Sunday, May 29, 2005

I remember the way you looked,
on the dock,
wind pulling at you,
tearing you away,
echoing it's siren wail,
the way you wouldn't look at me,
only ahead into the sun as it dropped
behind a pocket in the sky,
the essence of summer
at its best,
and I smiled,
as I pushed you into
the clear cold water,
and you fought for life,
like you never fought
for me.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Of course,

I know

that you love me.

Because I keep

your heart

in a tainted box,

under my pillow.

At night,

I breathe in your lust.

Friday, May 27, 2005

I Don't.

Undercover blankets and kaleidoscope stars,
I remember the way you are.
A faucet to leak our secrets out,
A drip of poison on our tongues,
A drop of lust to fill their plates,
And make them accept what they've done to us.
A plague over every house,
A spout over ours,
To flush away our dreams,
Into city streets,
Hazed over by streetlights.
That's all we ever did;
Our dreams with wings
Like silver-sequined butterflies.
A tangible lie to suffice.
Tastes too much like your lips.
I don't want to remember

Jukebox Princess

Jukebox princess,
with a wavering smile.
Dancing until daylight's end.
Dancing until the world's end.
To remember your face
is all I want to do,
but man you make it
when you move like you do.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

The balloons were bright pink and blue
and, as I stepped across the curb,
they fell onto a reflection of you.
In this ever lonely street,
I gave you a smile and tilted my hat,
And I crossed over to a bench,
and found that as I sat,
you watched me,
your eyes growing curious
at how your reflection seemed to stay
in the balloon,
as if caught in the moon,
in a puddle's glimpse of the sky.
You catch your breath,
as I let them go,
and they sail into the sky,
as if on archer's bow.
Caught in an oval of pink and blue,
your eyes seem to scream a lovely tune,
as they go whistling out of view.
And I walk back to where I came from; my black lagoon.
Now you follow my feet in step,
knowing that you are just another child,
void of life,
another added dimension to my collection,
and I only caught your reflection once more;
on the glint of my knife.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

And don't you see that this is what I want? All along, this is what I've wanted?
Just to die...
Just to not have to feel anymore...
The pain has grown numb and it is not worth living just to feel dead, all the time.
I wanted love.
I wanted to fall into the sky.
But my life is dancing colours of sticky sweet,
and I wanted nothing more but to just drown in my own tears.
Can't you see?
All along this is what I've wanted.
And you chose life,
while I chose death.

Monday, May 23, 2005

A spiderweb vein...through your brain.


The close-cut corners of the yards, the long high whistles from the swallows, the purr of running motors and the bright blue sky that served as a constant reminder of our highest flying dreams. But that’s not what I remember most about Hickory St. It was how the carnival came into town on the hottest day of August and stayed a total of 3 days. It was how the sweat stuck to our backs and made us long for those cool dips in the river. It was how the night gave way to daylight and the stars disappeared from the sky and into her eyes. It was the rough cut of her maple-blue jeans and the way she wore a smile…and how it seemed to fade away and wear out like those same tired jeans.

Taylor was 12 when I met her, two years younger than I was at that time, blond hair cut short and sticking out under a New Jersey baseball cap. She had just moved into the house beside us and would later spend a summer painting it bright yellow. Her father had gone inside to rest and she was ordering around the movers, pointing her finger at various places and shaking her head when they did something wrong. My mother had told me, being the able young man I was, to help them out and, while I’m at it, why don’t I bring over some cookies? So, armed with a red Tupperware box and my head held high, I marched over to Taylor and stuck out my hand. She raised an eyebrow at my gesture and took the red box from my other hand. Balancing it on her hip, she said, “Thanks,” and turned back to the men unloading a large green couch from the truck.

I frowned as she told them to be careful with that, and said, “I’m David…uh, David Williams.”

She looked back at me like I was an insect on her carefully arranged tea-set.

“Can I, uh, help you with anything?”

She narrowed her eyes at me, “No. We’re fine... I said be careful with that!” and under her breath, “Imbeciles.”

I laughed then caught myself and said, “So, New Jersey, eh?”

“Huh?” Then her hand flew up to her hat and she suddenly looked sad, “No. It was my mom’s. She brought it back for me.”

“Oh, cool.” I dropped my gaze to the flowers sprouting between my feet, bursting buds of blue, silver and green, surrounded by a lush green patch of grass; a forest for timid creatures.

