jwelker76
hey, now it's time for some shameless self-promotion! Buy my book please! https://www.amazon.com/New-Man-Jeffrey-Welker/dp/0984441778/ref=sr
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76 in portal Horror & Thriller

From the Deep

First, there was a rush of salted cold that filled my head and poured down my throat to fill my body. At the same time, it was very quiet yet very loud; the screams and the singing and the sound of fire had stopped suddenly, replaced instantaneously by a gurgling, shushing whisper that sank into my ears. 

Then, my head broke the surface and for an instant as I bobbed and flailed in the sea, I could make out the burning ship: the sails blooming orange, flames flashing from any open hatch. The idiot boy was still there beside the helm, crunching on his concertina. I could still see the stupid grin on his face, could still make out on the wind his song about the shipwreck that he'd been singing since we'd left port, the one that only had four words. It ran on the air over my head, along with the smoke and the stink of burning wood and tar and salt sea.

And then I was under again. My limbs grew heavy and numb; beside me, something big splashed and sank, nearly hitting me. I opened my eyes and saw it was one of the sailors, a crimson thread of blood draining from a slice in his head as he stopped sinking, turned face-up and began to float to the surface. Kuerten, his name had been. We passed each other in the cold darkness, lit only from above by the watery flames of the burning ship.

My shoulders felt like I was carrying a boulder on my back and my arms felt like iron rods. I couldn't lift them to swim, but I feebly kicked my legs, to keep my blood flowing, to perhaps reach the surface again. My head was numb and throbbing, my jaw hurt terribly. A linen shirt floated past, and I cursed myself for not shedding my now-sodden clothes the instant I had gone overboard. 

But there had been no time for quick thinking. The magazine had blown, there had been no warning; or at least, none that anyone but an idiot would have understood. Now my lungs were on fire, desperate for air, and my brain, sodden and slow and afraid, almost opened my mouth to gasp. My nose and mouth had filled with sea when I plunged in; I felt the cold silent water seeping into me everywhere. 

It was getting darker, darker, as I sank. I tried to arc my back so I could sink while looking up, because I knew I was not going to surface again; I wanted to see the fading bloom of the orange fire dwindle until it was engulfed in black water, as I was. I opened my eyes wide; it stung terribly. Something in my ear popped, then something in my head made a noise like a heavy curtain being drawn. I shut my eyes and felt the depth of the sea envelop me in chill embrace.

     "that which the sea is given

     the sea giveth up. 

     there shall be no hiding place

     on the land, nor under the waves of the sea.

     all is of the water,

     the water is endless, there is no end to the water."

My eyes opened again. I felt weightless, almost disembodied. Like a wraith. I floated still, in water that felt like nothing against my skin; if I had not seen it all around me, I never would have known there was anything at all. 

     "and on that day, 

     the tombs of the earth shall yawn open

     and the sea shall give up her dread fruits"

There was light in the water above me. Daylight, I thought. I found I could move swiftly through the water now, without even swimming, but rather like part of the current itself. It grew brighter and brighter the close I came, until I finally breached the surface. It was a clear, clean day. The sun was high and bright. I felt not its warmth, nor the wind that rilled the waves around me. I felt not hunger, nor exhaustion. I felt nothing.

I looked about. Everything except the sun itself was grey and sepia. I could make out, quite near, a small atoll or island. I moved toward it, again as a current. As I came closer, I saw figures on the beach: men in loincloths holding spears, watching me come. Something stirred in my chest.

The seabed gradually rose until I could walk upon it toward them. I rose up out of the sea and they stood staring, frozen, spears raised, silent. I kept coming. Something caught my eye, behind this group of warriors. A crumpled figure, bound in crude rope. A white boy. Not like one of these tan-skinned islanders. 

The sea ran down me in cascades of torrent. I stopped and stood before them, then looked down at myself. My clothes were rags, shredded and nearly gone; great gashes and cuts gouged my arms, sides, legs. A large bite-mark and wound on my upper thigh startled me; I did not remember being bitten. The warriors stood and stared and muttered.

Suddenly, a wave pushed onto the beach a piece of detritus. I looked and saw it was a concertina. I bent to lift it; water poured from its bellows, but otherwise it was undamaged. I peered at it, peered at the bound boy. I smiled, I knew. 

I squeezed the concertina, bringing the two ends together, unleashing a watery, wailing moan. The bound boy stirred at the sound. A fire kindled within me. The sound had barely died out before I was rushing headlong toward them, biting into them as I passed, tearing hunks of them with my fingers as I grabbed and them. The boy burst his bonds and was soon in the fray as well, gnashing and ripping and slashing with his teeth and hands. 

Soon, it was he and I alone. Slathered in gore, he took up the concertina. I lay back and stared out to sea as he played that maddening song about the shipwreck, the one that only had four words. 

2
0
0
Juice
3 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76 in portal Horror & Thriller
From the Deep
First, there was a rush of salted cold that filled my head and poured down my throat to fill my body. At the same time, it was very quiet yet very loud; the screams and the singing and the sound of fire had stopped suddenly, replaced instantaneously by a gurgling, shushing whisper that sank into my ears. 

Then, my head broke the surface and for an instant as I bobbed and flailed in the sea, I could make out the burning ship: the sails blooming orange, flames flashing from any open hatch. The idiot boy was still there beside the helm, crunching on his concertina. I could still see the stupid grin on his face, could still make out on the wind his song about the shipwreck that he'd been singing since we'd left port, the one that only had four words. It ran on the air over my head, along with the smoke and the stink of burning wood and tar and salt sea.

And then I was under again. My limbs grew heavy and numb; beside me, something big splashed and sank, nearly hitting me. I opened my eyes and saw it was one of the sailors, a crimson thread of blood draining from a slice in his head as he stopped sinking, turned face-up and began to float to the surface. Kuerten, his name had been. We passed each other in the cold darkness, lit only from above by the watery flames of the burning ship.

My shoulders felt like I was carrying a boulder on my back and my arms felt like iron rods. I couldn't lift them to swim, but I feebly kicked my legs, to keep my blood flowing, to perhaps reach the surface again. My head was numb and throbbing, my jaw hurt terribly. A linen shirt floated past, and I cursed myself for not shedding my now-sodden clothes the instant I had gone overboard. 

