And here I am sitting in the park. At the picnic table I wrote our names in. Why did I wrote our names here ? Remember how you used to FaceTime me and I hated when you sat at that picnic table cause I would lose connection with you. Yeah it was a good memory. But now we're at that state. In life. We have a bad connection. I can't hear you. You can't hear me. And I'm crying out in that void of poor connection begging for you to see me. To hear me cause I'm not done talking. I have lot more to say.

Since the world moved on, men sometimes found themselves needing to be moved.

One such man moved no more.

What passed as whiskey slid from the dirty glass and down the throat of the saloon's newest patron. He placed his still-warm revolver on the scarred wood of the table and he grimaced at the blank expressions looking back at him. Relaxing in his chair, he stared at his audience.

A few lanterns hung from hooks above the tables, and the firelight from the hearth cast what should have been a warm glow across the room. The smells of a spicy stew, the sour scent of homebrew, and the coppery crimson odor of violence all mixed to create an altogether unwelcoming atmosphere.

His gaze swept across every man and woman in the bar, and each pair of eyes turned away from his own. One girl even made the sign of the cross, and he could hear the whispered prayer to the Manjesus.

Silence, except for the crackle of logs from across the saloon, was the only other sound.

He spoke softly.

“I’ve done what I came here to do. This man did what he came here to do.”

With that, he kicked the corpse on the floor.

“The killing is done, and you’re better for it."

The air was still.

"I’ll soon be leaving.”

A lone voice, barely more than a whisper, responded: “Thankee-sai.”

Stony faces and sad eyes turned away from the Gunslinger, and he poured himself another drink.

His hand almost didn’t shake when he reloaded his Big Iron, but no one seemed to notice.

He thought it would get easier, but the weight of every soul he sent on still threatened to crush him down more firmly to this earth, even as it spun beneath him.

It was an odd thing, that.

Even as he felt pressed, even as he felt held down by each drop of blood he shed, he knew that the world was moving on, but he wasn’t.

He was being held in place, frozen in a time the world had left behind.

The Gunslinger left a silver coin on the table when he finished the bottle.

Calmly, he walked out into the night, continuing pursuit of the man in black.

When I was younger

I thought

I was born too late

I believed

That I should have been born earlier

I was embarrassed

Embarrassed about my age

As if I was born into a world

That had long since

Passed me by

I was nostalgic

for a time I never knew

Now that I have gotten older

I no longer feel embarrassed

No

Instead part of me feels sad

Because part of me

Can’t help but feel

That I was born too early

Confused?

So am I

I guess

That this is my life

To always feel

Like I’m in the wrong time

In the wrong world

As if there is a world

In which I do belong

But I have missed it

Maybe in another life

I will find it

For now though,

Life continues

A Product of the 80s.

Heavily Influenced

By the Music

& Art of that Era.

Glenn Danzig,

Blackie Lawless,

& Doro Pesch.

My First

& Finest Friends

were Books.

E.R. Burroughs,

H.P. Lovecraft,

R.E. Howard,

& Michael Moorcock.

Not to Mention

Gor

& Dimension X.

Not just the Words

of These Great

Artists,

but the Covers

by Frazetta

& Whelan.

The Savage

Sword

of Conan,

Berzerker,

Heavy Metal

& Weird Tales.

My Sites

Name

Ink&Iron

Heroic

Fantasy

Is a Homage

to the Sword

Saint:

Miyamoto Musashi.

Interests

Other than

Above

Plow/Ox/Roof/Fool

Western Sword Play,

Swimming,

Weights,

Isometrics,

Breathing,

Walking,

Meditation

& the Dream

of Writing. 

Die For me

-

Do Machines Dream,

I Only Know

my Sex Machine

Died For me.

I Know

Who Writes

About Such a Sick Thing;

a Sex Machine,

a Vat Grown Organic:

She.

I Did Not Invent

The Technology,

But I Did

Pervert It

to My Own Need.