“I’m Taylor.”

I looked up at her, her eyes clustered with moonbeams, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Taylor.”

Once she told me, “I’ve stopped believing.”

And I asked, under the silvery sky, “Stopped believing in what?”

“In everything,” her head tilted to the sky until she was drunk with the moon.

And I held her hand as she wished for more, and I was just happy to be what she had settled for.

Just after Taylor had moved in, my mother had told me to be very nice to this girl because her mother had died from cancer and wouldn’t I just be a wreck if my mother died? I had nodded and went to go play baseball, stopping, like my mother had told me to, by Taylor’s house and asking if she wanted to come out and play with us.

A sweet smell of cinnamon greeted me at the cement steps to Taylor’s door. I climbed that last step and rang the white doorbell, which stood as a reminder of how far away Taylor always was, and yet how close she would be if I could just remove that one formality.

The door swung in and I found myself face to chest with someone much too close for my own comfort. I looked up, “Hey Mr. Peterson.”

Taylor’s father was to me like chalk on the sidewalk. I knew it was there, but I also knew that, when the rain came, it would all get washed away. I suddenly felt bad for thinking him old and tired, knowing that he had lost his wife, and so I just skid my shoe along the cement and muttered, “Is Taylor home?”

Giving me a humble smile, he turned and called up the long, winding staircase to a room full of mysteries (at that time I imagined them to blue, though I don’t quite know why I had chosen that particular color.) Hair flung up in a messy ponytail, Taylor tripped down the stairs and looked at me with awkward curiosity, a flame ignited in her eyes, but cooled by her demeanor.

“What’s up, Dad?” she said.

“Don’t quite know, myself. What’s going on, David?”

I fumbled with the baseball glove in my hand, noticing the large streaks anew on it, wondering if they had been there before, or if I had just never looked that close. “I was…well, the kids around the neighborhood usually play a game of baseball on Sundays, and uh, if you weren’t doing nothing…you know…if you wanted to play with us…we could use another outfielder.”

Taylor nodded to her dad, who nodded back to her, then to me and quietly left to his study, where he would finish the day in quiet solitude, a cigar in the corner of his lips and the computer screen buzzing his grammatical errors.

The door shut softly behind us and Taylor gave me a wary glance, “I play pitcher.”

I laughed and shook my head, “No. I’m the pitcher.”

“I’m not playing no outfield position. I ain’t no girl.”

“Well, you sure do look like one,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes at me and said, “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about! And I won’t play no outfield.” She grabbed the glove from me and threw it down to the freshly muddied ground. Tears splayed in the corners of her eyes as she turned and ran away from me, her hair falling from her elastics and landing just past the nape of her neck.

I bent down and picked up the glove, my heart heavy with wondering about my poor mitt, and my eyes following the trail of her blue flip-flop shoes.

Halfway through the game (we were winning and just needed to keep the other team from a home run, an easy concept when we were playing with rusted bats and spitballs), Taylor showed up behind the fence, her fingers grasping the chain-linking and her eyes red from tears. And I don’t know what made me do it, but I stepped away from the mound and walked towards her. She gave me an angry stare and made to leave but I tossed the ball high up into the air and over the fence. She caught it almost without looking, her eyes trying to find a hidden meaning behind mine.

The guys were yelling at me to come back and what was I doing, this being our last pitch and me giving up? I blocked them out and said in whispered tones to Taylor, “Go ahead, pitcher. They’re calling you.”

Tilting her head as she moved around me, her eyes acknowledged me as if for the first time just before she ran out to the field and took my place. And I watched as she struck them all out with a flick of her wrist.

It was raining when I kissed Taylor for the first time, a few years later than when I had first met her, on the last day of the carnival, which had come on the hottest day of August and the weather had quickly dissipated into clouds and thundershowers.

She had been wearing that smile and her blue jeans, covered in maple syrup from adventures in pancake making that morning. I had picked her up at six, and we had stayed till midnight, not wanting to leave and wanting so much to be caught up in the storm of our lives. It was on that night that I kissed her, and on that night that she revealed her dreams to me.

