From My Political Page on Facebook...

How to change a democracy into a dictatorship in eight easy steps:

1: Debase the value of a human life. Start with just one. Teach your populace that they are not divine or divinely loved, but lonely and worthless. Slaughter innocents. Gloss it over by saying that those lives were not important. Repetition is vital; if you say anything enough times, it becomes truth.

2: Lower the educational standards for the general public. Teach children not to think for themselves, but to believe what they are told, unconditionally. Do not teach logic, or philosophy, or history. Teach them that learning is laborious. Make them hate school, and they become sheep. Vilify anyone who applies reason and justice to their world view.

3: Incite divisiveness. Infighting is the perfect tool for population control. If your people hate each other, they will be too busy trying to "win" to pay attention to what is going on outside their doors. The more they fight, the less you have to worry about a unified, logical stand against your oppression. Keep them distracted with contention, the media will soon follow. This is key. If you properly implement enough diversion, you can get away with anything. Anger is the enemy of clarity.

4: When changing the laws, or stripping away rights and freedoms, do it subtly and behind closed doors. Change policies one at a time, adjust the wording ever so slightly, so as not to draw attention to the systematic destruction of their civil liberties. Use lots of big words and double speak. If you have properly implemented steps two and three, your sheep will not be knowledgeable, educated, or focused enough to put the pieces together and see past your ruse.

5: Make them depend on your government for everything. Use enormous monopolies and massive, faceless conglomerates (which you control), to decimate small businesses and family owned resources. Not only will you profit greatly from this takeover, they will depend on you for everything from food and housing, to clothing and healthcare. Also, because they will be mostly unfamiliar with how to survive without TV's and prepackaged food stuffs, they cannot leave your system.

6: Widen the gap between the wealthy and the poverty stricken. You will control the rich through their fear of losing everything, and the poor through fear of disease and violent crimes.

7: Take away their arms. Leave them only with sticks and stones to defend themselves. This will be incredibly important when they finally look up from their infighting and poverty and realize what has happened.

8: Outlaw religion, censor art; create repetitive and generic music. Make sex, love, and nudity awkward, filthy taboos. Turn wife against husband; and foster apathy and spite in parents. This is the final step. Without these final beautiful things, there is no way for your population to learn from each other, for knowledge or wisdom to cross generational gaps. You will have actually made step one their reality. They will have no passion, no drive, and no memory of a better life. Instead, they will suckle at the tits of your dictatorship, sleeping and waking to the beat of your drum.

Good Luck! And remember to have fun with it.
Don’t forget: "A government should not be afraid of its people, people should be afraid of their government."

Nocturne

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I love kissing her frosty nipples with my soft lips. I love caressing them with my warm tongue. I love how they are pink like her lips... How they respond to my mouth.

~
I haven't slept in weeks, but now, the room is dark and the sheets are cool. I feel safe in his arms, and as I fade into sleeping, I meditate on the way his stubble feels on my shoulder.

~
She’s not even two yet, and her beauty is already crushing. Her golden curls, and the way she holds her teddy bear. I kiss her lightly on the forehead and shut the door.

~
We each fall asleep in our armchairs. His head tilts forward and he begins to snore. It used to keep me up, but now I miss that raspy sawing. I really love that man.

~
I always sleep naked. I hate it when my clothes bunch and tug while I sleep. The green glow from my alarm clock keeps me awake. I pull the covers over my head and pray for sleep.

~
I climb in bed with my curlers in, ready to begin my deeply medicated slumber. Sixty-two years old and I still sleep with the light on. I can hear the young couple above me. I remember those days...
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Post Script
(Nocturne: 1. A painting of a night scene. 2. An instrumental composition of a pensive, dreamy mood, especially one for the piano.)
These snippets of prose each represent a portrait of the different tenants in an apartment building as they go to bed. In a myriad of different ways.

End

"Black Wine and Withered Prunes" or "A Rude Awakening"

She held a wine glass in her spidery hand, swirling the black liquid it contained nonchalantly. She was completely naked. However, it wasn't a pretty sight. She was all bones, with pale white skin stretched like a latex glove over her skeleton. Her breasts sagged unattractively.
Ted remembered being hit over the head at the gas station, and a foggy semiconscious ride in the back seat of an Oldsmobile. The smell of cracking leather upholstery.
He resurfaced to the bright beam of a flashlight in his eyes; but wasn't really awake enough to fight back as they half dragged him down the long corridor with the marble floors. As the fog over his mind slowly lifted, he became more aware of how strange this evening was turning out to be. A dull, throbbing pain was beginning to grow from the lump on the back of his head.
Everything was too bright.
When she spoke, her voice was like a creaking door, covered in cobwebs. Her lips were dry, and cracked with each syllable they formed. The sounds reached his ears like they were underwater, all muted and distorted. Her nipples rose to the occasion like tiny withered prunes.