But there had been no time for quick thinking. The magazine had blown, there had been no warning; or at least, none that anyone but an idiot would have understood. Now my lungs were on fire, desperate for air, and my brain, sodden and slow and afraid, almost opened my mouth to gasp. My nose and mouth had filled with sea when I plunged in; I felt the cold silent water seeping into me everywhere. 

It was getting darker, darker, as I sank. I tried to arc my back so I could sink while looking up, because I knew I was not going to surface again; I wanted to see the fading bloom of the orange fire dwindle until it was engulfed in black water, as I was. I opened my eyes wide; it stung terribly. Something in my ear popped, then something in my head made a noise like a heavy curtain being drawn. I shut my eyes and felt the depth of the sea envelop me in chill embrace.

     "that which the sea is given
     the sea giveth up. 
     there shall be no hiding place
     on the land, nor under the waves of the sea.
     all is of the water,
     the water is endless, there is no end to the water."

My eyes opened again. I felt weightless, almost disembodied. Like a wraith. I floated still, in water that felt like nothing against my skin; if I had not seen it all around me, I never would have known there was anything at all. 

     "and on that day, 
     the tombs of the earth shall yawn open
     and the sea shall give up her dread fruits"

There was light in the water above me. Daylight, I thought. I found I could move swiftly through the water now, without even swimming, but rather like part of the current itself. It grew brighter and brighter the close I came, until I finally breached the surface. It was a clear, clean day. The sun was high and bright. I felt not its warmth, nor the wind that rilled the waves around me. I felt not hunger, nor exhaustion. I felt nothing.

I looked about. Everything except the sun itself was grey and sepia. I could make out, quite near, a small atoll or island. I moved toward it, again as a current. As I came closer, I saw figures on the beach: men in loincloths holding spears, watching me come. Something stirred in my chest.

The seabed gradually rose until I could walk upon it toward them. I rose up out of the sea and they stood staring, frozen, spears raised, silent. I kept coming. Something caught my eye, behind this group of warriors. A crumpled figure, bound in crude rope. A white boy. Not like one of these tan-skinned islanders. 

The sea ran down me in cascades of torrent. I stopped and stood before them, then looked down at myself. My clothes were rags, shredded and nearly gone; great gashes and cuts gouged my arms, sides, legs. A large bite-mark and wound on my upper thigh startled me; I did not remember being bitten. The warriors stood and stared and muttered.

Suddenly, a wave pushed onto the beach a piece of detritus. I looked and saw it was a concertina. I bent to lift it; water poured from its bellows, but otherwise it was undamaged. I peered at it, peered at the bound boy. I smiled, I knew. 

I squeezed the concertina, bringing the two ends together, unleashing a watery, wailing moan. The bound boy stirred at the sound. A fire kindled within me. The sound had barely died out before I was rushing headlong toward them, biting into them as I passed, tearing hunks of them with my fingers as I grabbed and them. The boy burst his bonds and was soon in the fray as well, gnashing and ripping and slashing with his teeth and hands. 

Soon, it was he and I alone. Slathered in gore, he took up the concertina. I lay back and stared out to sea as he played that maddening song about the shipwreck, the one that only had four words. 
2
0
0
Juice
3 reads
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Write about your best friend.
Written by jwelker76

The Green Lantern

The first time I met him I was riding a city bus

down to the piers to see the tall ships and the

Norwegian submarine that had docked for the 

maritime fair. The bus stopped and he got on

and flopped into the seat next to me. He smiled

and pointed at me and said, I like your shirt, and

I looked down, because I couldn't remember what was

special about it. Green Lantern. Thanks, I said smiling back,

and he pulled up his own shirt and tugged down the

waistband of his pants, showing that he was wearing

Green Lantern boxer shorts. He laughed, pulling his 

shirt back down. We were both twelve, both guileless.

The ride was long, with many stops, and we talked

the whole way, as though we had known each other

forever, because sometimes it is easy for boys to do that

when they are young, mostly about comic books, but

also about what music we liked, what we liked to do.

He was the first boy my age I had met who liked to write, 

like I did. He even reached into his back pocket

and took out a small, passport-style notebook and let me

look through some of the things he had jotted down.

Toward the back he had drawn, very well, a topless

Asian girl with beautiful breasts fondling an extremely

phallic-looking and massive banana; there was a thought bubble

above her head that said "I love banana cream!!!!!!!"

He laughed nervously and took it back, saying sorry, and

blushing, I forgot that was in there. It's good, I said, 

you're a good artist. He hadn't been planning to go to the

maritime fair, but when my stop came, he got off with me and

we spent the day on the tall ships and the submarine,

and even played, for a few moments, pirates, like we

were little boys. We rode the bus home, we passed the place

where he had gotten on and kept going. At my stop, he got off

again, at we stood at the bus stop like the ending of a first date,

both awkward, both hoping the other wants to hang out again,

both lonely boys too afraid the other can see the desperation in 

each others' eyes, the possibilities. He reached into his pocket

and thrust a crumpled piece of paper at me, said bye quickly

and turned and jogged off. I opened the paper; it was his name

and phone number. The next day I called him, and we grew up

slowly after that, writing together, hiking in the mountains,

swimming, inventing games, but most often just talking

and dreaming up stories together. We went to different schools,

but saw each other every day, we met girls and went on

double dates, we got our drivers licenses on the same day

and drove each other around the town, we slept with the same

girl and it brought us closer and further than we had ever been.

I went to California (partially because), he stayed here and died of leukemia.

Once, for my birthday, he made me a Green Lantern ring

out of a plastic bottle top and it looked like the real thing.

In his hospital room I sat at his bedside and tried to put it on

but I was eighteen now and the ring was made for a boy's fingers.

I reminded him that one of the ring's powers was to grant its wearer

the ability to time travel, and he smiled and turned onto his side,

and said, the tall ships, and we sailed, in my mind, 

over the edge of the map. 