Why you Ask;

Simple,

Loyalty.

They Would Die

or Suicide

Before They Gave Up

On me.

I Kept 5

I Wanted 10.

Only One;

Gemini

Was Better

Than the Rest,

One I Intended To

Put To the Test.

To Afford This Lavish Life Style,

to Afford my Pets;

I Did Things,

Things

Some People

Would Regret.

Mainly

I Killed;

Poison, Gun, or Knife;

That Was the Road

I Stood.

She Would End Up

Giving Her Life;

She Who Was Like a Twin,

Like a Second Skin;

Who Could Have Been a Wife.

Will She Be the Same

When She Down Loads

To Night.

#B27321

Rejection; Depression

-

Rejection

a Word

I Know

All too Well,

a Word

That Has Burned a Hole;

Marked my Soul.

Driven me To be a Lone.

Never to Know Home,

to Own Nothing,

But Scars I Can Not Hide;

That Multiply

With Each Passing Day.

They Weigh One After Another;

Suffer.

That Is the Bread I Break,

the Ache

of Never a Praise

or a Raise

to Lift me a Moment

From my Torment.

my Eyes Search

For Why

This Has to Be my Fate

& May Be

I Cry

Just a Little

When I Remember

It Is Too Late,

To Begin a New;

to Bloom.

So I Huddle In my Covers

& Dream Dreams of Death.

For I Have Not the Courage Yet,

to Die;

Sublime

& In my Mind

I Find

Depression At Its Best,

a Laughing Joke,

Another Poke;

That I am Neither a Live or Dead

Just Shambling Through

One More Room

In This Tomb

I Call Life

& I Wonder To my Self

Could This Be a Test;

Then I Smile;

Liar.

Don’t Bother Trying

It Will End

Just Like the Rest.

So Don’t Sit & Fret.

It Can’t Be Met,

Perhaps It’s Time

to Rile Up

the Demons In your Breast;

To Summon Up

All the Angst & Hate

& Serve Them Up a Bitter Plate

Rife With Gun & Knife.

So They May Share

the Loss That Is my Life.

These Are the Things

That Swirl Through my Brain,

That Drive me InSane;

Red,

Raw,

Murder.

Shall I Take your Hand

ForSake This Land

or Am I too Weak,

Another Loss I Think.

Another Rejection

to Add to my List of Depression,

a Debilitating Disease

That Will Have you On your Knees.

Not Good For a Thing

That Is How It Has me

With Out

Hope

#B27321

-

WordPress:

https://inkandironheroicfantasy.wordpress.com/

-

FaceBook:

https://www.facebook.com/InkandIronHeroicFantasy

-

Twitter:

https://twitter.com/B27321

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

A quiet end, when all is said and done

I watch the end approach without much fear

A rapid end without a sound to hear

The last of boredom and the end of fun

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

This is the end of all that we hold dear

An end to everything and everyone

I watch the end approach without much fear

Now at the end, my conscience will be clear

The light will end as darkness takes the sun

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

We had no clue, the end came from the rear

Now from that end there is no place to run

I watch the end approach without much fear

At least it means an end to all the tears

Time flies away, the last end has begun

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

I watch the end approach without much fear

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

** I was wondering what those last 8 minutes might be like if our sun went supernova. I'd hope I could face the end with dignity, but there really wouldn't be enough time for much else, and there could be worse things to go out with than a villanelle...

When you came

Like the welcome breeze in Summer

When you came and spread your warmth and happiness

Into my life

When you came

Like a lion, full of courage

When you came

Like fire, and consumed me

I realised what I had been searching for

The sky was no longer a dead end

The road dust no more

And I not alone

You made you world like your words;

Sweet colours painting pretty pictures

You made the world like your mind;

A mystery, a brief delicacy

You were the door left ajar

To some unseen world.

When you came

I knew you would be my

Last line in this brave romance.

