I Was Attending Worden Alternative School
When the Grunge Scene Hit Full Swing.
Still Jamming to the Misfits & Glenn;
to Seasons …
& Cliff & the Anger At His Loss; Justice …
So Cobain & Chains & Even Garden Were No Maiden;
They Didn’t Even Make my List
Except For a Few Hits.
Just, the Echo of the Seattle Drug Scene;
the Cold Dirty Streets,
I Too Have Known the Grip of Addiction,
But my Oldest Friend
She Be Suicide.
She Came To me In a Darkened Room
While I Attended That Fucked Up School
Whispering In my Ear
Come With me
With Out a Care.
Contemplating What He Did Do,
the Marks On my Hide
Earned me Juvie Time
Not the Big House Yet
That Was Next.
It Was the Epiphany
That Life Had No Place For me.
She Did Not Lie.
Like Starving Rats In a Trap
How we Climb,
the Filthy, Clawing,
Beast That Is Man.
Some Say It Is Cowardice,
But Is It Not
the Biggest Leap of Faith
a Man May Make
to Flee His Rusty Cage
& Soar Free.
I Do Not Know
Nor Have Any Returned.
I Will Close This
With a Piece I Wrote
Concerning the Death
of Robert E. Howard.
I feel compelled to write today
It's more than just a whim
There is so much I have to say
To not would be a sin
Please let me find the words I need
Like flowers growing, not the weed
Please let me find
Please let me find
The life to focus in this seed
I feel compelled to write today
The troubles I must bear
To show others the path - the way
And not give them a scare
Such beauty I want to impart
I know I must make a good start
Such beauty I
Such beauty I
Wish to show from all of my heart
I feel compelled to write today
To grow the world anew
The words in gardens lush do lay
I'll show them all to you
For you have been the steadfast one
Who frolics and plays in the sun
For you have been
For you have been
The one I love, the only one
#poetry #love #words #TrijanRefrain
Now Is Probably The Wrong Time
Blood, warm and sticky, was everywhere in pools across the floor of the star ship's bridge. Some of them had bodies lying dead in them, while others were the result of dripping from the balcony opposite the bridge's main control panel.
In my arms, sixteen-year-old Shiloh Anderson was dying, blood spilling out of many gunshot wounds. Her beautiful brown eyes matched her long hair, and... well, all in all, she was the cutest girl I had ever seen.
Let me back up: Both Shiloh and I are sixteen, telepathic, and working in the telepathic special ops for the Alliance of Tohrra. Sounds cheesey, but it's amazing how much war changes things. Drastically, actually. In any case, the Alliance of Tohrra had been in hiding for a little while, regrouping for a major offensive into Federation-held space. However, the entire Alliance, and every world it stretched across, were currently in folded dimensions. Using Providence Drives, member nations of the Alliance could travel between the dimensions undetected and unknown to the Federation--whose knowledge of folded dimensions and inter-dimensional travel was very limited.
The bad news is that a Federation deep-space freighter had come across an Alliance warship wreck in space and had copied blueprints off of the mainframe. Shiloh and I, along with a few others, had been dispatched to secretly overtake the freighter, delete the contents of every computer on it, and completely destroy it if possible--the Federation could not acquire Providence Drive technology.
We had actually been doing pretty good--until Shiloh protected me, saved my life, and now was possibly at the end of her own. The sad thing was, we kinda had a thing for each other, but I guess neither of us found a way to tell the other how we felt.
Now was probably the wrong time. But she was dying, so...
She coughed, a wet, sticky kind of cough. She rolled to the side and coughed again, blood smattering across the floor, some of it on her face. It trickled out of her mouth, as she gasped for air.
Tears rolled down my face as I held her torso and head in my arms, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I stroked her hair gently, trying to comfort her while I sobbed myself. Warm, sticky blood was soaking me as I held Shiloh close, her bullet wounds causing her to bleed to death. Shiloh was sobbing too, but it was hard for her. She tried to swallow, but more blood came up her throat, and she gagged, trying not to choke.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to see the torment in front of me. I could hear her coughing again, that same wet, sick cough. I opened my eyes as I felt Shiloh's hand grasp mine, squeezing, not wanting to let go.
"I'm so scared," she managed through her sobs.
"Me too," I replied.
"I wish things had been... different," Shiloh choked. She turned away from me, squeezing tears out of her eyes and coughing again.
"So do I," I told her, wiping blood and tears off her face with my thumb, my hand on the side of her face.
She and I were both sobbing, our hearts shattering with overwhelming pain too much to bear.
"Please, don't die," I said, instantly feeling stupid for saying that, "I love you."
"I love you too, Jake," Shiloh returned.
"I wish I had told you that sooner," I sobbed, holding her close as her strength and life ebbed.
"Me too. If I had it to do all over again..."
"So would I," I finished her sentence.