Ted wished he were at home in bed, tucked warmly beneath his down comforter. He really had no idea what the fuck was going on... but for that matter, neither did the naked hag sipping mystery goo from a wine glass and looking smug.

To the great Crawling Chaos, they were leaves blowing in the wind. Termites in a hill of dung.

Ten in 13

Last year, my New Year's resolution was to not make any New Year's resolutions.

I achieved this goal.

This year, I am stepping up my game. In the interest of self-betterment, I have created a list of equally achievable tasks.

In no particular order,

And without further fanfare...

Ten Actually Achievable Goals for 2013 

1: Clean your bedroom. Twice.
2: Read three good books.
3: Stop saying “fuck” in front of Lily.
4: Weigh less at the end of the year.
5: Visit Brendan in Chicago.
6: See an awesome show.
7: Learn how to make a chicken curry.
8: Have a good cry.
9: Memorize one Shakespearean sonnet.
10: Go on a hike.

Why I Really Hate Interviewing: Epic Conclusion

I got the job.

Oh, Lord, I got the job!

Thank-you Jesus!

Amen

(Passes out, hits the floor. Curtains close, house lights come up. Everyone is cheering.)

Season's Greetings

Merry Christmas, dear reader, and happy New Year. :)

When the Red Phone Rings

I just thought this would be an awesome title for, well, something...
Definitely see those words in that order on this blog eventually.
In the mean time, watch: "Tucker & Dale Vs. Evil".
It's a really fun twist on a classic horror theme.
These sentences keep getting shorter.
I wonder what I'll say next?
This is very weird.
I should stop.
G'night.
G

Why I Really Hate Interviewing

The phone interview went so well.
By the time the call ended, I was stoked.
Today is the face-to-face interview.
Both of my eyelids are twitching.
If I'd have known that it would be today, I would have trimmed my hair. I tried to cut my nails this morning but couldn't find the clippers...

The Next Day

This is the worst part.
Replaying the interview in your head, over and over, dwelling on all the mistakes you made. The stupid things you said, your vague, inconsistent answers.
I just hope they liked me enough to see past how bad I really am at interviewing.
I hope they saw or heard something that turned them onto the idea of me working for them. Something unique.

Waiting for a call. It's Christmas week, so I've no idea if I will get a response before the first. I highly doubt it.
I guess it's just nose to the grindstone until then. I'll try to put it out of my head. Constantly thinking about it will just drive me crazy.

Dear Lord, if you want me to have this job... lean on them for me, will you?

New Paul: Odyssey Chapter 8 Submission

Paul scooped up Maya in his arms, and kissed her on the face. They were both so sticky.
His eyes were filled with rainbows and light, but besides that, the levitating, and the goo, there were no other signs of the monstrous torment that had raged his very being just moments ago.

"Where are you taking me?" Maya asked, still surprised that the spell had worked.
"You'll see." Paul smiled, not reassuringly.
He tilted his head back, and he and Maya floated rapidly through the new hole in the roof, and into the foggy, smoggy night.

The filthy and majestic city of London stretched beneath them. The moon hung massively on the horizon, bathing the glittering city in silver light. They covered ground rapidly, Paul with feet flung haphazardly behind him, Maya cradled in his arms.

That's when Maya saw her, Tal'shen: a mass of glittering scales and writhing tentacles, with wings as dark as night and studded with stars. She, it, was immense. An oppressive entity of epic proportions; the spawn of Lysanna, born of Paul.
Tal'shen the Monster of the Cosmos was contorting a thousand feet above the Tower of London. Maya Shuddered. She had no idea what Paul was planning, but she doubted anything could defeat this malevolent being.

Paul stopped suddenly over the London Eye, and closed his eyes. "Maya, I'm going to need your help with something."

"Of course." She answered, without hesitation.

Paul smiled even more disconcertedly. "Excellent." He then screamed, no roared, a noise which no human could produce - a war cry which stopped the shoppers and tourists below in their tracks. "Tal'shen! I cannot let you consume this planet, nor its people."

Tal'shen writhed and turned on its cosmic wings. Maya could see the wide black eyes, and the sharp squid-like beak. She expected a reply, but none came. The spawn of Lysanna took after her mother: she could not fathom the concept of defeat.