9
6
4
Juice
28 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Write about your best friend.
Written by jwelker76
The Green Lantern
The first time I met him I was riding a city bus
down to the piers to see the tall ships and the
Norwegian submarine that had docked for the 
maritime fair. The bus stopped and he got on
and flopped into the seat next to me. He smiled
and pointed at me and said, I like your shirt, and
I looked down, because I couldn't remember what was
special about it. Green Lantern. Thanks, I said smiling back,
and he pulled up his own shirt and tugged down the
waistband of his pants, showing that he was wearing
Green Lantern boxer shorts. He laughed, pulling his 
shirt back down. We were both twelve, both guileless.
The ride was long, with many stops, and we talked
the whole way, as though we had known each other
forever, because sometimes it is easy for boys to do that
when they are young, mostly about comic books, but
also about what music we liked, what we liked to do.
He was the first boy my age I had met who liked to write, 
like I did. He even reached into his back pocket
and took out a small, passport-style notebook and let me
look through some of the things he had jotted down.
Toward the back he had drawn, very well, a topless
Asian girl with beautiful breasts fondling an extremely
phallic-looking and massive banana; there was a thought bubble
above her head that said "I love banana cream!!!!!!!"
He laughed nervously and took it back, saying sorry, and
blushing, I forgot that was in there. It's good, I said, 
you're a good artist. He hadn't been planning to go to the
maritime fair, but when my stop came, he got off with me and
we spent the day on the tall ships and the submarine,
and even played, for a few moments, pirates, like we
were little boys. We rode the bus home, we passed the place
where he had gotten on and kept going. At my stop, he got off
again, at we stood at the bus stop like the ending of a first date,
both awkward, both hoping the other wants to hang out again,
both lonely boys too afraid the other can see the desperation in 
each others' eyes, the possibilities. He reached into his pocket
and thrust a crumpled piece of paper at me, said bye quickly
and turned and jogged off. I opened the paper; it was his name
and phone number. The next day I called him, and we grew up
slowly after that, writing together, hiking in the mountains,
swimming, inventing games, but most often just talking
and dreaming up stories together. We went to different schools,
but saw each other every day, we met girls and went on
double dates, we got our drivers licenses on the same day
and drove each other around the town, we slept with the same
girl and it brought us closer and further than we had ever been.
I went to California (partially because), he stayed here and died of leukemia.
Once, for my birthday, he made me a Green Lantern ring
out of a plastic bottle top and it looked like the real thing.
In his hospital room I sat at his bedside and tried to put it on
but I was eighteen now and the ring was made for a boy's fingers.
I reminded him that one of the ring's powers was to grant its wearer
the ability to time travel, and he smiled and turned onto his side,
and said, the tall ships, and we sailed, in my mind, 
over the edge of the map. 
9
6
4
Juice
28 reads
Load 4 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76

Cosmonaut

We should have left the fortune teller's

and gone out into the streets of Rotterdam

looking for drinks and girls 

when she mistook us for boyfriends

instead of brothers, but we stayed anyway, 

because we were already drunk and the girls

all liked other boys.

My head was spinning as I sat beside you,

across from her, with her silk scarves and 

Romanian cigarettes. I was disappointed

there was no crystal ball in the center

of the round table, just a blank,

red tableclothed surface. She demanded your hand,

and you obliged, putting one palm up.

She took it - Madame Cecilie, her name just

came back to me - almost sensuously, as though

she wanted to lift it to her lips and lick your fingers.

She traced the long line across your palm, 

and asked your name and age. It is strange

to say, but I have always loved your hands:

long-fingered, slender and tapering, clean and smooth,

small-knuckled, a piano player's hands.

They are just like mine, and I love my own hands.

 Madame then asked for mine, and I laid it palm up

as well, and she traced my lines, asked my name and age.

The basement room is hot, and in the small doorway

hung with long beads behind her, I can see a small

girl standing watching us, holding a small cup of tea.

She bent over our hands, eyelashes fluttering on our palms,

then sat up, her eyes closed and said in a husky voice,

     There are stars and there is blackness between stars.

     There is morning, day, evening, but only is there night

     when the sun sets. There is the sea and the rain,

     yet what is the sea but a multitude of rain?

This is not a fortune, she said, and stood. She went into the back

and returned with a bottle of red wine and three glasses.

She poured and gave us each a glass, lifted her own and said,

To the blackness between stars, and gulped hers down.

It sounded ominous; you looked at me and I saw fear 

in the drunken blear of your eye. We drank anyway.

You, she said, pointing at you, will bear an unbearable journey.

You, she said, pointing to me, will not bear his unbearable journey.

This is a fortune. She held out her hand palm up, and I dug into

the pockets of my tight jeans and gave her money.

We left, thanking her, laughing under our breaths, 

into the cool, wet night. I looked up, you put your arm

around my shoulder, and we stood staring at the

blackness between stars, and I understood what Madame

had meant. 

The night you died, I carried you in my arms

under stars into the hospital. They wheeled you away

and I stood outside and counted the empty places

above, and I remembered hearing that all the

starlight we see is hurtling across the cosmos

from stars that are already dead and have sent their

final blasts of radiance outward.

If we had left her shop, I thought, and stopped,

because light will travel for

tens of thousands of years,

if only it is seen. 

     

8
1
3
Juice
14 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76
Cosmonaut
We should have left the fortune teller's
and gone out into the streets of Rotterdam
looking for drinks and girls 
when she mistook us for boyfriends
instead of brothers, but we stayed anyway, 
because we were already drunk and the girls
all liked other boys.
My head was spinning as I sat beside you,
across from her, with her silk scarves and 
Romanian cigarettes. I was disappointed
there was no crystal ball in the center
of the round table, just a blank,
red tableclothed surface. She demanded your hand,
and you obliged, putting one palm up.
She took it - Madame Cecilie, her name just
came back to me - almost sensuously, as though
she wanted to lift it to her lips and lick your fingers.
She traced the long line across your palm, 
and asked your name and age. It is strange
to say, but I have always loved your hands:
long-fingered, slender and tapering, clean and smooth,
small-knuckled, a piano player's hands.
They are just like mine, and I love my own hands.
 Madame then asked for mine, and I laid it palm up
as well, and she traced my lines, asked my name and age.
The basement room is hot, and in the small doorway
hung with long beads behind her, I can see a small
girl standing watching us, holding a small cup of tea.
She bent over our hands, eyelashes fluttering on our palms,
then sat up, her eyes closed and said in a husky voice,
     There are stars and there is blackness between stars.
     There is morning, day, evening, but only is there night
     when the sun sets. There is the sea and the rain,
     yet what is the sea but a multitude of rain?
This is not a fortune, she said, and stood. She went into the back
and returned with a bottle of red wine and three glasses.
She poured and gave us each a glass, lifted her own and said,
To the blackness between stars, and gulped hers down.
It sounded ominous; you looked at me and I saw fear 
in the drunken blear of your eye. We drank anyway.
You, she said, pointing at you, will bear an unbearable journey.
You, she said, pointing to me, will not bear his unbearable journey.
This is a fortune. She held out her hand palm up, and I dug into
the pockets of my tight jeans and gave her money.
We left, thanking her, laughing under our breaths, 
into the cool, wet night. I looked up, you put your arm
around my shoulder, and we stood staring at the
blackness between stars, and I understood what Madame
had meant. 
The night you died, I carried you in my arms
under stars into the hospital. They wheeled you away
and I stood outside and counted the empty places
above, and I remembered hearing that all the
starlight we see is hurtling across the cosmos
from stars that are already dead and have sent their
final blasts of radiance outward.
If we had left her shop, I thought, and stopped,
because light will travel for
tens of thousands of years,
if only it is seen. 
     