Shiloh tried to speak several times, but could barely draw in a breath, like someone had knocked the wind out her as a cruel joke. She lurched once, then relaxed in my arms, her blood pooling beneath both of us, still oozing from her open mouth.
"I love you, Shiloh," I comforted, cradling her in my arms as her eyes slowly closed, and her last breath exhaled.
I was too much in shock to even move, other than to sob and cradle her lifeless body closer to me. She had always healed slower than the rest of us, me included; I guess being telepathic had its ups and downs, and this was definitely one of them. My healing factor was very high, so I could heal almost instantly. Shiloh's, on the other hand, was slow enough that bad injuries could take days to heal, and multiple gunshot wounds could kill her. If only she could heal like I could!
Wait a second... I thought, the wheels in my head turning, Wait a second!
Hoping and praying to God that Shiloh was still in there somewhere, I concentrated all my efforts, her limp body still cradled in my arms--I couldn't lose her. Within seconds, the pain I was feeling was intense, but I couldn't let go, not now.
Slowly, the bullet wounds returned, and Shiloh sucked in an enormous breath, coughing up blood one final time. Her eyes flickered and fluttered open as the world went dark around me. Her clothes and mine were still soaked in blood, some of it still on her shocked face as she looked up at me.
"You still look amazing," I smiled as I shut my eyes, exhausted, but relaxed and blissfully happy.
Shiloh gasped, and scooped me up in her arms as I fell unconscious. Now she'd have to hold me till help arrived, but that wasn't a bad thing...
The Boy and the Bathroom
The boy kept his head down, thin arms tightly crossed over his chest as he approached the gas station checkout and, in a small, hoarse voice, asked the attendant for the bathroom key. The attendant barely looked up, wordlessly handing him a large plastic shoehorn with a key dangling from the end of it. He clutched the greasy plastic handle and slipped out, walking with quick, furtive steps through the darkness toward the single unisex bathroom. The door and its cracked plastic sign were barely illuminated beneath a dingy, yellowish light, which had attracted dozens of clumsily cavorting moths. They made gentle, papery noises as they collided repeatedly with the filthy glass shade.
He stood woodenly beneath the light and the moths for a few heart-pounding moments. This was it. It. He'd never come here before, never dared. Somehow he always had a feeling he'd end up here, and the longer he stared at the dented door with the symbol on it, the more he wondered if he'd ever leave this place.
He fumbled for the key and slid it into the lock, carefully turning. He stepped inside, and let the door fall shut behind him. Fluorescent bulbs flickered inhospitably overhead. A graveyard of moths littered the inside of the fixture. He set the key with its absurd shoehorn attachment on the edge of the sink, and took a large step back, leaning against the wall. He looked around the tiny room, studying everything. The mirror was heavily spattered and smudged, and cracked in several places. There was graffiti scribbled all over the walls--names, phone numbers, swears, obscene drawings. On the floor just behind the nearly overflowing trash can was the pathetic, shriveled form of a used condom. He shuffled forward and leaned curiously over the trash can, not really knowing why. He poked one layer of crumpled paper towels aside, and there was a used needle lying there. Near it was a yellow Bic lighter, which he picked up, again not knowing why, and clutched in his hand. It felt mostly empty, but there were probably a few drops of fuel left in it.
Finally, he turned to face the toilet. The tank lid was cracked, one corner of it completely missing. Someone had stuck a used Band-Aid on the side. The plastic flusher handle was slightly discoloured, preserving the history of thousands of dirty hands touching it. The seat and inside of the bowl were in a similar state. It didn't look like something anyone who wasn't desperate or really out of it would use.
His mother had probably been both desperate and out of it when she'd come in here almost 15 years ago.
He blinked rapidly. At moments, it almost seemed as if he could see blood streaking the inside of the bowl and ribboning through the water.
What had she done with the umbilical cord and the other gross stuff that came out? Left it in the toilet? Thrown it in this trash can? Or had paramedics come to help her with that?
These thoughts and so many others whirled in his head as he stood there staring into the toilet water.
This was where everything had begun, and on some level, he'd always figured it would come full circle. There had been times, particularly after coming down from a high, that he'd thought about it directly--like, maybe if he could get a really big score, he'd bring it here, sit on this very toilet and shoot it all at once, go out with a bang and exit the same way he came in. This was what he was born to, and for--this shithole littered with used condoms and drug needles. This was his life. Was there really any chance he'd ever escape it? The moments he'd tried to enjoy his foster home just seemed stupid now. It was an idiotic pipe dream, the idea that he could ever claw his way out of this cycle. He was even craving heroin again, for the first time in months.