The flickering sign makes me nervous. “The Razor Blade.”

Is that supposed to be a joke? I stand for a moment contemplating the answer and chew on my bottom lip. Besides the random glow of the sign, the alley around me is still. A minute or two passes and I realize I’m stalling. They aren’t paying me by the hour.

I check the glock tucked into the front of my belt — just for the comfort of it— take one last look at the shit for bulbs sign, and walk toward the door.

It’s a simple door made of metal. Steel would be my guess. A typical knock would smart a bit, so I pound three times with the flat of my fist. Then I count to five and pound once more, just like they told me. The door scrapes forward and I back up a step to give it room. A nice looking young man in a black suit stands in the threshold, a dim light from behind accents his frame.

“I’m here to see the goddess, “ I say.

“Welcome to the Razor Blade.” His voice is shaky and I assume he’s older than he looks. Much older. “We’ve been expecting you Mr. Cole.”

I nod and step inside.

“Continue forward.” He says.

I obey my greeters command and walk slowly down the hall in front of me, the steel door scrapes closed behind. Through the muted light I can see the hall is long. A dank, wet odor hangs in my nose. With each step, I’m aware of the soft slap of my shoes, suggesting there’s a small bit of water on the concrete floor. The air feels moist on my face and neck.

At the end of the hall I come upon another door; this one also steel, but with a small circular mirror centered at eye level. Etched along its edge, a snake wrapped around, devouring its own tale.

I looked at myself. Even in the half-light, the dark bags under my eyes and the crows-feet portray a tired, aging man. My skin is rough and the scar on my right cheek is a little more jagged than I remembered.

“Do you wish to make the imperfect, perfect?” a voice speaks from behind the door. How it traveled through the steel I do not know.

I continue with the little entrance exam, just like they told me to. “Yes. Yes, I wish for you to cut… me.”

I think of the glock tucked in my belt, but in this moment it’s not comforting. This is some creepy shit.

“Are you sure, Mr. Cole?”

“Yes I am sure. I wish for you to cut me.”

“Then come in.”

The door clicks. I wait a moment, expecting it to swing open like before, but instead a handle emerges center right. I’m in. I take a deep breath, then grab the handle and push open the door.

A warm inviting light fills my eyes and the memory of the hard dank hallway I had just passed through dissolves into the softest, plushest and perhaps largest room I have ever been in. Men and women of unimaginable beauty are spread about, some walking, some standing in groups talking, and some lounging in couches clustered around touch-screens with which they interact. Most are holding some sort of flask or bottle, occasionally sipping its contents.

“Welcome Mr. Cole,” a silk voice speaks next to me. I turn. “Welcome to The Razor Blade, or as we who have been cut call it, Day One.”

My eyes narrow and I swallow hard as I take in the woman standing before me: Green eyes of dirty jade are set in a red storm of shoulder length curls; a nose perfectly established in a sea of milky white blemish-free skin; slightly upturned lips full and glistening and gently parted with the tip of a sweet pink tongue; high cheek bones curved into a subtle firm chin; a neck flowing so gracefully downward, spilling between the soft rise of mostly covered breasts; nipples hiding playfully under thin white fabric, like two dark moons just beneath the clouds—

“Do you like what you see, Mr. Cole?”

I bring my eyes up to hers. Damn they’re green. “Yes. Yes, I do. Like what I see.” I feel my cheeks flush red.

“Do not be embarrassed, Mr. Cole.” She and her lips are suddenly an inch from my face. “It is human to be”—I do not know how she moved in so quickly, her hand is on my crotch now—“moved by perfection.” She’s right, I’m moved.

And then she’s behind me and the cold barrel of my glock is pressing against my temple. She whispers into my ear, “You’re fucked, Detective Grant.” I swallow again, harder this time. “Yes. We know who you really are. But after we cut you,” the puma shifts to my other ear, “we will be the only ones.”

..............................................................................................................................

