Dear William S.,
Thanks for making English unnecessarily complicated to navigate. It's been hell to learn, you Bastard!
Thanks for making English unnecessarily complicated to navigate. It's been hell to learn, you Bastard!
Nightmare tickled passion's flame, with the consequence of having seared its brand upon the bone.
"The idea is to enhance the senses through sensory deprivation."
"Isn't that an oxymoron?"
"A bit, but not really."
"Oh-kay," she looked at the handcuffs fastened to the bedpost. An exceptionally skeptical eyebrow raised.
"The concept requires an open mind.."
"I'll bite," Her arms crossed betraying the opposite of the attitude he was looking for, "explain."
"The earplugs and the blindfold take sound and sight, so the focus is purely on touch."
"Those two are pretty minor."
"If you say so.." she nodded questioningly towards the restraints.
"Those ensure touch is unidirectional," he said.
"No crossover between receptive and active."
"Okay," she considered the bed and the blindfold, "where's the open mind?"
She picked up the blindfold. "I assume you're experimenting only with enhancing the sense of touch of the receptive subject."
"That's a little wasteful of potential, don't you think?"
She shook her head at him. "If I understand correctly, you're working on the theory that when deprived of major senses that the others will enhance - like the blind becoming more aware of sound, et cetera..?"
She nodded. "That should do a bit," she blindfolded him, "but did you consider the enhancing effect some senses have for each other?"
He had no idea where she was headed with this, but his brain attempted to follow anyway. "Um," unfortunately, coherent thoughts got lost somewhere between skull and vocal cords.
"When you don't see anything, there may be a heightened sense of touch, granted, but what's the point if you can't move to make use of it?"
She took his hand to place it on her shoulder. "Wouldn't it be more interesting to feel the differences in texture from fabric" - she moved his hand along her t-shirt's sleeve - "to skin, et cetera?" She let go, allowing his hand to finish on its own at her fingertips before removing the cloth from his eyes.
He blinked at her, not sure about her unprecedented reaction.
"Then there's the factor of anticipation," she covered her own eyes.
"Anticipation," His voice parroted without consulting the mind when her hands found his collar and slowly began to unbutton his shirt.
"Right," she continued, "I have to stay in contact to not lose touch (pardon the pun) with what I'm trying to accomplish. But on the receiving end," she nudged him to sit on the side of the bed, "if you were immobile," he watched her blindly fasten a handcuff around his wrist, "you would be at the mercy of anticipation, the sight of my actions, and my sense of touch." Her hands never left his torso as they found and unbuckled his belt. His mouth went dry.
"Now imagine the application of the earplugs as well," she went on in that matter-of-fact way she used for all of her theories from dna-repair to, apparently, ideas of much more immediate interest.
"All your directions and attempts at dirty talk - or even mood-music would be lost on me, and I'd have to rely solely on touch.. You'd hear the belt hit the floor," the buckle dropped with a muffled thud onto the carpet.
"I'd still have scent," she whispered near his ear as her breath tickled along his neck. Her hands slipped into his pockets. He watched her tongue moisten her lips, completely distracted by her searching fingers.
"I'd still have taste.." His pulse rang in his ears. His free arm reached out of its own accord to encircle her waist.
Abruptly, she stepped out of reach, removing the blindfold. "I'd also have these," she dangled the handcuff keys triumphantly with the most evil little grin he had ever seen on a woman. His jaw dropped.
"Experiment with THAT," she placed the key next to his phone on the dresser, by the door. "See you later."
He stared after her as she walked away. Then he burst out laughing.
Little cat who cries to me in a voice so mournfully,
You find the window's sill uncomfortable and won't sit still
When you look out to sing your song at perceived nothing all night long.
Little cat who cries to me in a voice most mournfully,
I know not what to make of it as you repeat your noisy fit.
You're not distracted by the birds I cannot write or think of words.
Little cat who cries to me in your voice too mournfully,
You take no food or pause to drink. The paper remains free of ink.
My head reverberates your cry and deep frustration makes us sigh.
Little cat who cries to me with your song so mournfully,
I don't notice, 'til I'm found, lying, lifeless on the ground.
Then finally realize you cried because weeks ago, I'd died.
Little cat who mourns for me, a ghost who only you can see,
The efforts on you take their toll. Quietly give up your soul.
Exhausted from the noise you made, silence follows as you fade.
Little cat who cried for me forever keeps me company.
The living worry when they hear your cries as my ghost draws near.
Empty pages fill themselves, lining books upon the shelves.
Little cat who died for me brings my work for all to see.