8
1
3
Juice
14 reads
Load 3 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76

The Last Time I Sleepwalked

On a warm summer night when I was eleven

I woke up 

standing in the middle of the street

in nothing but my Spider-Man underwear

at three in the morning, with no idea

where I was. 

Dark, silent houses lined the street;

overhead the moon was bright,

the sky was clear and full of stars.

There was a streetlight on the corner ahead.

I was terrified and began to tremble.

I had sleepwalked before, but never very far:

downstairs, across the hall, into the backyard.

Never like this.

I wrapped my arms around my body and went toward

the streetlight. When I got there I read the signpost.

Arvid Avenue and Liberty Bell Lane.

My friend Sam lived on Arvid, I knew that, but I had

never heard of Liberty Bell Lane. I stood on the corner,

looking left then right then left then right

trying to decide which way to go, and finally

turned left, because I am left-handed and 

in the moment it seemed important.

I walked on the sidewalk, fast with my head down,

the hard concrete striking my bare heels and

sending shocks up my shins to my knees.

Sometimes I would glance up hoping to recognize

a house or other landmark. 

Once, a car drove past me, headlights lighting my

tan body pale: I froze, my arm shielding my eyes, 

but the car drove on without slowing. 

Even today I wonder who was in that car, who

drove past a scared boy walking down the street

in his underwear in the middle of the night.

Maybe they didn't see me, maybe I imagined it.

I walked for twenty minutes before I saw Sam's house. 

From there I ran home, my heart pounding in my ears, 

my legs burning in pain, not enough air to fill my lungs.

I stood before my dark house, staring, my body heaving.

The front door was closed; I went around and through

the open back door. 

My father was asleep on the couch in front of the television.

My mother was at work at the hospital.

My brother was upstairs, asleep in our room.

I slid the door shut behind me, and it woke my father,

who stirred from the couch with a grunt and said,

What's that

and peered into the dark at me, and said

What's wrong, come here, what's happened,

and I went to him and he stood and said

oh my god

you're bleeding

and I looked down and saw my shins covered in bloody scratches

and my feet sliced open. I had walked on broken glass,

walked through sticker bushes. I had scratches

on my arms and chest and stomach.

He enfolded me in a warm embrace, shaking, and

said let's get cleaned up, and as he led me to the bathroom

I told him, I was walking. And he said, Where,

but instead I told him the wonderful dream I had had,

where I was an astronaut on a far-off planet 

that was just like home, and so I searched the sky above

for something familiar, to tell them all

the good news, that we are not alone.

12
5
3
Juice
27 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76
The Last Time I Sleepwalked
On a warm summer night when I was eleven
I woke up 
standing in the middle of the street
in nothing but my Spider-Man underwear
at three in the morning, with no idea
where I was. 
Dark, silent houses lined the street;
overhead the moon was bright,
the sky was clear and full of stars.
There was a streetlight on the corner ahead.
I was terrified and began to tremble.
I had sleepwalked before, but never very far:
downstairs, across the hall, into the backyard.
Never like this.
I wrapped my arms around my body and went toward
the streetlight. When I got there I read the signpost.
Arvid Avenue and Liberty Bell Lane.
My friend Sam lived on Arvid, I knew that, but I had
never heard of Liberty Bell Lane. I stood on the corner,
looking left then right then left then right
trying to decide which way to go, and finally
turned left, because I am left-handed and 
in the moment it seemed important.
I walked on the sidewalk, fast with my head down,
the hard concrete striking my bare heels and
sending shocks up my shins to my knees.
Sometimes I would glance up hoping to recognize
a house or other landmark. 
Once, a car drove past me, headlights lighting my
tan body pale: I froze, my arm shielding my eyes, 
but the car drove on without slowing. 
Even today I wonder who was in that car, who
drove past a scared boy walking down the street
in his underwear in the middle of the night.
Maybe they didn't see me, maybe I imagined it.
I walked for twenty minutes before I saw Sam's house. 
From there I ran home, my heart pounding in my ears, 
my legs burning in pain, not enough air to fill my lungs.
I stood before my dark house, staring, my body heaving.
The front door was closed; I went around and through
the open back door. 
My father was asleep on the couch in front of the television.
My mother was at work at the hospital.
My brother was upstairs, asleep in our room.
I slid the door shut behind me, and it woke my father,
who stirred from the couch with a grunt and said,
What's that
and peered into the dark at me, and said
What's wrong, come here, what's happened,
and I went to him and he stood and said
oh my god
you're bleeding
and I looked down and saw my shins covered in bloody scratches
and my feet sliced open. I had walked on broken glass,
walked through sticker bushes. I had scratches
on my arms and chest and stomach.
He enfolded me in a warm embrace, shaking, and
said let's get cleaned up, and as he led me to the bathroom
I told him, I was walking. And he said, Where,
but instead I told him the wonderful dream I had had,
where I was an astronaut on a far-off planet 
that was just like home, and so I searched the sky above
for something familiar, to tell them all
the good news, that we are not alone.
12
5
3
Juice
27 reads
Load 3 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76

The Painted Stars

I read an eyewitness account a few days after, so I know what it looked like from down there, in the seats. I hadn't meant to read it; Dad and Mom had studiously hidden any newspapers and hadn't turned the t.v. on since the accident. But I had walking from the trailer down the midway, head down and hunkered between my shoulders, toward the animal pens when a wind blew a crumpled ball of pages against my shin. I stopped, as though they were shackles, and bent down.

It was the local paper, a small town fish-wrapper of the kind that usually gave glowing coverage to the Elks Club dinner and the ice cream social on the Town Hall Yard every summer. This issue was different. CIRCUS ACCIDENT LEAVES 1 DEAD.