Celluloid scenes soak in water. People at a party. A wedding. No a bar mitzvah. I’m straining to make out their faces. The water is red. Is it water? There is a boy-man. He is clearly the subject of the photograph and he is dancing and smiling. I know that boy. The red water is bleeding into the scene. I thrust my hands into the bowl, grabbing, but the picture is no more. I observe my hands. They are stained.

I’m at a sink, washing, scrubbing. The red will not come out. The tips of my fingers sting, then throb. Are my hands bleeding? That is not my blood. I see finger nails circling the drain and disappear down the hole. “No! No, those are mine!” I yell.

I now stand at a full body mirror. But that is not my body. There is no face. Just… a smudge, like the end of a wet eraser rubbing away pencil on paper. It’s tearing a hole. There is nothing underneath. “Donavan.” I hear my voice. It’s a whisper. I spin but see no one. “Donavan, I’m here.” I turn and see Amber in the mirror. She staggers. “Oh Donny. Where did you go?” She’s reaching for my cheek but it is not there.

I am mirror. I am falling. I know what is coming and submit to impact.

I am a thousand shards. Divided unevenly. I feel the heat of the sun. I am pieces and I am melting.

I am whole again, but formless, being passed from gloved hands to gloved hands. No, stolen. Someone is stealing me. Pressure cups me. I am subtracted from myself again.

And again.

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

nAd.gaani

a.dnaiAn

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a.dnaiAn

nAd.gaani

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

And again.

I am thinking of my children. I am thinking of their mother and the story she will tell them. The way she always makes me heroic, even in my betrayal. I think of the way they see through her fabrications. I think of their questions. Of their tears. Of their ache. Of my absence.

If this is not death I am ready to die. But they won’t let me. I see them as they remove my eyes. The final nip and tuck of their thievery.

I will wake. I know there is no choice in this matter. It will come. There better be a bar near by. 

It was both beautiful and terrible, floating between the lines of haunt and mystery. The peeling yellow paint of the church, grimy and faded with time, towered over the otherwise flat horizon. The bleak edges of the sky seemed to hover, watching with an all-seeing gaze, unescapable from the occupants of the town.

Most of the townsfolk avoided the place, which made it Sydney’s perfect hideaway. The inside of the chapel was cold and musty, abandon except for Sunday Mass. Even on Sunday’s, most made their weekly excuses – work to catch up on, places to be – anything to avoid the creepy old church. 

When the weather turned sunnier, the ten-year-old adored visiting the building’s graveyards. It was an atypical place: over-gown with flowers and wildlife, wrapping around headstones like an attempt to pull the names engraved back into the earth. Huge trees overlooked the yards, Spanish moss dangling like dismembered skeletons above the  sleeping souls. Every so often, black benches emerged, inviting loved ones to sit and stay and speak with the dead.

They whole place looked like it was disintegrating, turning wild and chaotic, falling apart. Entropy, her mind supplied her. The graveyard was falling into entropy.

The birds seemed quieter here; the bugs seemed to buzz in hushed unison, privy to some secret humans didn’t share. Something about the ground seemed sacred – lineal, holding a contained power between the lines of life and death.

Sydney felt close to the people here. Like she could hear their presence watching her, but couldn’t quite meet their gazes. She liked to wander, reading names and phrases and imagining who these people were before the world consumed them.

John and Linda Lippit. September 1748. Lovely and pleasant and in their lives, together.

It was a pretty thought. The headstone was embedded into the side of a tree-trunk, and it was hard to tell where the bark ended and the grave began. Maybe they’d met in this very church, so many years ago, when the yellow paint was shining and the graveyard was well-kept and new. That was another pretty thought.

The sun was beginning to descend, but Sydney wasn’t yet ready to leave. Deeper inside she walked, stumbling upon sections unfound before.

She came to single tombstone, so worn the words could no longer be made out, cracked down the center with a single punctured hole, like the occupant had clawed its out and back to civilization. Like an attempt to flee from death she imagined. She continued forward.

