes take a pale moon and I dig a skull from it’s soil.
Etchings, roots of pain appear with quick trailings.
Paint spills to the floor, staining the carpet red.
my parchment screams.