He stepped backward and felt his back connect with the wall. The strength seeped from his legs, and he sank down and curled up on the floor, tears finally beginning to break free. He didn't want to go back to that foster home, where a couple of strangers acted like they cared. He hadn't been ready to leave juvie, where he was surrounded by kids just like him, and every moment of his day was strictly controlled by someone in a uniform. He wasn't ready to step out into the world and come to terms with how pointless everything was, how futile any attempt to transcend what he'd come out of. He didn't want to be free. Freedom was the worst thing he could imagine right now. Freedom was like being five years old and lost in a place you'd never been before, where everyone is a stranger. Freedom was like being in a little boat in the middle of an ocean, with no land in sight. Freedom was that horrible feeling of stepping off a curb between awake and asleep, and for a split second being sure you're going to have a terrible fall.
The boy sobbed bitterly, clutching the Bic lighter tightly in his hand. He thought about using it--setting the trash can on fire. It would burn. There was enough dry paper. He could go down, taking this whole place with him. Or, at the very least, prove he was a bad boy who did bad things, so they didn't want to let him go free anymore.
He sniffled noisily, hiccuped, and looked down at the lighter, placing his thumb on the spark wheel.
Click... click... click....
After about ten tries, a little flame popped up. He stared at its refracted image through tear-blurred eyes.
There was a sharp knock on the door. Only now did he notice the faint flashes of blue-and-red filtering through the narrow crack at the bottom of the door.
"Open up, kiddo," said a deep, authoritative voice on the other side. "I know you're in there, now don't make me bust this door down."
The boy shivered and sobbed, the sound of the cop's voice cutting through his confusion and emotional overwhelm. The voice was familiar. He knew exactly who was there. The same cop who always seemed to know where he was. The same cop who'd turned everything upside down for him that one time, busted him and his mom and made sure he couldn't ever go home again. There was no real home anymore. There was only this room. It was his past, and his future.
His destiny, somehow.
As a dog returns to its vomit...
That phrase kept coming back to him. He wasn't sure where he'd picked it up, but it drifted around in his head, reluctant to leave, just as he was reluctant to leave this place.
He sobbed again and looked at the dented door as the knock sounded once more, louder this time. The entire door shuddered. The boy knew the cop wasn't kidding--he would bust it open. Put another dent in it.
Sniffling, the boy pushed himself up, wavering unsteadily for a moment. He threw the lighter back in the trash, and took a step toward the door just long enough to unlock it before he shrank back and sat on the floor again, curling up into a shivering ball of sobs.
The door swung open, and the boy heard the cop's heavy boots approach. He'd never cried in front of the cop before, and he was ready for the big man to just yank him to his feet and back to his cruiser. Maybe he could kick the guy a few times, try to take his gun. Assaulting a cop was a pretty big deal. That would get him back into juvie. But how could he assault a cop when he was crying his eyes out?
Instead of grabbing hold of him, the cop sat down next to him with a sigh. They were sort of shoulder-to-shoulder, but the boy had always been small for his age--his thin shoulder barely reached the man's bicep.
"Your foster parents are pretty worried about you," the cop said. His voice still carried authority, but it was a little softer than the voice he normally used. "What is this? You running away? You're too old for that shit, kid. They do something you don't like?"
The boy shrugged weakly. His breath hitched a few times. "I d-don't belong there," he sobbed.
"And you belong... where? Here?"
The cop's voice was skeptical, but the boy immediately nodded with enough vehemence to make himself a little dizzy. "Don't you see?" he burst out, his voice trembling even as he tried to shout, to be angry. He breathed through his mouth in shaky little huffs as he tried to calm down enough to speak a little more. "I've never come here before, but... now that I'm here... I know I belong here. This is me, the real me. When I was in that house with those... people... it was like I was trying to be someone else. I can't be someone else forever, can I? You can make me go with them again but I'll probably just come back here and I don't think I'm ever gonna leave!"
The boy wasn't sure he was making any sense. When the cop didn't reply for a while, he was sure he'd just been spouting gibberish. Then, the man spoke up again, his voice even softer now: "Hey--can I put my arm around you?"
The boy was taken aback at first. All sorts of defensive questions whirled through his mind: Why? What for? Are you a perv? Are you going to hurt me? Are you going to trick me? Why would you want to touch me? Instead of asking any of them, he replied in a vague mumble, "If you want, I guess."
The boy didn't usually let anyone touch him. He didn't know why he consented. Maybe just because the guy was a cop, and cops did what they wanted no matter what. He was even more confused as to why the strong arm that wrapped around his shoulders triggered a fresh flood of tears. He found himself leaning slightly into the cop, shaking with sobs. The man gave him a few minutes before speaking again.
"Why here, kiddo? Why is this who you are?"
The boy was too humiliated to reply at first. He waited until he could speak without his voice breaking. "This... this is where I was born. That toilet right there. Mom... didn't know she was pregnant. I just... fell right in. Sometimes I wake up cold... thinking I can actually remember it."
The cop's grip on him tightened a little. One big hand rubbed his back a little, up and down. The contact was strange and gave him odd feelings. The boy had experienced many touches in his short life, but not like this. Touches from an adult were controlling, punitive, painful, ugly. There were touches that pushed him out of the way, touches that yanked him back where he was supposed to be. There were touches that hurt and stung, that bruised, burned, and scarred. There were touches that made him feel gross, embarrassed, and wrong, touches that made him want to crawl into a dark hole and never come out.