Taylor told me, under shade of an oak tree and within view of all the lights in the world, of her past. When she was very young, after her mother had died, she had told her father about how she would see her mother in her dreams, and how she had called to her, wanting her to follow her and dance and sing and it was so lovely, just too lovely. Her father had become worried about these nightly visits, worried that his daughter was stuck in her grief. He had told Taylor to not follow her mother, to say no if she asked Taylor to join her. Taylor had become confused, but did as her father told, stopped thinking about her mother and the land that seemed too wonderful to belong to anyone else than fairies and magical creatures. Taylor had wondered if her mother was a magical creature, to be in such a place.

Her eyes searched the skies for a single drop of water, and when she was denied, she continued her story, “I’ve started seeing her again, David, in my dreams. She’s calling me…She…,” she touched the rim of her New Jersey hat and continued, “I know it’s not real...I mean, it can’t be right? But I just can’t stop having these dreams, and I don’t know what will happen if I let go and just let her take my hand and lead me away…you know? Well, no, you probably don’t. I’m sorry David…I just…”

The first raindrop splattered delicately below her eyelid, reflecting the colors of her iris.

I didn’t want her to leave me. I thought if she went with her mother…somehow, she would leave me. So I told her what I was thinking, and she gave me a soft glow smile followed by a nod of her head. I thought she looked a bit sad, so I tried to cheer her up the only way I knew how; I kissed her as the rain fell down.

The very next month, Taylor called me on her pink sequined phone, and asked me to come over. I slid through my window and into hers as she pulled me up and kissed me on the cheek, the rims of her eyes encircling mine. And she told me about how the sickness had returned in her, through her mother’s blood. She cried and screamed at the sky as I sat on the edge of her bed and wondered why she hadn’t just thrown me to the ground and ran away like she had so many years ago. I wondered why she was still here, and I pulled her close to me as the rain fell now through her perfect eyes, and I kissed her once more, and told her that I would always be there, no matter what. I just didn’t know that she would take that to heart.

A note was pinned to my window screen, on neon green paper and with her scrawling handwriting, one morning, on the saddest day of my life. It had been a year past the summer when I had first kissed her and after I had learned that she had been diagnosed with cancer. It had been the year of her fading smile. It was too late when the ambulances arrived…it had been too late when I had woken up and thought she was still asleep.

They buried her with her New Jersey baseball cap. My mother cried and baked cookies all day. Taylor’s father would spend the next week in his study, smoking cigars and thinking about how the loves of his life had left him. I would wait for thunderstorms under starry skies and think about those blue flip flops walking away, and read her note until it was tattered and torn. I read it until I had memorized every word in her scrawling script. I read it until the rain blurred the letters and I couldn’t see because of tears blocking the light to my eyes and the ink smudging her away.

Dearest David,

Don’t think me doing this was a way to hurt you. I’ll always hold you in my heart. I hope you’ll hold me in yours. I know you told me not to go with her…I know you told me to stay strong…but David, it was time. And I held on as long as I could, thinking about you and how I knew that, even if I left you, you would be okay, because you helped me realize that I am real and that believing in stars and rain and sunshine, well it’s not as wonderful as believing in love. Tell my father not to be so sad, and thank your mother for her support. And David…I’ll be waiting in your dreams. If I call you, will you come with me?



Sunday, May 22, 2005

Okay, I'm working on something, but until then...

I dip my feet into the cold, crystal, glacier-fed, spring water.
I am revived.
And I shall live a thousand years,
with your love flowing through my veins,
swimming in the darkness of my life, and turning it to liquid sunshine,
that drips down the corners of my eyes and
falls softly into the spring,
below my feet.
A circle of life,
to end theirs
and to cleanse ours.
We were never really meant to be sacred...
we were always too scared.
We were never really meant to be gods...
we never chose to be dared.
And how we fell upon that spring,
in the midst of an irreputable forest ,
that was strewn with broken glass,
and whispers of creatures,
unknown to us,
I will never know.
But we will live forever,
with the knowledge,
that we were never meant to...
and that by taking blood,
ours shall be,
in turn,

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Damn, why do I have to be such a goddamn romantic? Why can't I dream plausible things? Why do I sabotage myself? I can't understand how I'll ever truly be happy.

