the rat

was on

the bus

tonight

jumped for

my throat

and vanished.

amidst the

weight

of light

i watch

the rat

with your

brown eyes,

circling me,

stalking me,

with the guise

of an

innocent smile.

March 5, 1978

October 13, 2016

Writers are beautiful people. We are truly wonderful. I believe that with my whole heart.

My problem, though, is that to be a writer you have to want. You have to want things so badly; things you cannot have, things you cannot see. You must want to be invincible, want to be heard, yearn constantly.

Sometimes it's hard to want. Sometimes I get tired of wanting and I want to just be. Existing isn't enough to write about. Maybe wanting is what makes us human.

I feel nothing anymore. Am I still human? Am I still a writer?

       I looked down at my phone as I checked the house number to make sure I had the right house, it was a Friday night and I had been requested by many other neighbors for babysitting, so tonight I was going to be taking care of the Collin’s young son, Gabe. He was an only child and at 7 years old, this seemed like an easy job to say the least. Knocking on the door, I waited for the sound of footsteps approaching from the other side. It was 5:50PM, ten minutes earlier than they had asked me to come, after all, I had a reputation for coming ten to fifteen minutes early to babysitting. I always liked to come early so that I could meet the parents, give a good first impression, and to get any instructions from the parents about the kid.

       The loud clacking of heels could be heard as the mother, Mrs. Whitman, came to the door, I smiled brightly at the red haired woman that opened the door, the woman smiled back at me, her red lipstick outlining her white smile as her deep purple dress fit well along her curvy frame, she was a few inches taller than me, but seemed even taller with her 4 inch black high heels.

       “Hey, Caroline! Come on in.”

       “Hey! Thanks.”

I replied before walking into the house as she held the door open for me, closing and locking it behind me.

       “You’re early.”

Mrs. Collins said with a surprised tone as she walked from the foyer to the living room, where I met Mr. Collins that had dark brown hair that had parts of white through the spiked-gelled hair, his thin frame was fitted well in his casual suit. Gabe was watching TV while we talked for a bit, Gabe had his father’s brown hair and his mother’s deep chocolate brown eyes, he still had some of his baby fat in his cheeks and stomach, his skin was tanned so he seemed like an outdoorsy kid just from looking at him. After they left, Gabe and I watched TV for an hour before we went upstairs to the game room. It was painfully obvious that Gabe was spoiled by his parents with just one glance at the game room. Three guitars stood on their stands - one electric, one acoustic, and one paper guitar hero ones - along with a toy microphone and stand, a real microphone with a small speaker to attach to your waist, two amps - one real and one for the guitar hero paper guitar - a miniature air hockey table, a white board stand, a small couch, a huge chest in the corner overflowing with toy guns, swords, and a shield. Over a hundred different movies filled the shelves on the back wall, and countless more toys were piled on the counter, in the large cabinets, piled on the air hockey table, shoved to the edges of the room, and strewn about the carpeted floor.

       We played several games of pretend for the next two hours till I finally said that we should watch a movie instead. While I was in the kitchen making the popcorn for us, I heard the sound of a door opening, but I could tell by the sound of a lock and the sound of outside air rushing in that Gabe wasn’t just going to the bathroom. I stopped the microwave so I could hear any sounds easier.

       “Gabe?”

I called out nervously, my more paranoid nature coming into play as I reached over to the nearby knife block and pulled out a steak knife, the blade an easy six inches long.

       “Caroline, guess who I found?”

Gabe’s voice called back excitedly, then I realised the feeling of another presence in the house. My grip on the knife handle tightened as I took a deep breath to try and calm my fast-beating heart while adrenaline flooded into my veins. Two pairs of footsteps approached the kitchen, and a shot of fear pierced my heart as I saw who was holding Gabe’s hand, a smile on both of their faces. Crap…

       The almost six foot tall clown towered over Gabe and myself as he stood staring at me. The clown wore a mustard yellow costume that had small red circles decorating it and sagged matching mustard yellow triangle hat, the once fluorescent colors were now long faded and the dingy material was now worn and frayed. He wore old, black tennis shoes, a worn white collar, and white gloves. His bright red clown hair puffy around his head but far receded from his face. The rest of his face was painted a stark chalk white, blue triangles were painted above and below his eyes, and his face was also painted with a too-wide and happy red smile. The clown looked at me with his evil black eyes, his murderous gaze sent a shiver to run down my spine, my grip on the knife that I held behind my back tightened more.

       “G-Gabe, why did you let the clown in?”

I asked with a tight voice, my tone trying to be calm, but I stuttered slightly by mistake. My wide, grey eyes never moving away from the clown holding Gabe’s hand.

       “Because he wanted to play.”

Gabe said cheerfully as he somehow thought the clown beside him wanted to be his friend and wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. Even though I just wanted to scream at Gabe and run, I decided to go with a calmer approach, so I said in the calmest voice I could muster,

       “Okay, then why don’t we play Hide and Seek. Gabe let go of the clown and go hide, and don’t leave that spot till I come and find you.”

       “Okay!”

Gabe said with a grin and let go of the clown’s hand before running upstairs. Once he was out of sight, I pulled the knife out from behind my back to show the clown that I was not going to fall for anything.

       “If you think that I don’t know what you really mean by ‘play’ than you just met the wrong babysitter, creep,” 

I threatened as I glared at the clown, a look the clown returned.