I had no memory of what happened. It's maybe a good thing I read the eyewitness report, the memories of Mrs. Evelyn Marks, 48, who attended the performance with her husband and two sons. Even though she had been thirty feet below me, below us, her words filled in the gaps that yawned like a canyon between before and after.

Rafe and I are twin brothers; we had been born in the circus and trained since before we could walk to perform. For fourteen years we drew them into the big top, first as cavorting little clowns, and then as we grew, as acrobats and tumblers. We have been doing the high-trapeze act for five years. There is something magical, I hear over and over again after a show, to see two identical boys, barely out of childhood, swinging and flipping through the air like birds of prey on the hunt. And to me yes, there was always magic in the split second before one of our outstretched hands, chalked and strong, with nothing but empty space below it, neared and then touched the other's hand and the slight crackle of electricity shivered up the arm as the fingers wrapped tightly around the others' wrist and he slid off the bar, weightless for an instant until all his weight settled at the end of your grip.

Mrs. Marks, according to the paper, said the act was flawless up until the moment of the accident. She was vivid in her recollection: our silver lycra bodysuits, our slicked-back hair, the spotlight burning in the dark tent, the murmur and wild applause of the crowd each time we caught the other or flipped or soared. It was flawless, we were always flawless. We were perfect, in town after town, show after show.

At first, we had had a net, but because we were always perfect, Dad dismantled it for the Calgary show a few years ago, and charged an extra two dollars a ticket. Now its just sawdust down there, and each time I climbed the long ladder up to the platform as the band played Rafe and I's theme song, I would spit halfway up and try to watch it all the way to the ground as I climbed, growing exponentially further and further from the little wet part of myself until it finally splashed onto the dust and I looked up to see the rungs of the ladder rising up into the dark.

When we were seven, Dad had had an artist paint stars on the ceiling of the tent. We loved it, it made us look like we were flying through a clear night sky. In our silver, with our black hair and our pale skin we must have looked like phantoms swirling in the night above a terrified and awestruck village.

In everything Rafe and I were as one, and so we were the perfect trapeze act; we could anticipate the other, almost read the others' mind as people are always afraid twins can do. We ate the same food, slept in the same bed, had the same dreams sometimes. Nothing was more natural to me than his hand around my wrist, mine around his, swinging through the beams of spotlight. Legs curled around the bar, bodies stretched and yearning toward the other, a vastness below and a sea of upturned, nervous pinpricks, sucking the air from the whole tent into their lungs and not letting it out until one had caught the other, so it seemed there was sometimes not enough air for he and I.

Mrs. Marks said it had taken her breath away, the boys had. Mine too, if truth be told. It was always that way; partway through the act I would notice I had been holding my breath too, just like them, and I'd let it out slowly, waiting for Rafe to swing back toward me. I remember the low burning in my chest, the murmuring thump of my heartbeat in my ears, a flash of silver in a shaft of golden light.

My arm, my fingers I willed to their furthest points, stretching out; my legs and body swung hard toward the oncoming phantom, my back arcing, my head back, my eyes open searching the space between. That's all I remember.

The next thing I knew was the silence of hundreds, the intake of gasps and the waiting dread. I read the article over and over, wishing I had been in two places at once, up in the air with Rafe and down in the seats with Mrs. Marks and her family, to see, falling end over end, elegant even in distress, a silver trickle down the black canvas; an explosion of wood chips. I swung like a pendulum, she told the paper. Back and forth, until momentum died and I hung upside down like a bat, arms hanging down, head slack, legs tightly curled around the bar.

I could have let go, could have unfurled my long legs and slid through the dark to be with him. I must have been afraid, or else I would have. The spotlight was cut, she said, the whole place was dark for a moment, and then people began to scream and cry. There was nothing but them and us in the dark, a lone silver phantom dangling like a sickly moon knocked from its orbit, who has lost its companion satellite.

9
3
6
Juice
26 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76
The Painted Stars
I read an eyewitness account a few days after, so I know what it looked like from down there, in the seats. I hadn't meant to read it; Dad and Mom had studiously hidden any newspapers and hadn't turned the t.v. on since the accident. But I had walking from the trailer down the midway, head down and hunkered between my shoulders, toward the animal pens when a wind blew a crumpled ball of pages against my shin. I stopped, as though they were shackles, and bent down.

It was the local paper, a small town fish-wrapper of the kind that usually gave glowing coverage to the Elks Club dinner and the ice cream social on the Town Hall Yard every summer. This issue was different. CIRCUS ACCIDENT LEAVES 1 DEAD.

I had no memory of what happened. It's maybe a good thing I read the eyewitness report, the memories of Mrs. Evelyn Marks, 48, who attended the performance with her husband and two sons. Even though she had been thirty feet below me, below us, her words filled in the gaps that yawned like a canyon between before and after.

Rafe and I are twin brothers; we had been born in the circus and trained since before we could walk to perform. For fourteen years we drew them into the big top, first as cavorting little clowns, and then as we grew, as acrobats and tumblers. We have been doing the high-trapeze act for five years. There is something magical, I hear over and over again after a show, to see two identical boys, barely out of childhood, swinging and flipping through the air like birds of prey on the hunt. And to me yes, there was always magic in the split second before one of our outstretched hands, chalked and strong, with nothing but empty space below it, neared and then touched the other's hand and the slight crackle of electricity shivered up the arm as the fingers wrapped tightly around the others' wrist and he slid off the bar, weightless for an instant until all his weight settled at the end of your grip.

Mrs. Marks, according to the paper, said the act was flawless up until the moment of the accident. She was vivid in her recollection: our silver lycra bodysuits, our slicked-back hair, the spotlight burning in the dark tent, the murmur and wild applause of the crowd each time we caught the other or flipped or soared. It was flawless, we were always flawless. We were perfect, in town after town, show after show.

At first, we had had a net, but because we were always perfect, Dad dismantled it for the Calgary show a few years ago, and charged an extra two dollars a ticket. Now its just sawdust down there, and each time I climbed the long ladder up to the platform as the band played Rafe and I's theme song, I would spit halfway up and try to watch it all the way to the ground as I climbed, growing exponentially further and further from the little wet part of myself until it finally splashed onto the dust and I looked up to see the rungs of the ladder rising up into the dark.

When we were seven, Dad had had an artist paint stars on the ceiling of the tent. We loved it, it made us look like we were flying through a clear night sky. In our silver, with our black hair and our pale skin we must have looked like phantoms swirling in the night above a terrified and awestruck village.