Your relentless caterwaul brought attention to my fall.
Now I'm writing books galore, as the readers scream for more.
Little cat who haunts for me
Sings my poems beautifully
Through the misty fog of night until once again there's light.
Peace is only at the bend of a book's spine, so read! The End
Home is a concept, not a place. That idea, once experienced, will always live with you, bothering your heart's memory for recreation.
I saw it in the eyes,
heard it in the voice,
felt it in the arms,
tasted it on the lips
of my love.
Death stole it away.
That moment, however, that sensation in the cherished memory of life, which sometimes still visits in a dream - that smallest of twists in time - will always be my home.
I dreamt I read a history book that threw up names and dates. This book was sick. It complained that it was ill for the plot it contained. History books should contain facts, not plots. Plots are for fiction and conspiracy theories. The book agreed, as it coughed up a little date. The plot was making it sick.
I held its pealing cover, and stroked its spine while it lay, dying of plot. The history book finally crumbled to dust. I watched its disintegrated pages swirl in the wind.
This drew my gaze to its family. Biographies, covered in footnotes of unbalanced sources. Bibliographic un-listings grew out of control. They formed threads of references that crossed, and stuck together. Coughing, sneezing, the crying of the little, barely read facts filled the air around me, as I watched more of history disappear into the wind.
The sticky references comprised an expansive web. I climbed into it without disturbing it too much, trying to read the strings of its foundation, but found the residue of gossip and opinion obstructing my view. The goo was speaking. Tiny lies that solidified out of the quiet sounds of these words ran all over this web, I climbed. They clumped together, screaming at each other in strangely colored groups where they clashed.
I saw a small fact, born only yesterday, proclaim itself proudly, as it aimed to leap over the web. Amazement stole my breath when a clump of screaming gossip-lies stretched so far from their original cross-reference threads that they worked together to form a stereotype. It trapped the young fact in mid-air. Other lies converged into more stereotypes, seeing the success of the first, and pulled away from the original references, attached only by half-truths now, to wrap a wave of leaping, young facts in cocoons of prejudice.
I climbed over this crawling, crazy mess, holding the date, protectively. Having lost the original thread of reference, I continued to try to read beneath the writhing, dying little facts in vain, as I moved forward in my quest to save this date which was the only clue to the sickness that made history break out in plots.
I mourned the young facts, little truths that kept bouncing into the net. Bulging with the corpses of their kin, the cancer of prejudice kept on growing on top of the foundation of unwritten cross-references left behind - the blood of a history, unbalanced by plot. Lone facts kept jumping, feeding the tumors of hatred while aiming to sacrifice themselves for the chance to poke holes into the disease.
The web became a rock, standing solid while I climbed it, still holding the crying little date. I sat on the spirit of History. Though trapped inside misunderstanding, the spirit of all the facts, the foundation of crossed references that made up the source of every true story, back to the beginning of time - including that first, sick book I encountered - supported me now.
Lights flew over the night sky in welcome to the Soul of Truth which itself remained unseen. The Truth was aware. The Truth had all language, though it did not speak itself. The Truth saw all things, though it could not be seen. The Truth remained true, though the little, unbalanced books of history were written only by the victors.
The Truth could not be changed, though it grew.
I stood on this rock as it continued to grow. A breath older than Time, the rock, though flawed with the perspective of everything that had ever been, was true. The date stopped crying in my hands.
I looked to the ground where opposing sides faced off. One side raised their pens to tattoo their version of the truth onto the surface of their opponents as these merely stood, prepared to allow the pain of this misuse of ink to happen. I wondered why from atop the rock.
They knew about the Truth. Bled, unwritten from the death of History, it built the foundation of this Rock, I stood on. This Rock I called my home was being defended by those who stood with it. Dignity in the torrent of abuse. The Rock did nothing to assist, but hold firm and grow.
I thought of all the little facts that fell victim to stereotype. They were the ancestors of the sleeping little date I brought up here. They were a part of the Truth, of this Rock that built itself on a battleground, burying the dead within. Whatever they were eventually wrapped in, they were truths before they leaped to join the blood of their kin.
Dawn touched the Rock to reveal someone else climbing the growing mountain while holding something precious. I suspected it to be another date. Smiling, sadly, I gave the date I brought with me - the precious piece of History - a name. Then, I smoothed it into a little crack on the Rock where it hardened, and changed the color.
My task complete, I proclaimed the young fact that was the date, proudly as I jumped to join those standing firm. Echoes of History rang with my voice throughout space, and all eyes turned to me. The name I shouted as I fell was the one I had given the date I brought: "Today!"