This touch was different. When he allowed himself to relax into it, he gradually realized it was safe. It was comfort. Comfort was new, and disorienting.
The boy pressed a little closer, and sniffled. More words came that he didn't expect: "Maybe it's weird that I came here to see this place, knowing... but I've always felt it calling to me, kinda like the drugs. I don't want this life, but I feel like it's stuck to me. Like when someone writes on you with a Sharpie and it won't wash off."
The cop sighed. "Kid... what you came from doesn't have to be who you are," he said softly, but with conviction. "Believe me... if you knew what I came out of, you'd know. You don't have to forget this place, but if you choose to, you can walk out of here right now and never look back."
The boy opened his eyes and stared across the room at the toilet. Blue and red lights danced across its porcelain surface. He closed his eyes, and could still only see blood. "What if it doesn't let go? I thought about burning this place down. Just annihilating it for good."
"Mm-hm," the cop murmured, still rubbing his back slowly. "Arson's a pretty serious crime. You wanna go back to juvie?"
"Yeah," the boy admitted feebly. "Things were... easier there, somehow."
"Mm-hm. Now that you're out, you don't really know what direction you're going in. And if things go totally off the rails, you've got no one to blame now but yourself. Is that right?"
His face burned with embarrassment when he realized the older man could see right through him, especially when he scarcely understood his own behaviour or emotions. He made no response, but he knew his silence was answer enough.
"Kiddo... you're still so young. You don't have to have everything figured out, and you certainly don't have to let other people's mistakes dictate the rest of your life. This place has no power over you if you choose not to allow it. There are people who actually have your back in this broken world. People who want to give you a home, and a fresh start."
The boy sighed. "They don't really care. They'll dump me back into CPS's hands as soon as they realize how fucked up I am. I don't belong in their house. I don't know how to act around people who don't yell, and who eat meals at an actual table, and live in such a clean and quiet place. It's so fucking quiet, I can barely sleep! Everything smells nice... and I...."
The cop gave him a gentle squeeze as his voice broke. "Shhh," he soothed. "They care more than you realize. And you do belong. It'll just take some time to get over the culture shock. How about giving them another chance, hm?"
The boy looked up, blinking the blur of tears from his eyes so he could meet the man's gaze. "You really think they're like... for real?"
"For real," the man confirmed. "They know a lot about you--the good, the bad, and the ugly. And they still want to love you and be your parents. I think you'd be an idiot to throw this opportunity away just to prove to everyone that you're a bad kid. I don't think you're a bad kid, and neither do they. You've had a tough break in life, and now you're getting a leg up. I get that it's hard to trust in anything or anyone after what you've been through, but if you take a leap, I'm sure they won't let you down."
The boy was silent as he absorbed the words, and the warm contact. Was it possible? Was it really, actually possible?
After a few minutes, he allowed himself to be helped up, and guided toward the door of the foul little gas station bathroom that he'd thought was his destiny. Knuckling away the remains of his tears, he stood at the threshold and looked back. Dawn had risen while he'd been wallowing here, and soft, golden light now streamed through the doorway, washing away a little of the oppressive darkness within, as if to break a spell. He could still picture his mother here, could still picture the blood. But the image of himself here, with his heroin, ending things exactly where he'd begun, seemed more distant.
He stood up a little bit straighter as they walked away from that bathroom. He expected to be led toward the police cruiser, but instead the cop guided him in another direction. Now he could see the familiar white hatchback belonging to his foster parents, and next to it, the couple, who had been standing there waiting, with their arms around each other. They looked worn and haggard after a full night of worry and tears, but now they brightened significantly as they recognized him, and quickly approached.
The boy had never felt so embarrassed. He had no way to explain to them why he'd left, or why he'd come here. The things he'd said to the cop seemed like sacred things that couldn't be repeated. Those were words that perhaps needed to be left behind, in that bathroom. In his mind he could immolate all of it with that little yellow Bic lighter, removing that room and its sinister hold on him for good.
They reached for him, and for the first time, he went to them without flinching or questioning. He let them embrace him as he'd let the cop embrace him, and he was crying again. They were crying too. The scents of sweet vanilla, fabric softener, and aftershave surrounded him, and he decided that it was possible he could get used to this.
As the car left the gas station, he watched out the window, silently bidding it farewell. The farther they drove, the more he could feel himself shedding that place like an old skin, each sinister tentacle of its hold on him weakening and dropping away, leaving him feeling lighter than he ever had. A smile appeared on the boy's lips. He was going to have waffles for breakfast.
The Hardest Worker's Side:
Everybody has their gaze locked upward at the sky. The massive objects are making their way down faster than ever, and we know that there is no time to escape their wrath. In a few seconds, a lot of us are going to be dead. The enemy in the sky has no mercy. Misery is about to rain upon us, and there is simply no time to escape.