Friday, May 20, 2005

I remember the sunny San Francisco days, under heat and wave and sparkles of summer promise.
The coffee shops sold the style of our precarious notions.
The waves dictated our every move.
And the heat was our solace.
The wind held its breath, afraid that it might break our fragile friendship, afraid that we might blow away.
And in those last summer days,
we were friends;
we were oceans that needed no borders;
we were coffee that had mixed flavours;
we were San Francisco,
in the summertime.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

I was watching a commercial,
the other day,
when a magical product
-aren't they all?-
streamed into the light
of my eyes and
spoke of 'Glade
A new scent for that
fresh clean smell.
I found myself
as I fished into
the back of my
pocket for my
worn out wallet,
if you could
put poison in the
filter that produced
such a fresh clean
See me
as I smile
and you forget
in that timeless way of yours.
See me
as I am reflected in your dreams.
A ghost
of unwavering perfection.
You breathe me in,
and I am gone.
A light...
See me
Bright-line the highlights
of my eyes,
as I look
at what we've become;
a symphony to drown out
our tired orchestra.
See me
Because our love was always
"I didn't have any dreams last night..."

"That's because all your dreams have come true."

Monday, May 16, 2005

I'm just sitting here, eating my Ritz crackers, wondering if the salt will make me fat, because I just don't need one more thing tacked to the growing list on my forehead of never-ending stress demands. And I wonder if I take the tack out, if I will bleed to death, or if I will even care, knowing that I will die without anyone taking my life but me.
I bite the cracker so that it makes the shape of a crescent moon in my hand. What a concept. I'm holding the moon in my hand. What a day.
I lick my fingers clean of the hazardous salt, and I look out the window. I am not suprised to see you lurking there, watching me with intent eyes.
I grab another cracker from the box wondering if you have enough balance to avoid my staring eyes; wondering if I have enough courage to notice you at all.

Friday, May 13, 2005

And in a way, I miss the taste...
And in a way, I was never really hungry anyway..
For blood..
For lust...
I watch the sun,
as it strains to touch me.
I don't laugh,
but I do muse,
at how simple things
can carry strong burdens.
I stray to touch a single strand
of life on your neck,
haunting me with such dreams...
too blackened by death
to count or describe.
A curse.
And shall I end it?
And be worse than what I am?
Or is this just the natural balance...
of life?
And if the apocalypse is nearing us now?
Shall I fret if am damned anyway?
It is too tiring,
when there is no chance to be fatigued.
I never really wanted your taste anyway..

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Why won't you bleed with me?
Why can't you feel my pain?
Leave me here,
writhing in agony.
Leave me here,
blood stains and sweat.
If you can't kill the curiousity,
then kill the cat.
Tear open my lungs,
so I can breathe.
Squeeze the veins inside my eyes,
so I can see.
Kiss my lips,
so I can taste.
You were too busy
living in your ethereal nightmare,
to notice me standing,
a shadow,
in your door.
You rip out my heart,
toss it across an ocean divide,
and laugh as I become dead inside.
Play the fool's game.
Take my hands in yours,
then slice them open
with the flick of a blade.
If I am drained,
of all my life,
I hope that I
can still smile weakly at you,
and tell you that you were wrong
about love.
That it's not about blood,
or tears,
or time.
It's about you.
It always was.

Free Admission

Okay, my blog seems to be up and running...knock on wood..

"Writers write...Readers read." - Finding Forrestor.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Hmm..somehow I can tap into my blog posts but I cannot view my blog...interesting. I hope this problem gets resolved in the near future, or I shall have black streaks across my pale face from tears...yes...wonderful imagery, no?

Monday, May 09, 2005

The night was still like a fizzy drink after it had gone flat, and darker than the blood that can only be seen when a man's bowels are dissected and strewn across his splayed body, for buyers to view from afar.

A message had been sent by horseback to Carril Helling, editor-in-chief of The Hedard Daily Times. Her house was located just outside of Hedard, a white-washed building, surrounded by flowers groomed to perfection by a hired hand. Her job at The Times was secured only by her faithfulness to the paper of 43 years. In normal circumstances, the owner and publisher of the paper, Mr. Thomas Greenland would have told Mrs. Helling he had to let her go, but the old woman had been a good friend to Thomas, and his father before him, as well as the simple fact that Mrs. Helling was going to leave them in a few months due to a cancer of the lungs (Mrs. Helling had begun smoking at the early age of 11, and had always favored a man's cigar.) Thomas Greenland already had a man by the name of Smith lined up to replace her when she went. Stubborn as she was, however, Mrs. Helling had hired a man to be her voice for the paper and to deliver her back the news from the town and her assigned work for that evening, (Greenland would never give her less than what he had acquired, knowing full well that she knew from experience when someone was scamming her.)