Paul was still grinning. "You vomit slime bitch! I should have cut you out of my leg the moment you leeched onto me!" He opened his eyes, a psychedelic laser-lights show of color. "Now I'm going to excise you from this plane, and leave you to fend for yourself in the Between Spaces!"

The beast paid him no mind. It began stirring up a great whirlwind with its wings and tentacles. Car alarms and sirens sounded from the city below; and pedestrians were knocked to their feet and blown down the street. Maya knew what would come next. Tal'shen intended to open a black hole in the earth beneath her, and consume the planet's collective life-force.

Paul began chanting in an ancient alien tongue. Maya recognized it as her own. She knew what the words meant. "Tal'shen you insignificant mite! Lowest life-form in the universe! I, by the power of the dark Counsel of Hatharadas and the infinite corporeal authority of the Great Olmon-Yen, cast you into the place between universes, that outer darkness from which there is no escape!" Maya had never heard this spell before, but Paul delivered it flawlessly between his clenched, madly grinning teeth. "This willing sacrifice I deliver onto the Most High Chancellor of the Swirling Void, Vaskem-Adrahamenned himself, as payment for the toll of Hell's passage."

With this, Paul looked deeply into Maya's eyes, and let go.
She screamed as she plummeted to the earth a thousand feet below.
A splash of red ended her existence.
Still Paul was chanting. "Aitchrk louvvimn'vco kuut! Pliyv'vukt liyv cern!"

Something began to happen to Tal'shen. At first, it looked like a flicker of brilliant white light, a flash of lightning. Then, a rift opened in the place at her center of mass, a yawning black chasm, flashing with tendrils of lightning. A massive black hand with ten fingers and long curved claws reached through the gap. It grabbed Tal'shen and clenched, pulling the beast into the hole. A massive clap of thunder shook all of London as the portal closed.

Paul stopped smiling, and said: "Thank-me those bitches are gone... this planet is mine."

End

My deviantART profile:
http://alovesickman.deviantart.com/

Odyssey II Homepage
http://odysseyproject.deviantart.com/

Spilt Milk

Her skirt couldn't have been shorter, legally. Her legs went all the way to the floor, and ended in tall black stilettos. And her body was... Coke classic. Curvy in all the right places.
She wanted to have sex. I knew by the look in her eyes, and where her hand was on my thigh.
I tapped my fag on the ashtray, and looked her straight in the face. "Sorry Baby, I don't have sex with synthetics, even sexy bots like you."
"That’s okay," she replied in her smooth as silk voice. "I don't have sex with squares."
We shared a smile, and I finished my drink.
"Keep it clean, Synthetica." I winked nonchalantly and stepped into the smog and fluorescent lights.
Ever since my first couple of run-ins with positronic princesses, I've steered clear of that thick freakness. They crave new experiences, and often don't know they’re own strength. Also, I always feel guilty taking advantage of machines. I hardly ever even make my car do the driving.

I hopped in my jet black Caddy, and pushed start. The lights all came on like a scene from Tron, and the engines revved quietly, then whined to life. I was pulling out of my spot when I reached down to light up another cancer stick.

Bam!
My neck whipped forward and I dropped my lighter. My heart was in my throat, I knew I had hit something which had not been there even a second ago. I shut my car off, and didn't even wait for it to touch down before I was climbing out to see what I had hit.

Synthetica. Fluorescent white-green fluid spurting from her legs. Oh, those flawless legs. A shocked, disappointed look on her divine face.
"Awe crap, baby, I'm sorry." I took off my hat and squatted down next to her. "I didn't see you there."
Her voice was calm as still waters and just as clear. "That’s okay." She replied, "I’m still under warranty, and I'm sure it'll be covered."
"Can I take you to a service center?"
"That’d be lovely." Poised. Grateful.

I knelt down and scooped her up. I threw up a little thanks to the Big Guy that she was a mint model. The older Androids weighed almost as much as a car. Carefully, I laid her in the back seat, and started the car again.

Right as I was pulling out, she said: "mirror." And I checked, twice.
The air was thick with icy tension. I did my best to break it, conversationally. "How old are you?" I winced. "Sorry. Bad form."
"Don't be, I'm a bot, remember? I'm seventeen moons old. Should have till thirty-six on the extended plan." I looked at her in my rear view.