During the last attack, I was lucky enough to have been underground, and lucky enough to have survived, but only to experience yet another attack. There is no surviving this time. The last attack was by a single object, and this time there are three. One of the three is gigantic, and the other two, though huge as well, are smaller than the one.
I take one last look around me— my people are terrified and frozen. Field workers drop their work and stare up in despair; soldiers, our protectors, cannot protect us anymore. This is it.
Although these attacks from upwards have been common enough to be a prominent part of my people’s history, one can never get used to the inevitable. The day it happens to your colony is still as shocking as if it was the very first attack. Because of these attacks, my people have found a way to develop underground. We try to spend all of our time down there, because of this very reason. As much as we try, we must still go up to forage and get the materials needed to sustain ourselves. Oh, how dreadful it is that we can’t find everything we need to survive underground, where we are safe.
I stand here hopeless. What’s the point of spending our entire lives building, working, honoring our colony if this is what fate delivers? Are we cursed? My whole life has been passed in toil— which is what I love to do. My brethren and I spend almost all hours of the day building and bettering our home, for the people, and for our Queen, bless her soul. She is our reason; she is our hope. We take care of her and she takes care of us. I love my home. The home that is about to become no more. Destroyed. The objects are here now. I close my eyes one last time; goodbye.
“Hurry guys!” my dad yells at my baby sister, but I know it’s mostly at me. “Dinner is ready, and we don’t want to upset Mommy now, do we?” he whispers smugly. I hate him. He always talks about my mom in this snobby, I’m-better-than-everyone type of way. Well, I’ll tell you something, he’s not better than anyone! My mom says I’m more of a man than he’ll ever be. I hate the way he treats my mom, and I know she does too but she always acts nice towards him. Why?!
I know the only reason he takes us to the park is to pretend that he likes spending time with my baby sister and I. Look at him, walking in disgust like he’s so upset to go home to Mom’s dinner. I feel like I might just lose it tonight.
I look downwards at the tiny hand I’m holding— Luna can barely keep up with the speed he’s having us walk in. Psychopath! My mom is really trying to make it work; the only reason she cares so much about these damned dinners is because she’s trying to act like we’re a normal family. Which we aren’t anymore, because of him.
I must’ve clenched my hand too tightly since my baby sister lets out a loud whine, which immediately triggers my dad to stop his psychotic fast pace and charge towards me. “For goodness sake, Leo, be careful! Luna, honey, it’s okay, it’s okay, come to the car.” I am at fault again.
“Careful, Leo! Stop that, Leo! Enough, Leo!” I don’t know how much more I can take. I hate him. He yanks Luna’s hand out of mine and takes my place beside her. I’m now walking next to the two, staring down on the ground, like an outsider, which I always am.
“Sowwy,” I hear Luna’s tiny, low voice. This isn’t her fault; she shouldn’t be the one apologizing to me, it’s this jack—
“Aw Munchkin, you didn’t do anything. I should be the one saying sorry. Sorry Leo, didn’t mean to yell at ya’ there. I just really don’t want to be late today,” my dad interrupts. His apology is not accepted. This isn’t the first time I hear it— it’s completely empty. I can feel the anger rushing from my stomach to my head, and I know my face is turning red right now. My ears feel hot! I want to scream, hit, rip, yell—
“It’s okay,” is all I can muster. We’re by the car now, and I am dreading the drive home next to him.
“Hurry guys!” I hate yelling at them, but that’s the only way I can get my point across nowadays. I’ve become a silent ghost in my own family. In my own home. I don’t want to sound so harsh with my little ones: “dinner is ready, and we don’t want to upset Mommy now, do we?” I add in hopes of softening the tense mood I just caused. I see my son’s face— I’m certain he’s cursing my name right now.
I don’t know where we went wrong as a family. Things used to be great! I was the happiest man on earth when my little ones were born. But now… now Leo hates me, and Luna will soon grow out of the Daddy-is-my-hero phase that Leo, too, was once a part of. I can feel my life crashing to shambles every single day. Even after spending a day at the park with the ones I love, I can’t shake this feeling. I need to get my life and family back together! I feel like a failure of a man. I try so hard to not let my children and wife see this, but I’m afraid they already have.
I just want to get to this dinner on time, to give my wife one less thing to feel bad about.
“Are you even trying?” I can imagine her sad shaky voice if we were to show up late to the dinner she prepared. My thoughts are interrupted by Luna’s wail.
I look back— Leo must’ve pulled her too hard without realizing it. I rush my way back to them: “for goodness sake, Leo, be careful! Luna, honey, it’s okay, it’s okay, come to the car,” I try to comfort my little girl. It seems like I always manage to look like the bad guy. What’s wrong with me?