Her favorite flowers were the roses, red and inviting, somehow growing – as if by magic – throughout the entire year. They never seemed to wither, in all of Sydney’s visits. No. They were a fixture here, as much as the church or the gates or the century old graves.

That was the grave keeper’s single rule: do not pick the roses. Sydney never understood why the man was so set on enforcing the policy, but had up to this point followed it anyways. After-all, that guy was scary, domineering in stature with mean, cold eyes, always watching. Besides, she didn’t want to risk getting kicked out of her favorite place in the world.

For the first time, though, as she looked at the fantastically red flowers, she was tempted to take one. Maybe the grave-keeper had left the property. The sky was turning ashy, as the last vestiges of light faded into darkness.

It was past Sydney’s curfew, but the orphanage was unlikely to notice her absence. They hardly noticed her while she was there.

She seemed to be the only one in the yards. The church lights were off. Maybe she could stay the night, with the grounds entirely to herself. Suddenly, she grinned.

She had the whole place to herself…She could do whatever she liked! She could have a tea-party or a fairytale ball or – Oh! A wedding, she was going to put on a wedding!

It would be for the Lippit’s, she decided, and it would be a wonderful affair. The engagement rings were to be looped from wild grass; gravel rocks would line the church aisle. As for the guests –

She glanced at the roses. Taking a few surely wouldn’t be a problem?

There were hundreds, across the large yards. One here, one there. No one would notice.

Decided, she began to uproot her flower-guests. She hadn’t noticed the thorns, at first, scratching through her palm just deep enough to draw out a few drops of blood. Trying to ignore the sting, Sydney finished picking the flowers.

One done, she walked inside the church, carefully setting each rose down across the pews. She picked the last three roses and lay them on the altar – those would be Mr. and Mrs. Lippit, along the priest who would marry them. With all in order, the wedding could start.

Sydney turned to face the audience. She could see them there, sitting where she had placed each rose. Clearly as day. Almost like they were real. There was a short, squat man with eyes bugging out of his overly large glasses, a little old lady with grey hair tightly wrapped into a bun. There were a few kids like her, feet too short to reach the floor from the pew.

She looked back at the front. Three people stood – a man in black and woman in white – in front the priest. They looked astounded.

A shocked silence overtook the hall. Then, like a dam, the it broke – everything seemed to happed at once. A joyous scream, while the Lippit’s violently smashed their lips into the other. Children laughing, guests crying and bursting into conversation and the lights were shining so so bright –

And before she knew what was happening, Sydney felt herself being lifted on top of the crowd carried back into the graveyards. She felt like royalty. It was awesome.

“Free!” Shouted an old man in tatty clothes, “We’re finally free!” The other people were just as verbal in appreciation.

“thank you, thank you, thank you thankyougoodchildthankyou –“ a thirty or so women kept repeating like a broken recording.

“What did you say your name was –” one of the young guests asked. “Sydney,” she replied. Then they were all chanting her name - Sydney! Sydney! Sydney! – and she was on top of the world. This was her best fantasy yet.

She could hear music, in the distance – a wondrous sound like the call of whispering dreams. The crowd put her down, and everyone was dancing, laughing, smiling. Everyone was happy. Sydney joined in dancing, too.

It was all good fun, but after as time ticked later into the night, Sydney felt her eyes beginning to droop. It was getting late, she was tired, and it was past her bedtime. Yeah, she would collect the roses to avoid trouble, and then she could home and to bed. 

She circled the crowd, who seemed to stay enthralled with the music. No roses on the ground. None in the church. She looked up, puzzled, until she noticed. All the guests were holding a stem – not a single red rose left unattended. She would have to ask the party-goers for them back.

She walked up to a little blond girl, first. “Excuse me –” she started, but the youth was already running, fast and far away. Oh, well, she thought. On-to to the next person.

