I have to confess

about a source of shame,

which you might not share.

But, you might be the same.

It's been my constant battle

to not judge by a label.

To say that I'm succeeding

would be a sorry fable.

That is why I've made

a deliberate choice

to write what I will

using more than one voice.

I want readers to picture

for themselves, the narrator.

The reactions that I get

can be an indicator.

People may view me

as being young, or old,

or a callous man,

or a woman who's cold.

I don't want someone to think,

'You're not allowed to say that

because you are male.

Female.

Republican.

Democrat…'

When my narrator's addressed

in a kind, or cruel, comment,

I feel glad and receive it

as a sincere compliment.

So, that is why I

use initials - L. E.

This way, I'll preserve

a bit of mystery.

Of course, some of my poems are

autobiographical.

But most of what I write is

nothing more than fictional.

If you are a Prose writer,

thanks for the inspiration.

Everything that I have read

helps my imagination.

We're as similar

as we are unique,

for companionship

is what we all seek.

Behind the rusty creaking gates, your first steps drown in the humid ground. Mud captures the ankles, solidifying, keeping you away like a wise elder shaking their prophetic cane: go back! Beware… No wonder. Echoing from the tombstones, music fills the air. Whispers of foreign languages, humming choirs as a keynote against your cracking steps; you aren’t welcome here. A disturbance to the peace of death, only to repent by becoming one with the eternal silence. How did you get there? It’s surreal, stepping through the mist, the smell of rot lingering in your nose; vomit inducing, but not enough to make you pause your walk. Despite the shivers running down your spine, despite the warning signs, turning to face the darkness you arrived from seems even worse than continuing your walk along the dimly lit path in-between the graves. Something cracks beneath your feet, and you imagine ancient bones falling apart to dust- but by the time you glance down, the human remains become nothing more than a couple of stones. Ahead of your path you notice a shadow of a humanoid posture: elongated limbs hanging down, slouched like a predator preparing its attack. Your throat clenches, whole organism tensing up to fight or flight. The creature flashes its yellow, fiery eyes, spreads the intimidating wings and- in proximity, it’s quite obviously an immobile statue, two snitches illuminating its stone face and fossil tears. Before you can let out a sigh of relief, goosebumps rush through your skin, raising your body hair as thin fingers trace through the line of your ankle. Your gasp exhales a cloud of steam, freezing in the cold air of the night. Not daring to check whether the hand is just like you imagine it to be: rotting, bones revealed, covered in slime and crawling worms, you begin to run. Attentive to the surrounding noises but with eyes now shut, you’d rather believe that you’re the only source of the thumping and panting that disrupts the silence. A wet drop lands on your nose – is it the beast’s saliva, already drooling ready to devour you? The fear whistles through your head, deafening. Spawns flashes in front of your eyes, blinding. The circle narrows, traps you inside, gruesome faces and undead cries from every side. They’re touching you. Infecting with their sickness. There’s no more escape. No matter how fast you run.

Once again behind the gates, you regain your composure. In the morning, you’ll find the branches that became hands, the traces of rain, the calmness in the silence. The statue will seem thoughtful; the mud nothing more than mildly annoying in its stickiness.

For to walk the graveyard is to walk through your state of mind.

The fiery ball retracted its scolding claws into its nuclear factory and walked into darkness. Perhaps we should zoom closer into the small globe which was a mirror of sorts, that showed deep healing wounds from the departing gray clouds. But for now there was a silver glowing face which smiled with dented dimples. Whatever strange scene was taking place in the empty vacuum above, none could match midnight’s obscenities.

Men lurked through piles of ash and stone from their volcanic isle, but crime was their names and each one stole away the pride and glory of children, that being childhood.

Women were withering in the wintry solstice with nothing but a cold drink to revive their innards. Imagine at will what every second of life was like in this dying town near the sea.

One was certain that the night was the Queen of havoc and day reigned gloriously over people with a solar fist.

Grab your will once more and imagine what the scar upon this small globe was. This small volcanic isle had been taken by surprise by a swirling prince of hate, and even with day reigning over all, it could not prevent the downfall of the small town near the sea.

I never understood the need to chase a high until the first time I put a needle in a vein. The thrill of puncturing skin, followed by the blood pooling so close to my fingertips, was intoxicating. I stare at the knife in my hand, now crimson stained, reflecting on my questionable choices. Gradually, my eyes venture back to the body at my feet. Even with the fresh wounds still seeping, the high is already fading. I did this too quickly again. I step around the blood on the ground to unlatch the cellar door, the stench of decay permeating the air around the opening. As I slowly drag the new body toward the cellar, I’ve already begun to plan my next thrill. There is absolutely nothing that matches the ecstasy of feeling a blade pierce through flesh. I need it, that feeling of euphoria that surfaces with every puncture. I need that high. And I can’t stop.

#horror #flashfiction

I've always looked thoughtful.

So much so, that at the young age of 19 I've acquired a few "inquisition lines". That's what I like to call them at least.

A single, straight fissure between furrowed brows; the countless microscopic creases and folds around tired eyes. Simple sketch lines that I've spent hundreds to erase.

But for what? To someday unveil baby soft skin? To sit and revel at my own beauty? When all I've done is remove the evidence of my appreciation for others' beauty? Their writing, art and cinema.

I've enjoyed inumerable sleepless nights earning my dark circles and squinting eyelids and fatigued sight.

I want to wear my wise face proudly. Why try so hard to look naive when all I've ever really yearned for is knowledge?

I beg you, my companion,

Please tell me what to do

When my words hover hollow

And the darkness pushes through.

I beseech you, my friend,

Please teach me how to breathe

When the weight upon my chest

Is crushing all my dreams.

I implore you, my dear,

Please show me how to give

When my heart is bleeding black

And my eyes have turned combative.

And I entreat you, my love,

Please stand by my side

When my demons have taken hold

And are waging war inside my mind.

He was the perfect combination of a nightmare and a dream, a devil in leather breathing desire into my naive heart. He snaked his way into my thoughts as I fixated upon the lip rings and the tattoos he labeled art. Yet, I was never completely blind to the danger disguised behind those angel eyes. Heartbreak held fast to him, a shadow even on the darkest night trailing fragmented halos and shattered light. I followed this destructive path of fallen stars and broken glass, knowingly, straight into his arms. They called me charmed, but I always knew I’d surface scarred, heart broken and dreams charred. And they never understood my willingness to accept the pain I swallowed or the tears I wept after the fall. But I saw our ending from miles away. I knew this monster could never be tamed, wild heart and broken reins forever clinging to his name. Accepting my temporary place at his side, I held fast for the wild ride as my dreams soared and my fears died. Behold, before we said goodbye, this tattooed devil with angel eyes set fire to my dormant mind and taught my heart how to feel alive.

#flashfiction #amwriting #chaos