Maybe I should get professional help. I never spoke about my affair with anyone else besides my wife, who hates speaking about it. I mean, I don’t blame her. I don’t think I’m strong enough to have stayed with her, if she cheated on me instead. She’s so much stronger than me, and I feel more like a coward with every goddamn passing day. I imagine this is why so many marriages end with divorce, especially if affairs are involved. This guilty feeling follows me everywhere I go, and I sometimes want to start fresh. Nothing to owe anybody; a clean sleight.
“Sowwy,” sweet Luna’s precious voice interrupts my dark thoughts yet again, and now the reason for why I stay in this situation is clear as day. My little angel is so brave— she takes the blame instead of me for raising my voice at Leo. She is her mother’s daughter: brave! Now is time to be a better man, for Luna, for Leo, for my family. I use my calmest voice:
“Aw Munchkin, you didn’t do anything. I should be the one saying sorry. Sorry Leo, didn’t mean to yell at ya’ there. I just really don’t want to be late today.” I hope this eases the two of them.
“It’s okay,” my gentle boy replies. We are by the car now. I look down at my watch to see that we are already late.
“Hurry guys!” Daddy shouts at my brother and I as he runs to our car. “Dinner is ready, and we don’t want to upset Mommy now, do we?” he says in a lower voice. I don’t think Mommy is upset when we’re late for dinner, so I don’t know why Daddy said that. Mommy and Daddy are usually nice to each other, except for sometimes. Sometimes Daddy yells when Mommy cries, but they always work it out.
My brother strengthens his grip around my hand, and begins walking faster towards the car. We had just spent a fun day at the park, and Leo, my older brother, even taught me how to play catch. We played it for hours today in the grass. It’s time to go now, though, so we don’t miss Mommy’s dinner at home. Everyday we have dinner as a family, and I love Mommy’s cooking! She is the best chef in the world. She asks everybody what they want, and tries her hardest to prepare it all for us. I love my family, and my family loves me.
As we walk through the park’s grass to our car on the other side of the street, I look around at all the beauty. The sun is beginning to set, and the sky is a calming twinkly orange. I love this time of day. I wonder what Mommy has in store for tonight’s dinner. I really can’t wait to see. I look up and I can tell my brother is upset.
I stop in place and begin to cry.
“For goodness sake, Leo, be careful! Luna, honey, it’s okay, it’s okay, come to the car,” Daddy wipes my tears and holds my hand instead of Leo. Daddy thinks I’m crying because Leo hurt me, but Leo never hurts me. What Daddy and Leo didn’t notice is that we had just stepped on what must’ve been a million little ants. We just killed. I feel so sad that we caused this. I can’t stop crying. I remember Mommy teaching me that ants are some of the hardest workers, and that they do everything for their family and their Queen. Mommy is my Queen, and I do everything for her and my family too. I feel much worse after realizing that my family just killed another family.
“Sowwy,” I say to the little creatures, looking down. Leo gives me a look with the tiniest smile, and is about to speak when Daddy says instead of him:
“Aw Munchkin, you didn’t do anything. I should be the one saying sorry. Sorry Leo, didn’t mean to yell at ya’ there. I just really don’t want to be late today.”
“It’s okay,” my brother says. How can they be so ignorant about what we have just done, and act like everything is about them? Would they stop running and thinking about themselves for just one second?
We finally reach the street, and are now closer to the car. I’m so excited about dinner!
Something about satisfaction
that is so empty and cold—
the ultimate dead end.
Here is where boredom takes
Opposites are too often
as one in the same—
the ultimate irony.
As you sit there
surrounded by people
and as I do the same,
would we feel the familiar loneliness
if we were together instead?
Being apart is in itself
a reason to long for
Would the drive be lost
if togetherness was reached?
Would time perform its trick
and make us feel alone
So as we sit here alone
with everyone else,
let us go on wondering
what it'd be like for us.
They say that love is patient, love is kind. They tell you it's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. They paint you a picture of brilliant, colorful, unrealistic intimacy; but the truth of the matter is darker.
Love is selfish and unforgiving and it breaks people just as quickly as it mends them. Love will consume you and alter your life in ways that no drug ever could, leaving memories of desire and yearning in your heart and mind that will never be satisfied in the way they were before.
Love is an addiction that all of humankind buys into it; it'll trick you, and get under your skin and in your emotions until you'll lose yourself. You'll want more and more, but love can't be depended on.
Love isn't permanent, no, people come and go and take their love with them just as swiftly as they gave it out and before you know it you're left sitting awake remembering the fleeting feelings you thought were true, cursing love and the one who took it away.
I enjoy the ones who use words like paradigm and empirical.
Those folk surely have it all together
Not me, though. Little me. I’m just a rotting vegetable eating meat sack, marinating and languishing in my own juices.
Having said that, yesterday, the veins - my veins - broke through this crazy, crawling concrete skin, exiting out and snaking off in all directions, seeking something, anything to bond with other than me, their host.
At least that was the impression I got based on available evidence.
This made me quite a bit sad. Have I become so difficult to live with that my insides want to be outside?