She went around asking, tried to explain the situation – she didn’t mean to interrupt, please, could they hand those flowers back – but people kept giving her nasty looks, clinging even tighter to the petals. No one would give her them back. Sydney didn’t want to get into trouble – she just needed them so she could go to sleep in peace. Why couldn’t they understand that?

Frustrated, her eyes watered. She sat on one of the black benches and began to cry. Eventually, the priest noticed. He walked over slowly, stopping at metal bench beside her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it. 

The sky had fully descended into darkness - Sydney could see the patterns of stars in it. There was one spot where three stars fell in straight line - that was Orion's belt. She remembered reading about it, in a tattered book at orphanage.

Eventually, the aging man broke the silence. “I’m sorry” he started, leaning forward like he was deciding whether to sit down. “Poor kid.”

The crowd continued to dance around decaying graves, holding onto their roses and avoiding ones still rooted in the ground.

“I just want to go home,” Sydney sniffed. The elder man seemed to take that as a que to join her on the bench. He looked tired, under the damp lamplight of the grounds. Like he could fall asleep at any second.

Instead, his eyes opened wider, piercing into her own. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like the words would make a difference.

Sydney could see the church gate, and as time passed she began considering just leaving without the roses. She’d get yelled at in the morning, most likely. She’d probably be banned from the premise. That would suck. Staying here would suck more. She stood and turned toward the exit.

The priest attempted to say something. Sydney didn’t hear it. She paced toward the gate – but the farther she walked, the farther the gate seemed to get. It was the strangest thing; like the path to leave had elongated. Anxious, she quickened her pace, continuing to walk and walk. Minutes passed, and she wasn’t getting any closer to leaving.

Sydney felt her palms begin to shake, as a bead of sweat dripped from her forehead. Panicked now, she took off sprinting – running as fast as her legs could carry her toward the exit – trying to make her way farther and farther, but the gate was getting farther too and what was going on? Her feet felt like they were sinking in piles of sand and the wind picked up, blowing harshly against her, keeping her stuck in place. Frustrated, she stopped to let out a scream.

Her lungs pounded, and her breath came heavy through her chest. She noticed the sky beginning to lighten. Hours had passed in no time at all. 

Sydney heard someone shouting, “Sunrise! Sunrise is coming!”

She turned toward the voice, realizing with a jolt that the occupants of her once dreamed wedding still stood in the yards. The music had stopped, and no one left was dancing. In fact, they seemed to be making their way toward the exit, still holding her roses.

The little girl watched, half curious and half terrified, but no one leaving seemed to face her struggle. They left like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. Why couldn’t she leave too?

She attempted to grab one of the almost glowing red roses still rooted in the ground beside her, thinking maybe that was the key. All the guests had left with one in hand. The rose burned as she tried to touch it, and with a yelp, Sydney drew her hand back.

The graveyard was almost empty now. The people continued to exit, until only Sydney and the priest remained. He’d been waiting in line with the rest of them, the last person to depart.

With a final glance, she heard his whisper. “I’m sorry.” Only, he didn’t appear to be looking at her. She followed his line of sight toward the Lippit’s grave. Except, it no longer spelled their names. She approached the tree entwined headstone, until with a sense dread, she could read the new engraving.

Sydney Morrison, September 1748. Lovely and pleasant in her short life.

Oh God. What had she done?

an art installation piece about wanting you dead.

a study of the human condition.

a person, a problem, a prom dress:

i’m a real funny girl.

i’m a dumb fucking bitch.

i just know it all, don’t i?

sometimes i don’t have a lick of sense, do i?

sometimes the world asks itself and me, you know,

“do yew got fuckin rawks in yer head?′

i’m an ugly truth putting on lipstick in the bathroom mirror.

i’m a savage world and the civilized bands want me dead.

i ask a question and the answer is, “none of yer damn business; that’s what.”

“sit down.”

“shut up.”

“take a number.”

“order when you’re ready.”

i’m never ready.