In everything Rafe and I were as one, and so we were the perfect trapeze act; we could anticipate the other, almost read the others' mind as people are always afraid twins can do. We ate the same food, slept in the same bed, had the same dreams sometimes. Nothing was more natural to me than his hand around my wrist, mine around his, swinging through the beams of spotlight. Legs curled around the bar, bodies stretched and yearning toward the other, a vastness below and a sea of upturned, nervous pinpricks, sucking the air from the whole tent into their lungs and not letting it out until one had caught the other, so it seemed there was sometimes not enough air for he and I.

Mrs. Marks said it had taken her breath away, the boys had. Mine too, if truth be told. It was always that way; partway through the act I would notice I had been holding my breath too, just like them, and I'd let it out slowly, waiting for Rafe to swing back toward me. I remember the low burning in my chest, the murmuring thump of my heartbeat in my ears, a flash of silver in a shaft of golden light.

My arm, my fingers I willed to their furthest points, stretching out; my legs and body swung hard toward the oncoming phantom, my back arcing, my head back, my eyes open searching the space between. That's all I remember.

The next thing I knew was the silence of hundreds, the intake of gasps and the waiting dread. I read the article over and over, wishing I had been in two places at once, up in the air with Rafe and down in the seats with Mrs. Marks and her family, to see, falling end over end, elegant even in distress, a silver trickle down the black canvas; an explosion of wood chips. I swung like a pendulum, she told the paper. Back and forth, until momentum died and I hung upside down like a bat, arms hanging down, head slack, legs tightly curled around the bar.

I could have let go, could have unfurled my long legs and slid through the dark to be with him. I must have been afraid, or else I would have. The spotlight was cut, she said, the whole place was dark for a moment, and then people began to scream and cry. There was nothing but them and us in the dark, a lone silver phantom dangling like a sickly moon knocked from its orbit, who has lost its companion satellite.
9
3
6
Juice
26 reads
Load 6 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Break my heart in 1000 words or less.
Written by jwelker76

Quartet (One Sleeping, Two Crying, One Trying Not to Cry)

There has been a terrible mistake,

the woman tells us, her eyes filling with tears

that she does not let spill over and down 

her cheeks, as I do mine, as you do yours.

I feel plunged in sudden darkness and silence

and I move my hand like a blind person

searching for a wall to lean against, 

trying to find your hand. Your fingers

link with mine and not for the first time

I notice how soft your hands are; it is like

you have never used them for anything hard.

Her lips are moving, her eyes are looking down

at the folder open on her desk; every now and again

she glances up, but it is obviously too painful 

and so she looks down at her folder again.

I can't hear anything she is saying, I will need you

to repeat it back to me a thousand thousand times

from today until we are dead. 

My insides feel hollow, as though freshly dug out;

I had this feeling the first time we met you,

but it was a pleasant sensation then.

As we passed row after row of little beds, hopeful

faces watching us pass, sinking back into pillows once

we had moved on, I swear I could feel

the wind rushing through my stomach, my lower abdomen,

cleansing me of what was never there.

Now, you are lying at our feet, asleep, curled around

a stuffed rabbit. There has been a terrible mistake,

they tell me, and the emptiness I feel in my body

is the size and shape of you, although you were never there.

When you want something more than your own life,

lifetimes get poured into days, into hours; even minutes

are celestial eons. How much time is now on the brink

of disappearing? How many seconds, milliseconds, birthdays?

Am I already resigned  to this? You are not even gone, yet.

Yet. Yet. 

At my feet you begin to stir out of sleep, roused by the sadness perhaps, 

or the sound that is made my sadnesses, and I think how awful

it is that you are waking up right now, right at this moment. 

So I sink to the floor and burrow myself against your smallness

and whisper, go back to sleep, although you don't know our language.

Not yet. 

10
0
4
Juice
47 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Break my heart in 1000 words or less.
Written by jwelker76
Quartet (One Sleeping, Two Crying, One Trying Not to Cry)
There has been a terrible mistake,
the woman tells us, her eyes filling with tears
that she does not let spill over and down 
her cheeks, as I do mine, as you do yours.
I feel plunged in sudden darkness and silence
and I move my hand like a blind person
searching for a wall to lean against, 
trying to find your hand. Your fingers
link with mine and not for the first time
I notice how soft your hands are; it is like
you have never used them for anything hard.
Her lips are moving, her eyes are looking down
at the folder open on her desk; every now and again
she glances up, but it is obviously too painful 
and so she looks down at her folder again.
I can't hear anything she is saying, I will need you
to repeat it back to me a thousand thousand times
from today until we are dead. 
My insides feel hollow, as though freshly dug out;
I had this feeling the first time we met you,
but it was a pleasant sensation then.
As we passed row after row of little beds, hopeful
faces watching us pass, sinking back into pillows once
we had moved on, I swear I could feel
the wind rushing through my stomach, my lower abdomen,
cleansing me of what was never there.
Now, you are lying at our feet, asleep, curled around
a stuffed rabbit. There has been a terrible mistake,
they tell me, and the emptiness I feel in my body
is the size and shape of you, although you were never there.
When you want something more than your own life,
lifetimes get poured into days, into hours; even minutes
are celestial eons. How much time is now on the brink
of disappearing? How many seconds, milliseconds, birthdays?
Am I already resigned  to this? You are not even gone, yet.
Yet. Yet. 
At my feet you begin to stir out of sleep, roused by the sadness perhaps, 
or the sound that is made my sadnesses, and I think how awful
it is that you are waking up right now, right at this moment. 
So I sink to the floor and burrow myself against your smallness
and whisper, go back to sleep, although you don't know our language.
Not yet. 
10
0
4
Juice
47 reads
Load 4 Comments
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76

Enter Laughing

My brother and I assumed

that it was just another Monday -

it is tempting to add something here

like "in retrospect, foolishly"

because that is what I would

normally write, but it's always

easiest to see the foolishness

of the past when we are safely out of its

grip.    We sat on our front porch, 

waiting for the school bus; across the street

mothers were kissing fathers goodbye,

kids were streaming outdoors.