Betrayal is not a strong enough word.
Taking stock of what was left of myself, I tried calming and centering, adopting an arbitrary approach to what was clearly an outrageous and embarrassing situation.
I spoke in thought to my evacuating innards, explaining to the tyrannic tributary traitors
that without me, they were nothing. This was a codependent coexistence and I was its front man.
Prying a pulmonary from a chair leg, I carefully folded it back inside my chest cavity, only to have the mutinous bastard work its way back through my fingers and wrap itself around the TV.
This vena labyrinth of tissue and plasma that had invaded my once living room was now a prison.
I resembled a grotesque, emaciated octopus. Or that alien from Alien 2.
I've dealt with rejection all my life, but nothing could ever prepare me for something of this magnitude
Hell, I've had the pin pulled on me by the best. Generally what happens is they walk away shaking their heads and blaming our association on either a momentary lapse of reason or alcohol or both. I never worried that much; never been big on attachment anyway.
I was an only child that was very much poisoned early on by his own company.
Never always this detached though.
The kicker was the day my imaginary friend ripped my heart out.
“Its not you, it’s me,” said Randell, as he left via a portal at the rear of my closet. I shut down that day.
I haven't budged from this blood soaked sectional sofa in something like 22 hours.
The veins - my veins - have anchored themselves to a variety of heavy objects, and I am pinned down and being held to ransom by my own body. A body I thought I knew well. A body that, until recently, I had no reason to mistrust.
I hate to moan, though. We all have our problems in life. This just took me by surprise, is all, and I really need a change of underwear.
I'll bounce back, no doubt. I always do, albeit anemic and pissed off. And I will extract fair revenge.
I will hammer each and every one of those traitorous scumbags with whatever low-grade heroin I can find, or I will die trying. This is personal.
Julia - repost
March 1st 1999
The small team at NOAA who first discovered the sound gathered excitedly around the computer console. It was for these rare discoveries that the scientists worked long, thankless hours. The last sound they discovered was two years previous, when the hydrophones detected one of the loudest sounds ever recorded 3000 miles away off the southern coast of South America. The sound resembled a large bubble being blown under water, and thus it was lovingly termed ‘The Bloop’.
The sound discovered today was different.
Within fifteen minutes the Managing Director, Greg Hobbs, was in the lab and listening to the sound. He had to sit down. “Good god, this is something alive?” he said.
The red phone rang. Everybody froze. This phone had never rung before, and only one person was authorised to call it. Greg took a deep breath and answered.
“Managing Director Hobbs.”
The scientists who looked on noticed his shoulders sag and his head drop. He turned to face his colleagues, all warmth had drained from his face. “I understand,” Hobbs said. “Yes sir, Mr President”. Hobbs placed down the phone.
“Come away from the computers,” Hobbs got down on his knees, “and get down on the floor with your hands on your head. Do it now”
The group, confused stepped away from the computers and placed themselves on the floor as instructed.
Moments later, the door crashed in, and a squadron of black clad military personnel burst through.
18 Years Later. March 18th 2017
Built within the rock of ‘The Dom’, the third highest mountain in the Pennine Alps, Switzerland, was a state of the art, highly classified facility. Within thirty minutes of Air Force One landing on the runway in the mountains core, the President of the United States, Thomas Ellison, was escorted to a large boardroom, and left inside alone. This was highly irregular.
The first thing the president noticed before entering was how unnecessarily large the doors were. At least ten feet high. The second, as he entered, was that despite the facility being set deep within the rock, he could see through it. Half of the room and a portion of the roof and floor were completely see through. Ellison could see the other peaks in the distance, and the hazy mist of clouds below.
A few moments later, the large metallic doors opposite swung open, and a gentleman in an elegantly tailored grey suit and peppered grey hair strode through with a black folder in hand. The President met him half way.
The man in the grey suit extended his hand. “Mr President, thank you for meeting with me. My name is Klaus Heinrich Engel. Please sit.” Engel gestured to the nearest seats at the board table.
Engel sat and placed the folder on the table. “I don’t intend to keep you very long, Mr President. I’m aware of the constraints on your time, as I share a similar burden. Firstly, I just wish to congratulate you on your recent appointment. I understand the inauguration was one of the most viewed on record?” He spoke crisply, precisely, with only a hint of his native German accent.
“Thank you, Mr Engel, yes, over 40 million around the globe”
“An impressive feat. You must be very pleased?”
“Truthfully, I haven’t had the time to process it. I thought my life was busy before the election. I’m never left alone, now. In fact, I must admit, I’m at somewhat of a loss in relation to our meeting. It’s unusual for me to be in any situation without my security detail and a contingent of my advisors, especially out of state”
Engel smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes. I can understand the concern behind your words. The information I’m going to provide to you is Code Black classified. Very few people are granted access to this information. This facility was constructed with the knowledge that the magnitude of these secrets would be contained within, and so naturally, it is the safest place on earth. This is the only reason why your security contingent could be negotiated to wait outside the door and not in here with you, I assure you of that.”
