The Fool and His Only Desire
The old man had had several lovers over the years, but none of which had he ever had to write letters for. And for that matter, none of his previous lovers failed to show any affection like this one did. Letter after letter he sent to this woman, but he never received one from her. It was difficult to write because he had arthritis in his hands.
All the old man knew was that love was all that mattered, and it was love that occupied his mind for he loved many women and many things. He loved probably until his death which hid and snickered at him in the dark corners of his little bedroom on the third story of the building.
Surrounding his little bedroom were other little bedrooms full of the elderly, just like him. And every once in a while, one of the elderly in one of the little bedrooms disappeared to be replaced by another.
The old man wrote letters to his unresponsive sweetheart because that was all he knew to do.
After two months of writing his letters, the old man received a letter from his sweetheart. It wrote: "Fight for me. M." That was all it said. And so he did. The old man fought for M. But he was tired. He had been tired for a long time. His hands hurt. Looking down on his writing desk, the skin on the old man's face drooped as if it was severely-pulled taffy. It looked as if his face might fall off of his head at any moment. But he continued to write. He kept her letter next to his writing paper.
Occasionally, other letters came for the old man from M. One wrote: "Try harder. M." Another said: "Love me. M." And yet another: "Love me more. M." And that was all they would say, and the old man grew ever more tired.
It was a summer afternoon, a month later, when another letter came from M. It wrote: "I'm outside. Jump for me. M." The old man opened his window and looked down to the expanse of grass that stretched out from all around the base of the building. Since his eyesight was not what it used to be, he was not able to see if anyone was down there waiting for him. He sighed.
It was not long until someone discovered that the old man had disappeared. His window was open, but also his writing paper and pencil were gone. So was the letter from M.
None knew if his tired love was enough. However, those who have gone have no use for paper, pencil, and a letter from their sweetheart.
The old man's little bedroom was later occupied by a sweet old lady who owned a cat who liked eating fruit, especially apples.
~Third Degree~
Sitting here
Drinking alone
Should be out but
Fuck! I’m at home
Been feeling ugly
Sick and used
Definitely reckless
Going on a
Short fuse
Got caught
Off guard
My dumb ass
Mind blown
Turn in my
Human card
Become a clone
Or I’ll become
A fuckin Zombie
Or better yet
Slit my wrists
So after you take
Everything else
I’ll still have
Something to give
Bleed me dry
Within your
Twisted cry
Feels like I only
Vaguely exist
Take away my
Will to live
Take for granted
All that I give
Burn my skin
Third degree
Strike me down
So I cannot plea
Keep me low
So I cannot comply
Remain consistent
Each time you lie
Allow me to suffer
For your sins
Let me see life
And where it
All ends
Give me a
6 foot blanket
Of dirt
So you’re not
Obligated to overexert
Or even
Wrinkle your skirt
Strike
Down
My
Misery
Oh sweet
Dealer of
Blaspheme
Daniel
Jacob
Dabney
And My Fucked Up Mind
It’s happened again
The greatest deception the devil ever pulled
was to convince people he didn't exist.
One glance in Jacques icy stare will prove otherwise. His stone cold glare. His frosty hands, are desirous for work. He has patience does his homework on you. Meticulous by nature. He knows your habits your routine. He watches you while you sleep. As he grabs a handful of your hair and drags you down the hall. Shoots with his own concoction you lie immobilized. Awake enough to know what's about to happen. You smell his brimstone breath as he inspects your scalp. Lovely he mutters just lovely. His axe and begins its work. Shaves your hair for his collection. Ties it with a pink ribbon. Making fast work of your frame. Blood trickles under the door. So do you still believe there's no devil? If you ever feel a wintry chill run down your spine dear reader, and a brush of your hair, while your laying in your bed all safe and warm. Know that Jacque is close axe at the ready.
《! ¤!Bury! !Us!¤ !》
I’ll be damned
Uncle Sam
Take more of my check
As you bump
Up the cost
In our land
Please try to
Help me understand
Why do your
Minions get rich
Yet this disabled
Old man
Is picking up
Empty cans
In a ditch?
Safe to say
Social Security
Doesn’t cover his bills
Or help at all
With his misery
And oh
Did I mention
He’s a veteran?
That step that he’s
Missing is a limp
From defending
A country
Depending
On this man
With a gun
On a ship
Pay attention
You pile of fuck
Worried about your
Gold
We have little children
That
Sleep outside
In the cold
You’re setting
Our youth up
To turn and unfold
This shit is serious
And I am curious
As you
Bury us
Bury us
Does it occur to you
Time will build
A new population
A new world creation
A filled generation
Set To burn down
Our Nation
We are delirious
and furious
And you
Bury us
Bury us!
It will happen
When time
Makes the call
The sun will set
In chaos and
Your reign of
Greed shall fall
Daniel
J. 06-17-16
Dabney
And
My
Fucked
Up
Mind
Knock Knock
It was three in the morning. Moonlight filtered in through the window, casting shadows across the kitchen. The floorboards creaked as Marianna entered the room, and Peter jerked awake.
Marianna grinned. "I take it you haven't found anything either?"
Peter stretched and yawned. "As usual, not so much."
"Neil and Jonathan took the basement. Want to see what they're up to?"
Peter grabbed his camera and straightened his baseball cap. "Yes, I suppose we need to make sure they weren't eaten. Safety and all that."
They walked into the living room, then paused. Faint voices seemed to be coming from the floor. Marianna motioned toward a vent on the floor, and Peter put his ear on it.
"Is there anyone here? Do you have anything to say to us?" Peter recognized Jonathan's voice. Impulsively, he knocked on the floor.
"Wait, did you hear that?" asked Neil loudly.
Jonathan said, "Is there someone here? Two knocks mean yes. One means no."
Peter hit the floor twice. Marianna covered her mouth so she wouldn't laugh.
The next round of speech was faint; neither Peter nor Marianna could tell who was talking. "That was two." "I can count, thank you!" "Who do you think it was?" "Pipe down so we can ask."
Finally Neil said, "Are you someone who lived here?" Two knocks. "Can you appear? Show us a sign?"
Peter looked up, and Marianna shook her head. One knock. Then she grinned widely and started tap dancing.
"What's going on? Do you want something?" Marianna stopped dancing and hit the floor twice. "What do you want?"
Marianna and Peter met each other's eyes and smiled with immediate comprehension. Peter turned to the vent and shouted in a deep voice, "GET OUT!" They silently moved toward the door of the living room, enjoying the shouts and screams coming from below.
Neil and Jonathan burst through the basement door. Marianna and Peter walked up to them. Marianna asked, "What's going on? We heard shouting."
Jonathan replied, "We need to leave! Now! Grab your stuff and go!" Then he and Neil ran for the front door.
Marianna and Peter waited for them to leave, then burst out laughing. Finally Peter asked, "So when do you want to tell them?"
"How about two weeks from never?"
And for the rest of their careers, Jonathan and Neil would never go near that house.