The milkman had just parked his truck

and was loading up a wire crate with cartons,

when my brother and I, glancing up at the

sound of rattling glass bottles, saw the milkman

freeze and point up at the sky, screaming

hysterically. We both jumped up and ran out 

into the yard, looking up at where the milkman

was pointing, into the blue, clear morning sky,

and we saw, quite clearly, quite undeniably - 

for its contours and shapes were unmistakable -

nothing at all. The milkman dropped the crate

and glass bottles shattered and milk exploded

onto the sidewalk in front of our house. Our mother

ran onto the porch at the sound and looked up also,

calling out to us, What is it, what is it, and my brother

and I had looked at each other and then at her, 

and shrugged. We all stood, motionless for a moment,

until another mother, Mrs. Kupcin from next door,

went to the milkman and put her arm around his shoulder

and led him into her house. My brother and I turned

and walked to the bus stop, our mother going in and

coming back out with a broom to sweep up the broken

bottles. Watch out for the glass, she called to us, 

as we sidestepped chunks of dead milk bottle. 

What was that, my brother asked, and I looked over his

shoulder, up into the morning sky and saw again

repeating over and over, limitless to the farthest

reaches of observable time and vision, nothing.

Many years later, I was playing at the Kupcins' house

with their son, and Mrs. Kupcin brought me a glass of

milk. It had been a long time since I had thought of the

milkman, but the glass before me brought him back to mind,

and so I asked her what had happened when she had

brought him inside. She didn't answer me for a long time

but when she did, she said: go play with Ryan. 

And I was confused, because her son was named Alexander. 

6
4
0
Juice
22 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76
Enter Laughing
My brother and I assumed
that it was just another Monday -
it is tempting to add something here
like "in retrospect, foolishly"
because that is what I would
normally write, but it's always
easiest to see the foolishness
of the past when we are safely out of its
grip.    We sat on our front porch, 
waiting for the school bus; across the street
mothers were kissing fathers goodbye,
kids were streaming outdoors.
The milkman had just parked his truck
and was loading up a wire crate with cartons,
when my brother and I, glancing up at the
sound of rattling glass bottles, saw the milkman
freeze and point up at the sky, screaming
hysterically. We both jumped up and ran out 
into the yard, looking up at where the milkman
was pointing, into the blue, clear morning sky,
and we saw, quite clearly, quite undeniably - 
for its contours and shapes were unmistakable -
nothing at all. The milkman dropped the crate
and glass bottles shattered and milk exploded
onto the sidewalk in front of our house. Our mother
ran onto the porch at the sound and looked up also,
calling out to us, What is it, what is it, and my brother
and I had looked at each other and then at her, 
and shrugged. We all stood, motionless for a moment,
until another mother, Mrs. Kupcin from next door,
went to the milkman and put her arm around his shoulder
and led him into her house. My brother and I turned
and walked to the bus stop, our mother going in and
coming back out with a broom to sweep up the broken
bottles. Watch out for the glass, she called to us, 
as we sidestepped chunks of dead milk bottle. 
What was that, my brother asked, and I looked over his
shoulder, up into the morning sky and saw again
repeating over and over, limitless to the farthest
reaches of observable time and vision, nothing.

Many years later, I was playing at the Kupcins' house
with their son, and Mrs. Kupcin brought me a glass of
milk. It had been a long time since I had thought of the
milkman, but the glass before me brought him back to mind,
and so I asked her what had happened when she had
brought him inside. She didn't answer me for a long time
but when she did, she said: go play with Ryan. 
And I was confused, because her son was named Alexander. 

6
4
0
Juice
22 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
I saw him / her today... Start writing a poem, a story, haiku or fiction, that starts with the line above. You can use the two point of views. Tag me
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Courtesy of

I saw her today

in the window of the bookshop

on Parker Avenue; not the actual her,

but her picture. Her picture 

on the back of her book.

Her book, that she had been writing

when I loved her, when we lived together,

twenty years ago, at least. 

She finally did it, I thought, stopping

to peer in the window, fighting the urge

to just go inside and snatch up a copy,

partly to flip through the pages to see

if I was in it, however veiled; and partly

just to stare at the picture of her, an old picture

I could tell even from outside - 

I ought to know, I had taken it

decades ago on Martha's Vineyard.

She is wearing a cream-colored cable-knit

turtleneck, and the grey sea and sky

are behind her. It was a windy day, but

some miracle of photography had captured her

when the wind had left her hair in place,

so she looked stunning - grey eyes, 

windburned cheeks, little lines at the edges of the mouth.

At her feet, I remember though of course it is not

in the author jacket photo, is a bucket of oysters

we had dug that morning, and would eat raw only

some few minutes after this picture was taken.

That was the picture she had used, to show herself

to the world, to sell her book.

What does that say? There is probably some

commentary to be made upon the difficulties

and sexism faced by aging females in all lines of work,

and I am sympathetic, really I am. None

of my books even have my picture on them. 

But the only thing that makes any sense to me,

looking at her ensquared in the bottom left-hand corner

of the hardback edition of the domestic drama

that was always a part of the real one we lived,

I cannot help but remember that after I took the picture

and our son Kevin came bounding up from the beach

carrying a whip of kelp ten feet long,

she had said to me, It is never going to end, 

and foolishly I thought she had meant us.

20
5
2
Juice
38 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
I saw him / her today... Start writing a poem, a story, haiku or fiction, that starts with the line above. You can use the two point of views. Tag me
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Courtesy of
I saw her today
in the window of the bookshop
on Parker Avenue; not the actual her,
but her picture. Her picture 
on the back of her book.
Her book, that she had been writing
when I loved her, when we lived together,
twenty years ago, at least. 
She finally did it, I thought, stopping
to peer in the window, fighting the urge
to just go inside and snatch up a copy,
partly to flip through the pages to see
if I was in it, however veiled; and partly
just to stare at the picture of her, an old picture
I could tell even from outside - 
I ought to know, I had taken it
decades ago on Martha's Vineyard.
She is wearing a cream-colored cable-knit
turtleneck, and the grey sea and sky
are behind her. It was a windy day, but
some miracle of photography had captured her
when the wind had left her hair in place,
so she looked stunning - grey eyes, 
windburned cheeks, little lines at the edges of the mouth.
At her feet, I remember though of course it is not
in the author jacket photo, is a bucket of oysters
we had dug that morning, and would eat raw only
some few minutes after this picture was taken.
That was the picture she had used, to show herself
to the world, to sell her book.
What does that say? There is probably some
commentary to be made upon the difficulties
and sexism faced by aging females in all lines of work,
and I am sympathetic, really I am. None
of my books even have my picture on them. 
But the only thing that makes any sense to me,
looking at her ensquared in the bottom left-hand corner
of the hardback edition of the domestic drama
that was always a part of the real one we lived,
I cannot help but remember that after I took the picture
and our son Kevin came bounding up from the beach
carrying a whip of kelp ten feet long,
she had said to me, It is never going to end, 
and foolishly I thought she had meant us.
20
5
2
Juice
38 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
I'm writing a book about a notebook with many sad and happy poems. I was originally going to write the poems but thought of letting you guys write them. So in as many words as you feel, write a happy or sad poem, and it may be in the book(with your permission) and all credit for the poem given to you of course! Tag me so I can read them, thanks!
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Moccasin

There is a cricket in the tall grass

at my elbow, chirping irregularly

in the warm evening

as the sky purples into night.