The President crossed his legs and rested his clutched hands on his knee. “Well, alright then”
“Yes, down to business.” Engel affixed his glasses, opened the black folder and flicked through the pages. “Are you aware of The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration under the Department of Commerce?”
“NOAA? Yes, they’re environmental researchers” said Ellison.
Engel nodded. He found the page he was looking for and pushed it across the table to Ellison. It was a simple document entitled ‘Julia’ dated 2nd March 1999. It was stamped Top Secret.
“On March 1st 1999, NOAA recorded an underwater sound so loud it was heard through the entire Pacific Ocean. The sound came from Antarctica.” Engel pressed a button on a device on the table which played the recording. It was like a deep echoing groan. Ellison had never heard anything quite like it.
Engel continued, “Sounds like this have occurred before. ‘The Bloop’ you may have heard of, quite well known, was recorded in 1997, and the ‘Upsweep’ has been recorded seasonally since 1991. The official explanation is underwater volcanic activity, and in the cases of The Bloop and Julia, the sound of a large iceberg that has run aground.”
Engel worked through the folder again, and pushed over a series of photographs blown to A4 size. “The unofficial explanation, is that Julia is a creature more than double the size of the Empire State Building, roughly 800 metres in length. These are classified images taken by NASA’s Apollo 33A5.” Ellison picked up the photos one at a time. Enormous shadows could be seen in the photographs. As he flicked through them, the shadows became darker and darker until the creature surfaced. It was monstrous. Like a cross between an Eel and a Great White.
Ellison continued through the photographs and drew a quick breath. “Is that a ship?”
Engel nodded “It’s not by the petitions of Greenpeace or diplomatic government efforts that Japanese whalers have ceased activity in the Antarctic. The Japanese have been whaling on an industrial scale for almost 130 years. We’ve identified that Whales are a key food source for her. She’s intelligent, Mr President. She’s been targeting the ships. Those pictures show her eating them. Whole”
Ellison felt ill. “This ship has to be over 60 metres long?”
“What the hell is it?” Ellison said. “Who knows about this? How has it not been leaked?”
“We know its origins are of Earth. Pre-historic of course. Remnants of a time long gone. It prefers cold water, and the effects of global warming, we suspect, are why it’s becoming more active” Engel paged through the folder again and passed over another document, this one signed by a Greg Hobbs.
“In terms of who knows the truth, well, very few do. You and President Clinton are the only two U.S Presidents to be briefed about it. The staff present at NOAA during the discovery signed an NDA. A breach of the agreement would incur a minimum penalty of life imprisonment in a high security installation without parole”
Ellison placed the documents down and rubbed his eyes. This was far and away from anything he expected to be discussing. And the anxious pull in his stomach told him he was missing something. “Why am I here, Mr Engel?”
Engel gathered the photo and documents that had accumulated and began ordering them back into the folder. “It has come to our attention that you intend on following through on a campaign promise to begin oil drilling in Antarctica.”
Ellison reacted immediately. “Now, hang on a minut-“
Engel turned to face Ellison, “Mr President, you’re here today so that we may insist in person, that you cease these plans.”
Ellison wasn’t having it. “To hell with that! I won the election based on that promise. To turn back on it now will kill me politically. The Democrats will have my head. You want me to stop because of this fucking worm? I have the largest military force in the world. I’ll blow the bitch to hell!”
Engel thought on this calmly. “There are things under that ice, Mr President. Ancient things. Things classified even to you. Things that you will never recover from once you’re told. Things that we are insisting not be disturbed because we have a vested interest in not disturbing them."
“Who the hell is ‘we’?” said Ellison.
“The United Conglomerate of Earth”
“And what is that exactly?”
“The real government, Mr President”
Ellison could feel himself crumbling. He had worked too damn hard to be brought down this early in his Presidency. He’d be the laughing stock of the world for lapsing on this after how hard he pushed it. “I am the President of the United States of America! I am the most powerful man on earth. This will fuck me! You understand this right? This will fuck me up. Who the hell are you to insist anything to me?”
The corner of Engels mouth twitched into a grin. He closed the black folder. “I am the Director General of the United Conglomerate of Earth,” He removed his glasses and placed them in his inner jacket coat pocket as he stood. “Mr President, you will come to understand, in the fullness of time, that you are only a big fish in a small pond. Julia, is a much bigger fish…and I am bigger still.”
Engel pushed his chair back under the table. “Good day, Mr President. I’ll be in touch.”
Engel turned on the spot and walked back to the large door he entered through. Ellison, still in shock, clutched the arms of his chair as the door was opened for Engel by an eight foot tall humanoid with beige membranous skin. The creature and Engel exchanged words briefly, as he passed through the door and then the creature looked directly at the President. Its eyes were large, luminescent blue. They flickered a horrifying black and red, and then it closed the door.