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Sand is Stone
People say I’m mean.
My mother, my siblings. My father doesn’t know me well enough to.
My most recent boss said such, too.
I coughed it away in some semblance of a laugh.
Me? Mean? No.
I wanted to date someone mean when I was younger. Tall dark and handsome.
So it happens I’ve become that mean individual. I hear myself as I speak, and flinch at its vitrolity. I can’t stop it though.
So much scar tissue will build a surface, no?
Strong. Like the barracks of a castle. Formidable with heads on picks.
But when I am such there is an issue. Because I’m not a building with prosecutors leading the charge behind it.
But aren’t I?
After all, sand- beautiful and golden, was once jagged rock, cast aside and thoughtless. If it is ground up enough, you get what falls to butter between your fingers.
Hot when you so need it to be, to keep you from feeling awkward,
moldable otherwise.
So what if I am opposite? Soft and then hard?
Unholy
Creature of the night
Son of darkness, born of blood
I've built a pagan temple
In my heart, just for you
And I don't care what they think
Black leather baddie
Blood drainer, won't you be my Daddy?
They all say
I'll end up burning in Hell
For worshipping you, the way that I do
But I don't care
I know it's wrong but I can't resist
Bruising my knees, just for you
Your hands in my hair
Back against the stone of a crypt
I look up at you, unholy killer
Without you
I don't know what I'd do
And I know that's it wrong
But I'm in love with you
Fantasies.
I have a circus in my head that makes me want to scream
I see a ringleader who tells me what I want to be
I have a voice inside my head that makes me want to bleed
I have a friend who keeps telling me that I should just be me
I have a criminal attraction to these false beliefs
I have a tendency to sin and always listening
I have a strange desire to eat less and barely sleep
I own a dirty journal where I write my memories
I'm obsessed when I get uncontrollably depressed
I'm depressed when I'm exposed to uncontrollable stress
I'm stressed when I hear life-questioning threats
I have threats that I've given to all my regrets
I try to piece back together my already fractured life
Try to be the person they want and indirectly spite
Try to live up to expectations; even though they're too high
I need to be happy; I can't keep living this life.
Social Tendencies.
You say that I'm pretty, I've heard it all before
Your two intercrossed fingers; "How vile and impure!"
You tell me I'm funny; laughter's the cure
But it's not a joke when you're insecure
About what people say about your character
Judging you fatally like well-dressed barristers
It's hard to feel wanted, they make it seem impossible
To climb the social ladder, when that is very possible
Because the ladder is an illusion; a careful way of deception
To capture the self-haters and change their perception
And make them feel guilty for not wanting directions
From the rich and the popular on their strong inception
Manipulating personality at a level so unattainable
That the laws of the world find its so agreeable
To use us as objects; "Why, this is unbelievable!"
They've trapped us in too deep
But our rebellion is inevitable.
Who in deed
*author's note:
I try very hard not to use names, usually opting for pronouns only, in the hopes that in that broad generality readers can find something of themselves or their compatriots therein, or better relate on a human level, then they might, if the story were of some particular Harry or Isaabella.
If a name is absolutely essential, I look for something related to the key themes of the story, either by sound or by association.
09/04/2024
Who? challenge @Last
Nature Scene
Over a sink of wilted food solids
He was weeping out his vice...
There's a price to every Dynamo...
Now twas his spark plug pep on rice...
So he took to the local nature scene,
And settled down there on a bench...
All of the afternoon light leaked out
Ever so slightly!...
The trees wrapped around him, making
An altar of his Holy Spirit!...
Now enthralled with the effervescence
On the pond, he felt an infiltration from within...
He became deeply engaged, regarding a dance
Of sainted grass on wind...
...And as the dew on leaves gave host
To a thousand tiny eyes...
Jim allowed his hard exterior to unfasten
Thread by thread...
Everything that made him who he was
Had become a loathsome knot...
...But here in the Mother's bosom, birds sang,
As the wind hoisted limbs like skirts...
...Jim began to unravel slowly...
Felt his leash and his cuff hit dirt...
Before long he was as naked in spirit,
And flesh as the day was long and lax...
His heart began to beat out loud,
As he played his tackle box just like a sax...
Until he passed out in a heavy haze,
Just to awaken in a sodden heap...