Carril Helling was awake that night, when she received the letter, rocking back and forth on the old wooden rocker that had been moved inside so that she wouldn't catch cold. She knew that was a joke, because she was going to die eventually, anyway, and what better way to do it than watching the brilliant twinkle of stars as you rose to the heavens on a blanket of clouds, instead of having to be stuffed in a dark wooden cabin, devoid of fresh air or moonlight. Carril favored the nights, knowing that the morning would bring about a whole new fuss over her state from doctors and friends, alike.

She puffed in long drags on a newly lit cigar (from a box she had to keep under her mattress and only smoke at night, to avoid suspicion from her caregivers) as she slipped a long, chipped nail under the envelope and broke the seal.
The return address read:

Mr. Albert Lockert
Official Coroner
98 Westminster St.
London, England

Carril Helling dropped her cigar and leaned back in the rocking chair, her face was drained of all its color (which wasn't that much of a stretch from her sickness) and in a split second she began to cough in a violent fit that lasted a full 3 minutes. When she had regained her composure, she continued the letter.

To Be Addressed To the Honorable Mrs. Helling.

Regarding Mr. N. L. Hews

I regret to inform you of the passing of MR. NATHAN LEWIS HEWS. His death was officially pronounced as of 9:00 AM, TUESDAY AUGUST 6TH. He died of bullet wounds to the chest and right leg, and suffered internal bleeding as a result of prolonged impact to his stomach and head. Mr. Hews will be remembered in a ceremony at ARBOR LAKE on SUNDAY JULY 5TH, 2:00 PM. You are permitted to bring a guest. The service will be done by Reverend John Mathers, and will be a closed casket ceremony. We hope you can attend and pay your respects to Mr. Hews.


Albert Lockert

Resounding in her head were the words: bullet wounds and prolonged impact to his stomach and head. Carril Helling dropped the letter, singing it on the fallen cigar. She stood up on rickety ankles and moved over to a box of old newspapers in a corner beside her bed. She pulled them up to her lap as she sat down on the side of the mattress. Her yellow-stained fingers pulled out a couple newspapers, scanning the titles, and then pushing them back in the box until she found the one she was searching for.

It read:


Helling shook her head silently then reached for another paper, opening it slowly and reading the lines:


A bemused smile appeared on the woman’s face as she dropped her eyes lower and read:

Early yesterday morning, Nathan Hews was hitched to local Carril Jehning. The notorious Hews is known for his revolutionary ideas and demonstrations in the west, but would not announce if he was through with these ways upon marrying the young Carril. Will he settle down and start a family? Or will we see more of his new bride in these attention-seeking rallies?

The flames began licking the side of the house as she thought on how she had left him. She had been tired of running from the law, tired of protesting the new government, and tired of not being able to just rest once and a while. She had warned him several times, of her leaving, but his eyes merely flicked up at her before he returned to writing his speech or going over new proposals for his cause, and a kind word being said, as he told her it would all be resolved soon, just as soon as the west learned of their betrayal, learned of how the fight would need to be fought, before the children were betrayed as well. By that time she had taken up the job of a journalist, moving up from her small position as assistant to the editor-in-chief, and keeping a record of her travels with the rough Nathan Hews. After she realized that writing about this man, her husband, was going to get her killed, as neither side wanted to hear the heroic stories of N. L. Hews, she packed up her bags. However, before she could leave, Hews was given the position in Europe and so, not realizing that she was going to leave him just the same, he had told her that this was something he had to do, and that he may not be back for a few years, being that travel and changes were so slow. She had agreed, hoping that he would change for the better once he got out and found out about the situations in different countries. She waited years and years, and heard no word from him, except the occasional letter. Her heart wasn’t wrenched, but as the years went by and she married a man by the name of Helling, and had 5 healthy children, she found herself yearning for the adventure her past life had brought and wondering what her past husband was doing, and if he had gotten himself killed somehow. Needless to say, the letters ceased and Carril continued her writing for The Herard Times, though nothing ever matched the excitement in her heart after writing about one of Nathan Hews’ unmatched anti-political rallies. Oh, of course there were shootings and scandals in the news, but they were always so distant to her, nothing ever striking a chord. He never did come back, or write any more letters. Her then-husband died, and her children moved out. She bought a house on the outskirts of the town, and kept to herself. And when the cancer had hit, she knew she wasn’t ready to leave. She didn’t stop smoking cigars, but she would yell at God in the afternoons, telling him (after extreme coughing fits) that she was not going yet. Not just yet. She wasn’t sure when she’d be truly ready to go; she just knew it wasn’t now.