As I struggle to keep hold of my pruning shears, amid nasal explosions, through the thick cloud of pollen, assaulted by sweet fragrance at every step, to the bed of tulips in the very center of the little garden, I wonder how I will ever survive the florist's vacation.
In distraction, when frustration has me grumbling, the pretty butterfly flutters gently by on the breeze. My stuttering try at breath begins to ease for the beauty the eye sees in the message it brings on its colorful wings. My heart sings to tease my soul to peace with the melody that springs into the mind with the spirit's strings that start muttering a beat for the rhythm surrounding the heat of summer's end. The quiet journey of the rainbow's awkward, yet gorgeous pet commences to butter the bread of art's skill, perching on my window's sill to pause and contemplate the garden's still harmony. It reclines to rest and capture the sunset, posing for my quill, so tranquil that I try my best to promote the dozing of my little guest. Then I may watch my fill - drink in the sight - of the shimmering delight that sparks a symphony in vision through my imagination's path, until, alas, I have to sneeze. Off it goes, startled by the noises of my nose, to flit around a nearby rose, the perfect shade - so close in hue that it glimmers in the dew with the movement given by the shadow cast over it in flight, waving goodnight, sparkling in the dimming light as the sun sets to trimming the bright ends of its rays. Slowly, while it lingers, shining flirting fingers of its might onto the bobbing bug, the clouds tug the reluctant orb over the horizon, high on ozone. Weepy in farewell, they drizzle sleepy tears onto the ground where these sizzle gas into the atmosphere, adding prisms for the sphere to paint a mural as a backdrop for the floating incarnation of the bumbling caterpillar to dance in grace, before exiting the space. With a smile on my face, I say a silent goodbye to my distracting little friend. Thank you for the timely end to my impatient mumbling.
You said you loved me.
My ears were so hopeful,
They sang to the heart,
Though there was no music.
Assaulted for neglect of duty,
All senses learned to listen;
To feel beyond the pain
of just my own wish.
But the sensation of Trust
Remains lost to inexperienced youth.
The small inferno belched forth huge licks of flame as he shoved the steel into the glowing coals, waiting for it to take on that white-hot sheen. Muscles burned, blisters cracked to yield their bloody contents into his palms. The liquid made its silent way along the shaft of his tool. The solid, unyielding head had been anointed with it from the beginning, lending a new strength to the emerging weapon without his knowledge.
The metal was removed for inspection. He held it close to his face, squinting at his handiwork, looking for a flaw. Finding what he sought, though apparent to none but his keen, perfectionist's eye, he lowered it to the anvil, holding it tightly in place. The hammer, hefted into position above his head, flew with brute force for the exact spot with a precision only a true master could muster. As it arched through the air towards its target, droplets of blood and sweat flew off of this extension to the man's arm. In his concentration, he'd been completely ignorant of the sting his hands had received from this mixture. He also hadn't noticed the effect it had on his creation...
The smith's hammer beat the final flaw into nothingness with one silent thought for this perfectly formed bit of steel: "The farmer who holds this scythe should reap only the sowings of the divine!"
The man fashioned his perfect blade with an equally perfect handle, painstakingly made from the trunk of the oldest tree. He stood back, regarding his handiwork in the fading light of the setting sun. A very prideful smile graced his features for a moment before exhaustion, dehydration, starvation, heat-stroke, and blood-loss took their toll. He dropped to his knees, managing to carefully place the project on the ground before him.
As his limp form sprawled, his soul became the first to inhabit the object. It was only a moment, but he would remember for the rest of eternity the glimpse of peace, the solace of darkness, and the comfort of serenity - a promise whispered by the blade. His body no longer needed breath. His wounds no longer mattered. The heart stilled, silently bound in unbreakable beats of his spirit to this, the final weapon his hammer would ever touch.
The scythe was in the hands of a true master: he, who reaps the sowings of the divine, and returns the harvest to its origins... all but one. His own soul remains in his tool until the thankless job is finished. Thus, his true name lost to the ages, the Reaper walks the realms between time, only to emerge, and show his lonely countenance to those who would look to see his face at the brink of silence.
Most cry out, holding the final delivery as a fearsome thing, imagining the messenger to be the malicious cause of the end. Few see the sadness in his fleshless visage, acknowledging him for what he's become: a tool of divinity, no will of his own, but the same ethic as in forgotten life to finish, in perfection, a job well done. Indiscriminately, as all life succumbs in whatever fashion, the Reaper waits at the end. Forever is his reward. Eternity is his gift. Peace is the ultimate promise of that inescapably, perfect blade...