VincentVanEgo
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Written by VincentVanEgo

Hurt together

To whom it may concern

If you are sad

Then it is unlikely

That I can make you happy

But I can build you

The finest fort made of sheets

And if you need to hurt

Then hurt

And I will hurt

With you

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Written by VincentVanEgo
Hurt together
To whom it may concern
If you are sad
Then it is unlikely
That I can make you happy
But I can build you
The finest fort made of sheets
And if you need to hurt
Then hurt
And I will hurt
With you
7
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1
Juice
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Written by VincentVanEgo

Ignorance was bliss

With this last kiss

I make one wish

That I didn't know

What you didn't want me to

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Written by VincentVanEgo
Ignorance was bliss
With this last kiss
I make one wish
That I didn't know
What you didn't want me to
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Written by VincentVanEgo

Broken Swings

I have seen the mighty

Humbled and betrayed

A throne fit for a king

Freed from its chains

But the temple that it once adorned

Now stands an empty tomb

Where the patron saints of spring

No longer loom

(This was a second take on an earlier work involving swings missing seats. I changed the working title because I feared most people would find it overly covert)

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Written by VincentVanEgo
Broken Swings
I have seen the mighty
Humbled and betrayed
A throne fit for a king
Freed from its chains

But the temple that it once adorned
Now stands an empty tomb
Where the patron saints of spring
No longer loom

(This was a second take on an earlier work involving swings missing seats. I changed the working title because I feared most people would find it overly covert)
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Written by VincentVanEgo

SOS

Messages in sand

Like hopes and dreams and wanting

The tide does not care

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Written by VincentVanEgo
SOS
Messages in sand
Like hopes and dreams and wanting
The tide does not care
12
4
1
Juice
14 reads
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Written by VincentVanEgo

Ahoy

Woe is to be the broken ship

Without anchor, without port

Adrift upon the open sea

No wind to fill its sail

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Written by VincentVanEgo
Ahoy
Woe is to be the broken ship
Without anchor, without port
Adrift upon the open sea
No wind to fill its sail
13
3
2
Juice
29 reads
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Written by VincentVanEgo

Marionette

I cannot decide if these strings

Tied so tight and held so taught

Are designed to hold me down

Or intend malicious thought

To threaten tear me limb from limb

Or beckon me simply obey

But either way I play my part

The hearty fool or broken slave

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Written by VincentVanEgo
Marionette
I cannot decide if these strings
Tied so tight and held so taught
Are designed to hold me down
Or intend malicious thought

To threaten tear me limb from limb
Or beckon me simply obey
But either way I play my part
The hearty fool or broken slave
8
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Juice
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Written by VincentVanEgo

A cat would be nice

I could use a cat

In fact

I think I'd even take

A slightly used cat

If I thought I could

Find such a cat on eBay

From a nonsmoking home

Of course

I'd rather he not stink

(Or she)

I'd much prefer new without tags

Best offer for such things

But I could use a cat

I'm sure of that

And he could be my friend

(Or she)

And sit upon my lap

And bring

This loneliness to end

9
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Written by VincentVanEgo
A cat would be nice
I could use a cat
In fact
I think I'd even take
A slightly used cat
If I thought I could
Find such a cat on eBay
From a nonsmoking home
Of course
I'd rather he not stink
(Or she)
I'd much prefer new without tags
Best offer for such things
But I could use a cat
I'm sure of that
And he could be my friend
(Or she)
And sit upon my lap
And bring
This loneliness to end
9
1
1
Juice
24 reads
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Written by VincentVanEgo

I've had enough dark cold

I stepped outside today

And much to my delight

I found that I had stepped outside

To see blue skies

And bright sunlight

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Written by VincentVanEgo
I've had enough dark cold
I stepped outside today
And much to my delight
I found that I had stepped outside
To see blue skies
And bright sunlight
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Written by VincentVanEgo

Bringing a knife to a gun fight

The heat lifted off the sand and threatened to cook him where he stood, gazing at the small church, slightly offset from the top of the small hill. The day was as bright as any he could remember seeing, and the fairly well tended lawn stood in stark contrast against the dirty grime of the town and dusty brown of the desert surrounding it. He didn't know what drew him to the tiny building, whether it be God or otherwise, but he knew it was a force determined to draw him in. He started up the small path.

Inside were a few small pews on either side of the building and a modest, makeshift podium where two young men stood. One was fair skinned and dressed in black. A thin white collar about his neck, and light-brown, thinning hair lining his head. The other wore an old ragged jacket and dirty pants. His thick, dark hair was oily and matted, as though he'd spent many nights out in the wild, recently. His dark skin made darker by long days riding in the harsh desert sun.