As the heat warmed her cheeks, she pondered on who had finally got him. If it had been the men from the east, who had been angry with him for not promoting their cause, or, if it had been the men from the west, who had told Hews that they didn’t want him revolutionizing their towns, and aggravating their people. Maybe it had been new people in London, who hadn’t liked his new ideas. It seemed that he didn’t really belong to one side, and was always hopping the fence; one day tearing the back of his pants in the process would be inevitable.

The woman closed the paper and sighed, thinking back on lost memories. She wondered, as the light reflected in her worn glasses, if Nathan Hews knew he wouldn’t make good on the promise that he would come back for her one day. Well, deep in her mind, she believed he knew he wouldn’t. Otherwise she wouldn’t have remarried, had children, and lived her life.

As the flames engulfed the small room and singed the corners of the yellowed newspaper clippings, Mrs. Carril Helling-Hews was finally ready to go.

The Herard Daily Times read the next day:


Police believe the fire that killed Carril Helling was started by lit cigar, tossed away accidentally, leading to the fire that killed the 63-year-old woman. She was, at the time, Editor-In-Chief of The Herard Times. Carril Helling is remembered by her three daughters and two sons, all over the age of 20. She was married to Peter Helling, who died six years past from a sudden heart attack. A funeral service for Carril Hellings will be august 12, 11:00 a.m. at the St. Benedict’s Church on 3rd St.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

She sits in a cold room, her fingers clacking noisily away at the keyboard, filling the stiff air with stymying sound. Her eyes are used to the light, her soul is tearing away. She keeps a lock on it, so it does not fly away from her body, so that it does not leave her here; breathless.
Her tongue flicks out over her chapped lips, like a momentary flood in a dry, cracking desert. Her eyes move silently over the screen, reflecting the glare of her corpse-like stare.
She knows that she is always alone. No blinking computerized message that tells of fortune and love can tell her otherwise. She has learned that no matter how much they tell her she is beautiful, intelligent, lovely...they are always lying. Oh, of course there are exceptions. Rarely there are souls that speak truths, but even then, they traipse off to polite courtesies. Mostly she knows because she has returned the gesture, making mock comments about how wonderful they are and that she admires them highly. And, again, there have been exceptions to the rule, where she, herself, is telling the truth or she simply tones down her compliments to acknowledgements.
So, she thinks, how can I know which are telling the truth and which are just returning the favor?
This, the plight, which no one, but herself, can assuage.
I remembered her colour, most of all. It was Sunfire Red #7. She didn't wear it casually, always asking me if she looked slutty after she applied it. I would never answer her outloud, just place an arm around her waist and usher her outside, to where our transportation waited. I always did think that the colour was too bold, making her stand out against my dark suit and tie. But I didn't mind so much. She was an attention whore, and I was simply baggage, or a service to carry her baggage, when we went on longer trips. I wasn't the ladies' man, nor the charmer. Later,though, when we were alone, suffocating on our own silence or screaming against our own drilling accusations, I would charm the snakes from her eyes and the venom from her lips. I wondered just how she covered her writhing resolve at the finest parties, where the red kiss of her lips poisoned even the most wary of minds. She had plagued me, from that very first day. An umbrella hat had allowed shade for her delicate skin, while rose-tinted glasses dimmed her eyes. And the one thing that had struck me like a dart between my eyes was her fire-engine red, burning of desire, late-august lips. And I remember the very last day I had seen her in that shade, seen her at all, and she had asked me that one last time if she looked like a slut and I had smiled and said yes, darling. And I love you more for it. I had pulled her close to me then, and kissed her, trying to suck out the poison that had plagued me for so long. I remember walking out that door, as she stood there, hair fluffed the wrong way, and dress ruffled. I remember that lipstick had stayed right in its place, unsmudged across her face, falling in a perfect line with her lips, and I realized that I would never make that lipstick smear, no matter how much I tried. I closed the door, finding refuge in the dim grey walls of the hall between our apartments. Never would I forget Sunfire Red #7.

