vindicate me of myself
after i've explained to you
lengthily how i am unlovable
every bit of evidence i've created
nailed to the walls of my brain
tell me how wrong i am
indulge me with the reasons you like me
name all my best qualities
end your presentation with proof
slide a hand across my chest
don't expect me to believe it though
all love can be explained away by the liar in my head
you're too lovely
Straight From The Devil’s Mouth(Version 1-Part 2): Tomorrowland
He was still at his desk tapping away waiting for a verse to pour out his empty gut, nothing arrived, he was still thinking about her, he could only hope to meet her somehow. He scribbled a few words down to get his poetic sentiments aroused from his empty, demented vessel. The first word he wrote was: “tomorrow” then “land”. What was he doing here still, why bother writing something that wouldn’t exist, all would vanish, or rather everything that ever was had already vanished.
“Ding!”
A sound had burst out of the darkness behind him. “Not now” he thought as he continued his internal self-loathing.
“Ding!Ding!”
“Who the hell is it?!” he yelled aloud, “It is a message by Arthur Aims” the somewhat choppy, robotic feminine voice had responded from John’s laptop lying on his charcoal sheets. “Samantha, what does the message say!” he said as he approached the grey machine,
“Arthur Aims: I see you’re still active on that little website you write on all the time, if you’re still slaving away at that desk again so help me. You have to stop writing so damn late, I can’t have you falling asleep on me anymore behind the counter, if they find you again in that storage room dozing off they will eliminate you and put you before the council, now FOR FUCK SAKES go to bed: Sent by Arthur Aims”.
“Samantha send Arthur Aims a message: Fine I will lay my soulless ass to bed just let me get a few more words in and I will be on my way to this fine little island of sleep, goodnight:
Message sent”.
The room fell silent and John’s hands prepared for one last line, he had finally had it:
Tomorrowland, Tomorrowland
bathed by battled
Hope,
If Tomorrow comes,
or even if it exists,
I wish this:
a world not forged by myth,
beings not dismissed,
freedom from all of this.
He shut the humming machine off with the click of a button, and put down its rectangular face then put it to the side of his bed onto the beige carpeted floor. The Dome of Historia would soon be pumped with light, and the skulking engineers would prepare to begin the next day.
Link to Part 1 of Straight From The Devil’s Mouth: https://theprose.com/post/327618/straight-from-the-devil-s-mouth-version-1-part-1-welcome-to-hell
Image by KellPics ( https://pixabay.com/users/kellepics-4893063/ )
Part of the Cur—There’s a CURSE?! (Ransom 5.1)
Harlow
Where am I?
Red—so much red. Rose fades to crimson and ruby, jagged spikes of scarlet and currant streaked with the deepest of grays and black forming and melting around me. This place is so vast I could fall forever and yet with every heartbeat, I feel as if the walls will crush me. There is nobody here but me but I feel eyes peeling away my skin, staring into my soul. Is my soul made of colors like these?
There are whispers, growing louder as they snake around me and brush my skin. The voice is familiar, but not in the comforting nostalgia kind of way that makes you long for forgotten summers, whispered secrets, and the closeness of people you never knew.
I’m sorry.
I never meant to hurt you.
You’ll never be good enough.
Why are you still here?
Is this how I die? Of all people, why is it you?
Please don’t go.
Please don’t go.
Please don’t go.
My head pounds, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t like the broken words or the way they drag across my skin. When I try to scream, nothing comes out and I fall. Down, down, down...
“Harlow? Harlow?”
The voice is an eternity away, echoing and echoing, ripped away by the whispers. Someone pulls my arm while fingers tentatively touch my face, roaming from my chin to my jaw.
“Are you okay?”
It’s making me nauseous; green bleeds through my eyelids and my stomach lurches. Wherever the fingers touch, my skin burns. The whispers are growing stronger now, but I try to block them out.
I couldn’t move now, even if I wanted to. These dreams terrify me the most—what if I never wake up and I’m trapped here, living out my last moments, powerless to cry for help as my breath is stolen away?
The hands are gone. They’re gone now.
“Uh, Harlow?”
The voice is so loud, my eyes shoot open. Falling backward, I try to untangle my legs from their crossed position and scramble away. As with most things in my life, my effort is admirable but it’s hopeless.
So many questions pile on top of me, but the one I actually manage to get out is, “How do you know my name?”
His eyes dart to the hideous couch sagging under the weight of so many pillows, then the chandelier, and finally back to my face. The shade is different—denim.