'Welcome, brother', the priest offered him as he stepped into the door. 'Padre' was as much as Jack offered, never taking his eyes off the other man, who turned to meet his gaze. Slowly, the eyes of the man in the jacket revealed his surprise and that he recognized this visitor. Jack quietly muttered 'I'm back. You killed my horse, but I'm back. Where is the one-eyed fella?'

The Mexican turned to face him squarely. He slowly pulled out a revolver and leveled it straight at Jack. He laughed a short, throaty laugh and announced 'Hah! Tu regresó? You are back, mi amigo? Your rest with the dead seems short.'

The priest seemed to protest as he announced 'Brothers! This is a house of God!', but Jack had already pulled the knife he had picked up on the road and ran forward. The Mexican pulled the trigger and released a bullet that struck him in the left shoulder. The hot lead felt like a mule's kick, but didn't slow Jack down as he closed the distance between the two men, charging up the aisle, between the pews.

Again, the man in the ragged coat fired two more shots, catching Jack in the gut and lung. Choking on his own blood, Jack grasped the Mexican's jacket, shoving the knife deep into his abdomen, the sharp blade slicing easily into his flesh. Jack felt his strength leaving him as his blood gushed out in spurts, but something strong and dark in him enabled him to pull the blade up until it struck rib bone. The two men fell to the ground, Jack perching upon the Mexican, to look him in the eyes.

Both men seemed to understand that death was imminent for the other, but as the Mexican struggled faintly to move his failing limbs, Jack remained on him, studying his dying motions. Then Jack whispered hoarsely to him 'I am the one they call Ha Vuelto. I am the dark fire that burns, and the cold earth waits for you. Make your peace with God.' Leaving the knife buried in him, Jack grasped the man's face and held it, watching his life fade away as his blood spilled out onto the floor. He pushed himself up to his knees before his own loss of blood sent him spiraling into darkness, falling limply to the floor.

Some time later he awoke to the sound of hushed voices outside the door he had entered. He recognized one of them as the young priest from earlier. The Mexican was next to him, lifeless on the floor. He felt his own abdomen and chest to inspect his wounds, only to find the raised flesh of scarring. 'What have I become? What am I?' he wondered to himself. Sitting up, he slowly shook his head and fought off the aches and pains of his condition. He got to his feet, then took the gun, belt and jacket from his deceased foe. 'You don't need these anymore, and the way I see it, you owe me for the horse' he mumbled. He pulled the knife from the dead man's chest, tucked it back into his pants and softly crept out a door at the rear of the church.

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Written by VincentVanEgo
Bringing a knife to a gun fight
The heat lifted off the sand and threatened to cook him where he stood, gazing at the small church, slightly offset from the top of the small hill. The day was as bright as any he could remember seeing, and the fairly well tended lawn stood in stark contrast against the dirty grime of the town and dusty brown of the desert surrounding it. He didn't know what drew him to the tiny building, whether it be God or otherwise, but he knew it was a force determined to draw him in. He started up the small path.

Inside were a few small pews on either side of the building and a modest, makeshift podium where two young men stood. One was fair skinned and dressed in black. A thin white collar about his neck, and light-brown, thinning hair lining his head. The other wore an old ragged jacket and dirty pants. His thick, dark hair was oily and matted, as though he'd spent many nights out in the wild, recently. His dark skin made darker by long days riding in the harsh desert sun.

'Welcome, brother', the priest offered him as he stepped into the door. 'Padre' was as much as Jack offered, never taking his eyes off the other man, who turned to meet his gaze. Slowly, the eyes of the man in the jacket revealed his surprise and that he recognized this visitor. Jack quietly muttered 'I'm back. You killed my horse, but I'm back. Where is the one-eyed fella?'

The Mexican turned to face him squarely. He slowly pulled out a revolver and leveled it straight at Jack. He laughed a short, throaty laugh and announced 'Hah! Tu regresó? You are back, mi amigo? Your rest with the dead seems short.'
The priest seemed to protest as he announced 'Brothers! This is a house of God!', but Jack had already pulled the knife he had picked up on the road and ran forward. The Mexican pulled the trigger and released a bullet that struck him in the left shoulder. The hot lead felt like a mule's kick, but didn't slow Jack down as he closed the distance between the two men, charging up the aisle, between the pews.

Again, the man in the ragged coat fired two more shots, catching Jack in the gut and lung. Choking on his own blood, Jack grasped the Mexican's jacket, shoving the knife deep into his abdomen, the sharp blade slicing easily into his flesh. Jack felt his strength leaving him as his blood gushed out in spurts, but something strong and dark in him enabled him to pull the blade up until it struck rib bone. The two men fell to the ground, Jack perching upon the Mexican, to look him in the eyes.