We are side by side in the field

behind my house, near the pond

where we spent the afternoon

skinny-dipping. Under my head

is a Spider-Man comic book, 

under yours your t-shirt.

A breeze runs up my shins, 

my inner thighs, over my stomach,

across my chest, up my neck

and into my hair and away, 

and I feel - though I don't know - 

that I've been kissed from my toes

to my crown by gentle, delicate lips

not unlike yours. I think you are asleep;

I can hear, beneath the rustling grass,

the deep rhythmic cycle of your breath.

I close my eyes and remember your 

body slipping through the water

like a snake, and I remember how we met:

I was walking the river path and I saw you

bent like a reed over the bank, hanging from

a curving willow branch, dipping your long

fingers into the slow-moving stream. I stopped

in my tracks, I surely did, and looked at you,

slim and golden and fearless. Someday,

I told myself, I will kiss you. 

It feels very much like someday now,

in the tall grass, your thin chest rising

and falling beside me, the smell of 

sunshine on your skin, your freckled shoulder

warm next to mine. 

Somedays, though, pile up, accumulate;

like counting the seconds between a

lightning strike and a thunderclap -

anticipation, fear, and then

the storm has moved on far away,

into someone else's sky. 

Perhaps I will never kiss you;

or I will do it now, or now, or now.

Or turn my heartbeat into a

cricket's chirping, a nocturne

for your dreaming mind, your 

unmoored body, to sail you closer

to the shore of my own sea.

13
5
5
Juice
37 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
I'm writing a book about a notebook with many sad and happy poems. I was originally going to write the poems but thought of letting you guys write them. So in as many words as you feel, write a happy or sad poem, and it may be in the book(with your permission) and all credit for the poem given to you of course! Tag me so I can read them, thanks!
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Moccasin
There is a cricket in the tall grass
at my elbow, chirping irregularly
in the warm evening
as the sky purples into night.
We are side by side in the field
behind my house, near the pond
where we spent the afternoon
skinny-dipping. Under my head
is a Spider-Man comic book, 
under yours your t-shirt.
A breeze runs up my shins, 
my inner thighs, over my stomach,
across my chest, up my neck
and into my hair and away, 
and I feel - though I don't know - 
that I've been kissed from my toes
to my crown by gentle, delicate lips
not unlike yours. I think you are asleep;
I can hear, beneath the rustling grass,
the deep rhythmic cycle of your breath.
I close my eyes and remember your 
body slipping through the water
like a snake, and I remember how we met:
I was walking the river path and I saw you
bent like a reed over the bank, hanging from
a curving willow branch, dipping your long
fingers into the slow-moving stream. I stopped
in my tracks, I surely did, and looked at you,
slim and golden and fearless. Someday,
I told myself, I will kiss you. 
It feels very much like someday now,
in the tall grass, your thin chest rising
and falling beside me, the smell of 
sunshine on your skin, your freckled shoulder
warm next to mine. 
Somedays, though, pile up, accumulate;
like counting the seconds between a
lightning strike and a thunderclap -
anticipation, fear, and then
the storm has moved on far away,
into someone else's sky. 
Perhaps I will never kiss you;
or I will do it now, or now, or now.
Or turn my heartbeat into a
cricket's chirping, a nocturne
for your dreaming mind, your 
unmoored body, to sail you closer
to the shore of my own sea.

13
5
5
Juice
37 reads
Load 5 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76

The Throat

Or, Santa Monica, August 11 2004

My god you have not been idle,

I never should have doubted you.

Here I thought, to coin a phrase,

there was nothing new under

the sun. But all along, it seems

you have been up to your old tricks,

creating beautiful things

and setting them in motion

on this feeble world.

All those years of Catholic school,

of altar boys robes and kneeling,

of wafers on the tongue

and begat, begat, begat

did nothing for me, until

this moment.

I commend you, truly; 

this sinner is set free.

This is a rapture, I am sure.

I can only assume this is what

St Jerome felt, or whoever it was.

Or am I thinking of

the burning bush? 

It kneels before me now,

impossibly warm, 

impossibly deep,

impossibly tight,

opening like a flower

in bloom to consume

me. Wholly. A first.

The petals and stalks

of far Cathay, exotic

and yes, admittedly,

desperate, but I am desperate

too, and I just got paid today.

Some miracle must be taking place,

even if the water is not wine

at the end. But this is my body.

Eat of it and be saved, save me.

I truly believe.

我要射精了

9
2
0
Juice
23 reads
Donate coins to jwelker76.
Juice
Cancel
Written by jwelker76
The Throat
Or, Santa Monica, August 11 2004

My god you have not been idle,
I never should have doubted you.
Here I thought, to coin a phrase,
there was nothing new under
the sun. But all along, it seems
you have been up to your old tricks,
creating beautiful things
and setting them in motion
on this feeble world.
All those years of Catholic school,
of altar boys robes and kneeling,
of wafers on the tongue
and begat, begat, begat
did nothing for me, until
this moment.
I commend you, truly; 
this sinner is set free.
This is a rapture, I am sure.
I can only assume this is what
St Jerome felt, or whoever it was.
Or am I thinking of
the burning bush? 
It kneels before me now,
impossibly warm, 
impossibly deep,
impossibly tight,
opening like a flower
in bloom to consume
me. Wholly. A first.
The petals and stalks
of far Cathay, exotic
and yes, admittedly,
desperate, but I am desperate
too, and I just got paid today.
Some miracle must be taking place,
even if the water is not wine
at the end. But this is my body.
Eat of it and be saved, save me.
I truly believe.
我要射精了
9
2
0
Juice
23 reads
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)