The pleasures from the night before still stung...
He'd been reset...swept off his feet...
9/4/24
Bunny Villaire
Or?
Or?
September 03, 2024
He walked through my unlocked back door just after midnight. He did not have a warrant. He did not have a reason. My security camera footage was not admissible in court (Judge’s order). It did show Officer Peter Holcomb put his hand on the knob and push, then pull, the door open. He said the door was open when he arrived. He entered with his pistol drawn. He used the excuse of officer safety. My internal cameras show he never identified himself, nor did he ever call for backup. Officer Holcomb went straight to my bedroom where I was waiting.
Waiting with my Glock.
In the firefight, he shot first (also inadmissible in court by the same judge) and hit me in the left shoulder. I shot last and hit him twice; once in the neck and once in the leg). Officer Holcomb went down and I soon lost consciousness.
I am now serving a 30 year sentence, with no chance of parole. Officer Holcomb is a paraplegic with no chance of any normal life. I am buried in prison. No one cares if I exist. Peter, lives what little life he has, for tabloid attention and the sympathy of the public.
Thus, I get to read about him.
And I do.
The taxpayers picked up his medical expenses and his early pension benefits. His wife wheels him around to make speeches about gun control and increased safety for essential workers. His audience dwindles in numbers with each month, each year, he keeps repeating the same lines. His wife, Caroline I think, has that look of boredom wherever and whenever she goes. She is too young and too beautiful to sit by his side for the next 40 years of his shattered life. I bet a carton of smokes that she would ditch him by year’s end.
And I was right.
By Christmas, Caroline made the talk show circuit to promote a movie she was in. She told of her struggles and her new life. When asked about the risque scenes in the movie, all she could do was smile and change the subject.
By the next summer, the TV reported his wife filed for divorce and took the children to “an undisclosed” locale.
Next year, he was the bedridden spokesperson for a charity of some sorts.
Eventually, a ghost writer penned a mediocre novel based upon Peter’s life story.
It failed as well as the associated made for TV documentary.
I spent these years pursuing my law degree, filing challenges to a series of prejudicial judicial rulings in hopes of gaining a new trial.
I also failed miserably.
But, at least, my star was rising.
Officer Holcomb had to have both of his arms amputated from exposure to a flesh eating virus contracted by an extended unsupervised stay in a hospital. The lawyers for the hospital claimed no responsibility for the events and did not want to settle. They insisted that dragging the case out for years was necessary to gather as much information as possible.
In 10 years, I finally secured a court date for a new hearing. I made a motion demanding Officer Holcomb appear in person to testify. This time, the judge agreed with me. This time, Officer Holcomb appeared, but could not speak because his ventilator stole that from him. I motioned for his testimony to be stricken from the record. The judge ruled against me and I found myself back in prison, but with a mistrial for my efforts.
I would never see the inside of a courtroom again.
In retrospect, Officer Peter Holcomb would never see the outside of his hospital room again.
His condition went from bad to worse. He began having trouble with his heart, then his intestines. Soon, he developed cancer of the pancreas. The doctors said these events all stemmed from the shooting of years before.
I wanted to sympathize, but I couldn’t. All I could say was, “Good!”
By the time I turned 50, Officer Holcomb had died from a variety of ailments. He was forgotten. He was indigent. He thought he was the victim of that night. I knew him to be a bad cop and I gave an interview stating so.
A local judge insisted that I was in contempt of court and added another year to my sentence.
At the conclusion of my stay, a very short news reporter asked, now that I was a free man, if I could do it all over again that night, would I? Since I was now free from the retaliatory clutches of judges and their ilk, I answered that if I had a wish, I would not do a single thing differently.
I would, however, give that wish to Peter, and permit him to answer accordingly.
He walked up to my unlocked back door just after midnight. He did not have a warrant. He did not have a reason. Officer Peter Holcomb reached for my door to open it, but then hesitated. My security camera footage shows a man with a sudden feeling of remorse struggling with inner demons. He really wanted to enter, but after an awkward pause of thirty seconds, he did not.
Officer Peter Holcomb departed my backyard to continue to his patrol car and leave the scene.
I had no reason to file a complaint or charges against the man I would never see again.
But, I did have a case of deja vu watching the very short news reporter conclude his local news cast for the night.