       The clown didn’t say a word as I half expected a tumbleweed to roll between us. I blinked and the clown was in front of me, staring down at me with his painted smile. I jumped back in surprise and slashed at the clown, I felt the fabric of his costume tearing under the blade. When I took another step back again, I held the knife at the level of my chin, it was then that I noticed the small bit of red at the tip of the blade. Looking back up at the clown, there was a rip in the mustard yellow cloth at the middle of the clown’s torso, the mustard yellow cloth began to change color as bright crimson began present and crawling through the cloth as it got soaked up. I couldn’t help the smirk that spread across my face as I saw the blood, the clown looked down and looked at himself bleeding before he looked back up at me with no expression in his eyes. The glint of steel caught my eye as he took out a throwing knife and skillfully shot it at my head, my fast reflexes saved my life, but the knife still split a gash into my cheek - making me hiss in pain- as I ducked and lunged forward with my blade. The clown dodged and sent another knife at me, but I thankful rolled to the side in time to dodge the flying knife enough where only my left bicep got deeply cut, and sink my own weapon into the painted man’s calf. Using my momentum and the wound I inflicted, I made the clown lose his balance and fall down to the side, the knife pulled out of his flesh. My gut clenched in disgust as the loud crack of the clown’s head on the edge of the granite counter, splitting his skull and sending a burst of blood splattering over the floor and counter. Crawling on top of the unconscious clown, I raised crimson colored steak knife above my head before bringing the weapon down to impale it into the evil clown’s heart, making his death permanent. Leaving the murder weapon lodged in his chest, I stood up slowly as my adrenaline and heart beat slowed over the next several minutes before I finally noticed how much my wounds were bleeding as blood flowed down my neck from my sliced cheek and blood dripped from the tips of the finger of my left hand as I tried to wrap my head around the fact that I had just murdered someone...that I became a murderer tonight....

       “Hey aren’t you supposed to find-?”

Gabe asked as he appeared without me noticing as I was lost in thought. He stopped as his eyes went wide with fear as he took in the scene, tears started falling from his eyes.

       “Gabe-”

       “W-What h-happened? I-I-I thought e-everybody l-loves a c-clown.”

The young boy said, his voice becoming choked up and blubbery as he stood there, sobbing.

       “Well, you were wrong. Gabe, please just go back up to your room.”

I pleaded at the wet-cheeked boy, Gabe didn’t say a word as he just ran back upstairs sobbing heavily. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket I called 911, gave them everything they needed to know before slumping to the kitchen floor, leaning back against the adjacent wall of cabinets to the dead, evil clown, and closed my eyes as I waited for the sirens to come. Note to self: Next time I save a boy’s life, don't let him see the body.

October 10,

The line between cognizance and complacence is thinner than spider's silk. Yet, how strenuous it often seems, to lift a lazy finger and break it. Sometimes, our innermost voices are not the keys to escaping the complex cages we are so masterful at trapping ourselves in. Sometimes, our innermost voices remain, like us: merely the keeper.

Crafting memory in figments

Breathing melody to silence

Only the numb has felt

Just as the living's gift:

Gradual release to death

Her ivory and black striped hands

Flourish a cyclical dance

Trance, enrapture our eyes

Searching for the barest chance

Biding for cessation in rhythm

Binding thought to page

A brazen effort

To prolong each sifting day

We strike chords in ourselves

Wishing others do the same

Her eyes are spiral fissures

Watching words stealing whispers

Her body knows all but not

The grace of giving without pain

Still, she persists the same

Without violent release

Given to vicious tendency

We burst in defiant hues

Fighting a war we always lose

To age, to dagger, to noose

Her mechanical laughter

Shudders mirthless and empty

Inspires mockery in inaction

Degrading hope to hurt;

Our wisdom to dirt

Embracing all of nothing

Pushes her tremors deeper

Pushing awareness a distance

And love a leisure

To make us her keeper

We stop.

But her spark needs no second-start.

We stop.

Only to embody her art.

her lips, like roses,

fell away at the slightest touch,

cascading down her ivory neck

like a velveteen waterfall.

her lips bled the secrets

of her darkest hours,

but she was lovely,

in the purest sense of the word.

she meant all to me,

and I all to her.

but summer passion

in winter raindrops quells,

and she was gone again.

I don't want to talk.

I don't want to think.

I don't want you to ask if I'm okay.

Because I'm not.

I just want to lie with you.

I just want you to hold me.

Let me cry.

Let me be upset.

Let me deal with it on my own.

It isn't something you need to worry about.

Everytime you ask,

I'll just say,

"I'm fine"

But I'm not.

my gut fell through the floorboards as you closed the door to my apartment.

i thought about the spare key you gave back to me

the one you left sitting on my dresser.

i haven't touched it

nor do i want to.

you walked out for the last time

and i let you

how's that for progress?

i pushed away, pulled the thread. zippered like a 

hack job. butchered mass of knotted tissue and 

confused trails of blood splattered

all around. did i do this to myself?

am i somewhere unfamilar here? i can't

see anything, got my eyes locked behind some 

dark and heavy machinary. can i ask one 

question. did i live? i didn't mean to 

misunderstand how to stop myself.  guess i

got carried away with the sharper ends

against my skin. i was only tracing my

youth, hoping to preserve some sort of

shredded memory of who i am

before i pass on to the next place 

where i will be wasted space.  i was only

trying to save some time and cut myself out

of this picture before i ruined another page.

They never listened

Not once

Although I had answers

To the questions they asked

They didn't listen

A fading face

One you can never place

I'm the nobody

I don't speak

Why should I?

They never listen

Everyone's almost gone

Except for me

They should have asked

I would have said

Now they're fed

All the hungry beasts

With sharp, sharp teeth

All the people

Who never listened

Should have

Just this once,

They should have listened

To me

I'm the nobody

Not because I have nothing to say

But because no one listened

They didn't even know my name

In the end though, it was the same

Because no one will listen to a face without a name

Who's four feet under

I'm the nobody

You could have been nobody too

But you weren't

I'm nothing

There is nobody

I'm alone