Both men seemed to understand that death was imminent for the other, but as the Mexican struggled faintly to move his failing limbs, Jack remained on him, studying his dying motions. Then Jack whispered hoarsely to him 'I am the one they call Ha Vuelto. I am the dark fire that burns, and the cold earth waits for you. Make your peace with God.' Leaving the knife buried in him, Jack grasped the man's face and held it, watching his life fade away as his blood spilled out onto the floor. He pushed himself up to his knees before his own loss of blood sent him spiraling into darkness, falling limply to the floor.

Some time later he awoke to the sound of hushed voices outside the door he had entered. He recognized one of them as the young priest from earlier. The Mexican was next to him, lifeless on the floor. He felt his own abdomen and chest to inspect his wounds, only to find the raised flesh of scarring. 'What have I become? What am I?' he wondered to himself. Sitting up, he slowly shook his head and fought off the aches and pains of his condition. He got to his feet, then took the gun, belt and jacket from his deceased foe. 'You don't need these anymore, and the way I see it, you owe me for the horse' he mumbled. He pulled the knife from the dead man's chest, tucked it back into his pants and softly crept out a door at the rear of the church.
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Written by VincentVanEgo

El Retorno

'Union' Jack Taylor. The name was poorly written on an envelope he'd pulled from the small sack, damp from the rain outside. Sitting on the stool, he sat for a long time. It felt like a long time, and he felt really old as he sat there in silence, thinking. 'Is that me? Am I Jack?' He wondered. He turned the envelope and opened it to find three photographs. He stared into the envelope, unmoving. Slowly he pulled the contents from the damp container.

Looking at the pictures, he was careful to observe both sides of each picture. He was looking for anything that could give him some evidence that these were his belongings and that he had a name. The first picture was of a young lady wearing a simple dress, half smiling. She had short dark hair. The name 'Berniece' was scribbled on the back. He recognized her, and his heart felt heavy, but he couldn't remember her. He knew he should, but there was only darkness where a memory should have been.

The second picture was ragged and much older than the first. The grainy image was of two children, posing and emotionless, one a good foot taller than the other. Again, the nagging feeling of lost memory tugged at his heart. The backside of this photograph had no markings.

The third picture was of a lake, lined with tall firs and short hills against a bright, clear sky. He immediately longed to be there, but had the feeling that if he had ever gazed upon that water, he would never do so again. The photograph was unremarkable, except for the serene landscape it represented. He looked at it for a long time, but couldn't recall any distinct detail about it.

Carefully replacing the pictures into the envelope, he set them near his feet, away from the wet sack. Looking around the small hunters shack he had broken into, he saw a small bed, an empty oil lamp, and a bottle half full of what turned out to be whiskey. Grabbing the bottle, he moved to the bed, shrugged off his soaked clothes and thought 'what little I still remember, I now put to rest'. Taking a large slug off the bottle, he laid down and closed his eyes. Listening to the water beat against the wood, he drifted off to sleep.

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Written by VincentVanEgo
El Retorno
'Union' Jack Taylor. The name was poorly written on an envelope he'd pulled from the small sack, damp from the rain outside. Sitting on the stool, he sat for a long time. It felt like a long time, and he felt really old as he sat there in silence, thinking. 'Is that me? Am I Jack?' He wondered. He turned the envelope and opened it to find three photographs. He stared into the envelope, unmoving. Slowly he pulled the contents from the damp container.

Looking at the pictures, he was careful to observe both sides of each picture. He was looking for anything that could give him some evidence that these were his belongings and that he had a name. The first picture was of a young lady wearing a simple dress, half smiling. She had short dark hair. The name 'Berniece' was scribbled on the back. He recognized her, and his heart felt heavy, but he couldn't remember her. He knew he should, but there was only darkness where a memory should have been.

The second picture was ragged and much older than the first. The grainy image was of two children, posing and emotionless, one a good foot taller than the other. Again, the nagging feeling of lost memory tugged at his heart. The backside of this photograph had no markings.

The third picture was of a lake, lined with tall firs and short hills against a bright, clear sky. He immediately longed to be there, but had the feeling that if he had ever gazed upon that water, he would never do so again. The photograph was unremarkable, except for the serene landscape it represented. He looked at it for a long time, but couldn't recall any distinct detail about it.

Carefully replacing the pictures into the envelope, he set them near his feet, away from the wet sack. Looking around the small hunters shack he had broken into, he saw a small bed, an empty oil lamp, and a bottle half full of what turned out to be whiskey. Grabbing the bottle, he moved to the bed, shrugged off his soaked clothes and thought 'what little I still remember, I now put to rest'. Taking a large slug off the bottle, he laid down and closed his eyes. Listening to the water beat against the wood, he drifted off to sleep.
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Juice
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