A Dream...

I had a bizarre dream about a few of my friends, and some other people who are not my friends but I know them just the same..

It started with Jesse H, and her friend Lindsay then Guillaume and the people associated with him came along..and suddenly we were out on his deck and it was odd, because at guillaume's house flying was a was very odd. Then I saw Jon sitting on the deck with a couple of other people and I was talking to him and so was this other girl and then he just sort of leaned over and kissed her...and for some reason I felt really empty because of this. I don't know..and then I just kind of floated away..being that I could fly and all...

Friday, May 06, 2005

The streetlights dictate the every move
that she makes as a projection
on the sidewalk,
acknowledging that
she is never truly
The sky is moving quickly,
too fast for this earth,
passing the generations over until
blurs into
every century,
and you are only a speck
in the iris of life,
that blinks once in the span
of time.
The cars are beacons
moving fast among themselves,
like pawns in a game
of chess.
The pawns are always the first to go.
I wondered how the king felt,
knowing that assasination was simply
the object of the game.
Kill or be killed.
Send someone else to do your dirty work.
The lights were getting darker,
on the horizon.
The girl walked close to her house
noticing the smoke that drifted,
as if out of a dragon's nose,
from a corner of the roof.
The lights were dim,
but shone expectantly.
She glanced up towards the ever moving sky,
and wondered if she could be an exception.
Her hair blew back behind her ears as the wind picked up,
singing in harmonized violin,
waiting for her to scream and break the balance.
The girl allowed a smile to play on her lips,
before she turned from the house
and continued down the middle of the road,
wondering if pawns could kill queens.

Monday, May 02, 2005

The Carousel


"Listen. Do you hear them? Those are the bones of my ancestors. Careful where you tread this night. In the graves they are restless, and they might just want to dine tonight...on human flesh!"

I screamed as the fortune teller grabbed my wrist and pulled me across the table towards her.
She held my arm steady as I struggled to slip from her grip. She said, "Listen to my words. Tread carefully! It is dark this night, much darker than usual. The clouds are hiding the moon's light. You would be wise to keep yourself at home. Listen to my words!"

Her eyes needled into mine with the fierce power of a drill combined with hot pokers. I twisted away and ran backwards out of the tent, her scaly hand still reaching out for me.

"Oof!" I fell back, tripping over a body on my way out of the tent, and I nearly screamed again, afraid the fortuneteller's prophecy had come true and bodies were rising from the ground.

"Hey, watch it!"

I stood up hastily, keeping my eyes on the dark spot in front of my vision. The spot rose and I soon found myself face to face with a boy who had fairydust hair, falling crookedly over his left eye, as he stuck his hands into his pockets and rolled back on his heels, looking at me. A smirk flashed on his face as he stuck his thumb back towards the tent. He said, "I heard you in there. She's one crazy freak."

I took a step back, wary that his face was within inches of mine, and shot back, "You were spying on me?"

He laughed and shrugged, saying, "Nah. I was just looking for a...uh, contact that I lost on the ground over there."

I rolled my eyes and turned my back to him, walking in power strides across the amusement park, trying to find my way back to the rollercoaster. I had told my friend I would meet her there, because she wanted to go get cotton candy, while I had thought it would be better not to eat before riding the coaster, so instead I went to the fortune teller, thinking it would be good for a laugh, if nothing else.

He skipped up to meet my strides and said sideways, "Where're you goin'?"

I turned and stopped, looking hard at him, "Why?" I was not fond of strangers.

He shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets again, "I dunno. Just bored I guess. My aunt runs the bumper cars, so she lets me use her free pass sometimes to get in, and so...well, none of my friends wanted to hang with me, so I came looking for something to do. Maybe I can join you? I know all the tricks to getting in front of the line." He grinned and ran a hand through his floppy hair. I sighed, knowing this boy would not be so easy to get rid of.

He seemed eager to accompany me to the roller coaster, and so we went, him skipping strangely beside me, and me walking quickly, worried about what would happen if I stopped.

Pinks, blues, purples, oranges, greens and reds flew by my field of vision and I was acutely aware of every breath I breathed into the firey night air, wondering just who might be snatching it up and collecting it in a bag of lost youth. I shivered, trying to stop my whirring thoughts.