After staring for an amount of time to make me uncomfortable, he sighs. “You...don’t know what just happened?”
I narrow my eyes. How stupid did I look? Oh right—the Dorito dust has not magically vanished from my shirt and my hair still looks like...Well, I don’t know what it looks like, but it’s not good. I feel a strange sense of deja vu.
“Uh, I’m no Albert Einstein.” Or maybe I am. We do have the same hairstyle. “But I saw your memories.”
When he just blinks, I feel compelled to tack on a “Right?”
“Um.” Ransom swallows. “Before that, what do you think happened?”
“You saw mine?” When he lowers his chin in the smallest of nods, my heart skips a beat. “Oh no! What in Martin Luther’s sacred name did you see?”
Struggling to sit back up, I grab him by the shoulders. “I swear, if you ever tell a single soul what you saw,” I whisper, pulling him closer, “so help me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
I tug him closer for added intimidation. Maybe my nose has gotten used to the deathly smell or my deepest secrets were more pressing, but I didn’t feel the immediate need to puke.
“It won’t be pretty, I promise.”
Swallowing, he lifts his elbow and tries to nudge my arm away. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
I snort and push him away. “I have a boyfriend.”
It’s a lie, of course. I’ve never had a boyfriend and the very thought of one causes yellow-tinged greens to swim around me and sweat to pool in my hands.
Ransom shakes his head adamantly. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He’s back to stumbling over his words and orchid pink creeps across his face.
“Do you have a disease or like a fear of germs or something?” Does he think there’s Dorito dust on my fingers, too? Now that I think about it, maybe there is.
When he shakes his head again, even more sand flies from his hair. “W-when I touch someone, that’s how I, uh, see memories.” He searches my face. “And they can see mine.”
Oh. Well, that makes more sense than sea serpents with human faces.
“So you can’t control it?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“If I concentrate and pull enough,” he says, gaze dropping to the crusty yogurt patches between us. “I can control which of my memories people see. I can’t stop it from happening.”
Is he like a werewolf, but the limited special serpent edition or something?
“So has it always been like this?”
“No.” He shakes his head yet again. “No, not until the—I bumped into a girl my first cycle.”
Ransom rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and sighs. That’s when I see the letters etched into his skin, peeking out from the too-short hoodie sleeves. I reach to pull the fabric back so I can see better, but I stop myself just in time.
“What’s that, on your wrist?”
He freezes. For a second, I wonder if he’s turned to stone because even his chest doesn’t move.
“Ransom?”
He grunts in reply before pulling the sleeve up and sticking his arm out, palm up. They’re not scars; at least, not like any I’ve seen. No discoloration, just neat, even lines engraved across his wrist.
At first, I can’t make out what the letters spell because they’re upside down. But then I make out an R and the A and I know without looking what the others are.
Ransom.
“It’s part of the curse,” he says.
The polymerase chain reaction (PCR) is a process of gene amlification. First, a select gene is cut using restriction enzymes, then a comlementary strand is made and placed in a vial of polymerase and nucleotides like uracil, guanine, cytosine, thymine, and adenine. It assembles itself to millions of copies of genes (DNA fragments) that can be used in multiple situations: multiplying a cell product in order to mass roduce; amlifying gene proteins and enzymes; as well as for experiments carried on the lab.
Watching paint dry.
Did you know that when a water-based paint dries it first goes through two stages? 1.evaporation and 2. coalescence. The evaporation is when the liquids in the paint evaporate under normal atmospheric conditions namely namely air temperatures of 20ºC to 25ºC and 50% humidity. Coalescence is when a coherent film is formed so that when the evaporation of water causes the wet paint to shrink, the particles remaining are forced together in a process of mutual attraction and fuses together to form a polymer film.
So.........that’s always good to know.
see you.
if i were to never talk to you again,
it's not like it's goodbye,
it's just me saying i'm tired of holding us up.
if i were to forget we ever happened,
it's not like it's goodbye,
it's just me letting you go.
and if i left without a trace,
it's not goodbye,
it's a see you later (in the next lifetime).
Why I Write...For Now 3
As of late I have found it extremely difficult to sit down and write anything that I believe will to some degree surpass my Being, or the fully fleshed out version of myself that exists at this moment. I find myself doing dishonest things in my writing, just yesterday I found myself writing something for the purpose of bashing someone, and trying to start a fiery argument. When I posted it I was not trying to provide any insight that was worthwhile, but listening to the thumping hatred in my head and heart. I prefer to be genuine and honest, that is my mode of being, perhaps not all of the time, but for the most part I strive to achieve these standards.