You wouldn't know she wasn't a human solicitor, except for the small barcode at the nape of her neck. "I'm Sally, by the way."
"Are you registered?"
"No, actually, I'm part of a work-study. I fill out a few surveys every couple of weeks, and they poke me and swab me, and in exchange, I'm a free bird." Another smile. "My turn: what do you do?"
"Gun control." I answered, solemnly.
"Rough business. Ever been shot?"
I laughed, cynically. "Plenty. Mostly they’ve been trying to replace us with droids, but they just don't cut it; no offense."
She smiled, heartbreakingly, and even though I knew she was mangled, I felt a little blood start to flow. "Look," I said, tentatively, "If you want, I can hang out in the lobby while they patch you up, and maybe..." I paused. "Maybe we could sync up back at my place after." I looked in my rearview again, I couldn't help feeling her up with my eyes.
A big grin met my gaze. "Not tonight, baby. I don't want two hit and runs in one day."
I felt my face go flush. "Yeah, that was pretty low functioning of me. I shouldn’t have asked."

We pulled up to the service station, and I set my Caddy down slow. "I'll carry you in."
"Don't fret, big daddy. I put in a call on our way, they'll come out and get me any moment."
"Right. Well, let me know if you need anything..."
"Of course." Her lips were so soft, so red. "Sorry I got your seat all wet."
I turned stoplight red, for the millionth time that night; and as they carted her inside, I wondered how things might have turned out if I had just gone back to her place.

After all, they just legalized Human-Synthetic marriage in Boston.

End

Post Script: I originally started writing this as a T&tR exclusive, then when I got halfway through, I realized that Androids are created objects, and this story therefore fit in the theme for the next inkWELL publication, coming out on February 1st: "Creation". I am, therefore, going to present it to the group and see if they like it. If not, it's still a fun piece, and a great accessory to the other stories on this blog. ;)

TBQ I: Cruel Knife, Chapter 1 (RD)

It wasn't easy to leave her home behind, but Raschel knew that she had no choice. The witches were on the move again, coming up from the south, casting a dark shadow over the horizon. She put on her wool coat and threw her bag over her shoulder. Silently, she bowed her head and said a little prayer. She wished that her dad was here to see her, but she quickly shook off that thought and steeled herself for the journey ahead. Stepping into the sunlight, she closed the door, realizing that she had been holding her breath.

Tom Callahan was waiting on his chestnut horse in the front yard, beside him was Raschel's white mare, Sandy: who pawed the dirt impatiently with her hoof. Raschel put on her hat, and mounted her horse. Together, they rode away from her childhood home and into the prairie.
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The rain was slashing down in sheets, crashing against the windows as the wind shook the house. Jeremy was sitting at the dining room table with his parents, pushing the chewy pot roast and shriveled carrots around his plate apathetically. 
His dad cleared his throat and peered at him over his horn-rimmed bifocals. “You should eat up, Jermy, you’ve a long night ahead of you.”
Jeremy shrugged. “I just wish we didn’t have to go tonight, Uncle Emmett is so weird, and I only just finished school today.” He pushed an undercooked potato in his mouth, and tried to chew it. 
“Well, there’s no two ways about it. Your Uncle said today would work best for him, and your mom and I are very grateful to him for taking you in this summer while we’re in Italy: so tonight it is.” He pushed his glasses back up, and smiled at his wife, rubbing his tummy like God himself couldn’t have cooked a better roast. 
Jeremy’s mom and dad, Mr. and Mrs. Barber, were both medium heightish, but kinda heavy set. They both had rosy cheeks, and salt and pepper hair; although his mom’s hair was much more prevalent. Mr. Barber was a vacation salesman, which is how they’d gotten such a great deal on their trip for two to Italy. His mother worked part time at the library, and taught a water aerobics class on the weekends. 
Mr. Barber checked his enormous gold wristwatch, and wiped his mouth. “I trust you’re all packed up then?” Which was more an assertion than a question.
“Yes, Dad. Are you sure I can’t take my iPod or Laptop?” 
“You know your Uncle lives in the boonies, and he’s got no electricity.”
“All packed then. When do we go?”
His dad wiped his mouth once more, and brushed his hands on his cargo pants. “We may as well head out. Martha, are you coming with?” 
“Of course, dear,” she replied sweetly. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Sending off my little boy for the whole summer!”
Jeremy groaned in protest. “Mom! I’m almost fifteen!”
“But still my baby.” She smiled.
Before he could say ‘clunker’, they were all packed in his parent’s ramshackle minivan. They took the highway out of town, headed off into the rainy night. Jeremy dozed on and off, waking now and again to his parent’s flirtatious laughter, or an especially large pothole. Slowly, the rain died off, and a full silver moon came out from behind the clouds, lighting the world below almost as bright as day. The van jerked to a stop, and Jeremy woke, rubbing his eyes. He stumbled out of the rusty van and got his bags from the back. 
“Come along, Jermy!” He could see the blurry image of his dad leading the way through the tombstones. 
Tombstones?
“Where are we?” Asked Jeremy, sleepily. “Does Uncle Emmet live in a graveyard?”
“Sort of!” His mom replied, much too cheerful for the late hour. 
“Here we are!” His dad was grinning, ear to ear. His eyes looked huge behind his thick glasses, which reflected strangely in the moonlight. He swept his arm dramatically like a ringmaster. 