We reached the rollercoaster, and yet I couldn’t see the friend I had come with. I told this in a kind of panic to the boy I had just met, and he seemed concerned, helping me wait and look for her. After a long hour, I gave up, sitting in the corner and trying to convince myself not to cry. The boy pulled me up and snatched a handkerchief from his back pocket, blurring away the tears that threatened to fall from my weary eyes.

He cocked his head at me and said, “There is more than this. Come on…let me show you some fun.” He waited for me to reluctantly nod my head before he smiled and whisked me away to the rides.

The night converged in my mind of brilliantly colored balloons and high, fast speeds. I remember his face distinctly, though he never gave me his name. I remember looking through him, past him, to a world I would never forget.

I remember the carousel.

At the edge of the park was a rusty, run-down old carousel that hadn't worked in years. The boy held my hand as he led me into the darker place, cooing at me when I told him I was scared. He lifted me up by my waist onto a horse that looked demented due to its lack of shape and shadowed body. He pronounced its name was Cristibal and was the finest horse in all the land. I laughed and told him that it was silly, because it wasn’t even a real horse, not even a proper carousel one.

He stopped then and looked at me with serious eyes, locking me in a stare that seemed to last several lifetimes.

I tried to laugh it off, but something about the coldness in him scared the sound right out of me and it sounded more like a strained cough than a laugh.

But the spark returned to his eyes just as quickly and he grinned and he hopped onto the carousel behind me, whispering into my ear as he covered my eyes with his hands, “This is one ride you’ll never forget.”

I found myself smiling, but my thoughts quickly turned to worry when I heard a chord striking up of the first melody in a tune, and a jolt as I moved forward on the horse. His hands pressed tighter over my eyes.

The lullaby continued hauntingly, and I felt the ride move smoother, the horse going up and down slowly at first.

And then I heard it…



I felt my jaw drop and my heart quicken. The carousel hadn’t been used in years. How could it just strike up and start again?

I twisted against the hand shielding my vision, and the boy cursed softly as I broke away from him, tumbling against another horse and slumping to the floor.

“No!” he screamed wildly and I forced myself to stand.

The carousel was indeed working, the lights blaring boisterously and the music seeming to play louder and louder with each turn. From my view I could see the rest of the amusement park, I could hear the laughter from the children and adults alike, I could taste the salty popcorn in the air. I knew it was real, and yet…

I turned around and suddenly felt bile rise up my throat as I stared in horror at the boy in front of me. The only distinguishing feature left was his fairy-like hair, which dusted the top of his head with light strokes. His jaw line was mangled into a destructed slope, his tongue hanging loosely to the side, his nose a reminder of the flesh he once had now rotted and limp on his face. Worms crawled and thrashed about in his skin, gnawing at the flesh and sucking greedily on the bone. His eyes were empty sockets of disgust, boring holes of endless black, pulling me into a hypnotic trance. I screamed until he reached out and grabbed my throat, squeezing my vocal cords into a strangled silence. I kicked my feet at him but he held me strong, laughing a choked laugh. “You should’ve listened to the old lady. That fortune teller bag had it right. The dead want to dine on human flesh tonight.” He reached out with his other hand and grabbed my wrist pulling my fingers up to his mouth. He slipped each one into his disfigured mouth, sucking on them pointedly then letting them fall out of his lips.

I stared fixatedly in horror at this display, not knowing what to do but struggle, and even then his grip tightened.



He glanced up into the air, as he could smell what I smelled; rotting flesh. He sneered and cursed under his breath. He shouted, though not at me, “She’s mine! She’s mine!”

I felt a cold wind rush at my back and I shivered, knowing nearly immediately that there had to be more of them…more of him. That’s when the boy started screaming, his voice echoing and making the carousel’s melody screech out in distaste.

And still the carousel spun in a deathly whirl.

I shut my eyes against his voice, against his smell, against his touch, against his taste, against the lights, the blurring trees and people in the distance, and the look of his decomposing body.



And I was back in the purple and silver tent, of the fortune teller, with beads strung around her neck, a playful smile on her crooked face, “I warned you,” was her cry, full of crow’s calls and tortured screams.

I recoiled and ran, hearing the haunting sound of the carousel, and his screaming all the way home.