In my past “Why I Write” I stated that 1) How can you continue writing without direction or reason? 2) You must always be thankful towards those who give you a chance to express yourself.
I believe this is absolutely true, although I have not lived up to this as of late. This piece is to develop my belief that dark things can be used to expose the beauty of Being. I wish to develop my followers’ understanding of who I am and what I believe. This whole concept is based off of one of my favorite writer’s essays, “Why I Write” by George Orwell. In it he mentions that one must know an author’s background in order to understand their motives.
My love for writing was a slow one, at an early age I rarely read, although I did love creating massive story arcs in my mind and with my toys(generally toy soldiers and superheroes). As far as I can remember I always had a little voice in my head that I characterized as my guide, I imagined that my skull was a headquarters for a group of little human beings that helped me through my life. They dictated my actions and words. Oddly I believed that my whole body was like a machine, at one point I imagined the little humans in my head using an elevator to get down to the lower level of my body to fend off little robotic dogs-it was odd~ish. This was something that I imagined up until the age of about 16 maybe earlier. I still have my little human residing in my mind, but I am certain now that it is my conscience.
By the fifth grade I had reached my first real encounter with books and writing. I had a glorious teacher named Ms.Gonzalez, a wonderful new teacher that engaged with my class in such a manner that work was more of an exploration. She truly pushed me and others to read, the first and second book series I finished were because of her. The first was The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod and the second was The Hunger Games. I was somewhat amazed by these books, but the ones that still interest me today are the ones I read in her class and in the school book club. One being Among The Hidden(I believe) by Margaret Haddix and the other being The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau. I was amazed by the totalitarian state in Among the Hidden, and the secrecy, it was strange to see how things could get so wrong to the point where a government was willing to limit the number of kids people could have. The City of Ember was a marvel to me, I have always been amazed by cities and the compact drama that occurs within them. Each book stretched my imagination and made me truly visualize the events that occured within the books. My first ambitious piece of writing was one based off the video game Borderlands 2, in which I created a band of characters that slowly united together to fight against the bad guy, that being me. I showed the piece to my teacher which I had written in a green notebook and was surprised to hear her say that she wanted more of one of the characters. I was expecting a beat down, but luckily she gave me a figurative pat on the back and a nice “keep trying kid”. By the end of the fifth grade major changes in my life had led me to what I would like to refer to as my dark days from 6th to 7th grade. It was mainly a major shift from being a clueless 12 year old to a clueless 13 year old with hair and hormones on the fritz. Seventh grade gave me a small chance to write some more in my creative writing class, but it was short-lived. I wrote a story about the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta and another one where I wrote a story about a man falling into a ravine and discovering an ancient temple, but in the end it was all just a dream.
By the 10th grade I began a magnificent adventure. I had discovered dystopias, the first being the beautiful 1984. I loved Orwell’s dark and realistic world. From there I moved on to Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaid’s Tale, Animal Farm, The Only Thing To Fear, and later on to Brave New World. I could not help but dig deeper into these books, the way people lived and carried out their day to day actions in a realm where everything was like a boot. They stood up against the hell that ate them alive and did what they could to pursue the truth. I had been deprived for years of books and the worlds inside of them. I looked for guidance in them that I could not find in my fatherless home, books were my teacher. They drove me to find who I was and how I should act. Tenth grade altered my perspective on the world, people believed in me and I began to do so as well. When eleventh grade came around I was embarking on a new adventure, I had read The Odyssey over the summer and a few other books. My thirst for books was growing, by the eleventh grade I had discovered the wonders of prose and poetry. When I went to my school’s south library I had browsed through the poetry section, and found a green book named Leaves Of Grass by Walt Whitman. Whitman completed my voyage for both honesty and character, it was Orwell for truth and Whitman for soul.
I am now in the 12th grade and have lost my momentum. I want to write more poems but I find that doing free verse is not enough. I find myself distant these days from old friends and who I was a year ago. I may have changed for the better but I am stuck in an unknown territory and I do not know whether to swim back or go forward. For now I write for the purpose of helping people transition from hell to some greater purpose, I may not be there myself yet, but I no longer diminish myself at least. I am worthy of walking with God, that is the way I understand it, in other words I deserve the same respect I give to others. I want to lead people through the dark and help them find meaning and to show them that they are not alone.
This is what I will strive to write about for now.
I want to thank the glorious prosers that have supported me both old and new.
Thank you all. Truly, thank you.
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