Jeremy looked down. At his feet was an open grave. A couple of dozen feet deep. “Is this some kind of weird joke?” He inquired, hopefully. 
“Nope!” Smiled his dad. And with that, his parents shoved him in. 
“Have a nice trip!” His dad yelled after him.
“See you next fall!” Shouted his mom, giggling. 

Jeremy was free falling through the black. Panic gripped his mind, and his heart stopped beating. Still he was falling. The moon was far overhead now, his parents two hazy blobs. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact. He just knew he was going to break his legs or something. 
Finally, he smacked into the dirt below, a cloud of dust flew into the air. Slowly opening his eyes, he took a damage report. Everything seemed intact. No excruciating pain to cause concern. 
That's when he realized: it was the middle of the afternoon - and his crazy uncle Emmett was standing over him, grinning a mile wide. 
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Post Script:
This is an excerpt from a Young Adult book I am writing. (the Barbershop Quaretet, Book 1: the Cruel Knife)  This is a VERY rough draft, and may end up not turning out anything like this. However, I hope you enjoy it anyway!
G

End

the Thunder and the Rain, or, a Boy and His Mouse (RD)

Working on my submission for inkWELL's "Thunder", which will be published on April 1st...

Thunder crashes and lightning flashes outside, sporadic arms of light reach across the sky; the clouds like an Ansel Adams photograph, and the rain like Noah’s flood.

A house with rickety walls, a ramshackle roof. The windows shake. No electricity or artificial light cast their pale glow upon the scene, inside the furniture and little boy are lit by strobes of brilliant white. The shadows cast are long and quick, the corners shrouded are unlit. 

He’s five years old, and seventeen days. His parents sleep like babes upstairs. He too should be in slumber’s grip, but drawn to waking by the storm he finds himself wandering the house at night.

Tow-headed, a ribs-showing skinny, curious eyes cast about the maze of flashing light and familiar objects turn strange and tall. For a while, he is content to sit, on the living room floor by the brightness lit. Staring out at the sky and the chariots of wrath, listening closely to the pattern of the rain as it splats and slams against the speckled pains of glass. 

A rustling sound catches his ear, the pitter-patter of tiny hands on hardwood. The little boy drops to all fours, and looks under his father’s raggedy chair. A small white mouse, with pink eyes; an intruder in an otherwise solitary and monochromatic setting. The mouse wiggles his nose, and the boy does the same, squeaking at the mouse trying to invoke a reply. 

The mouse just sits and stares, looking back with a matched curiosity, uncertain if he should flee or remain completely still. 

to be continued...

CT

My heart hurts for the tragedy in Connecticut. My mind is constantly searching for a solution; and my soul is bruised for the shooter's broken mind and fallen spirit.

I want to move on, to pretend that nothing has happened, that it was a bad dream. But I know that the victims families cannot ignore this, and neither should we.

Please pray for the hurting people involved in this terrible event. And that our leaders and lawmakers will be inspired with the wisdom to make the best decisions for our country moving forward.

End

Writer's Block

Just write. There is no such thing as writer's block, just laziness.

On the bed, the glowing screen of a MacBook bore this mantra. It sat opened before a young man whose legs were tucked in the lotus position.

Just sit down and type... something will always come.

The single, over-head light fixture illuminated the dingy hotel room. Frustrated, the man ran his long fingers through his thick mop of blond hair. Softly tapping mindlessly on the keys, he tried to organize his thoughts... to no avail. With a huff of anger, he uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed. He stumbled into the insignificant bathroom. Quickly turning on the faucet, he cupping his hands and splashed the icy water over his face. Stepping back, he took a moment to ponder the haggard image in the speckled mirror.

Rather longish and unkempt blond hair framed a tired middle-aged face. The dark circles under his eyes looked larger than he remembered. Sighing, he brushed the back of his knuckles across his stubble-covered chin. His clothing consisted of red plaid boxers, no shirt, and thick white socks. His stomach was chiseled into a near six pack, his ribs sort of poked out at his sides. A slightly concave chest made him appear even more malnourished. A starving artist indeed. Satisfied that he fit the image, he padded from the restroom. With no care taken for gracefulness, he flopped down on the twin-sized mattress.

Rolling over to face his laptop, he stared at the lack of words discontentedly. Maybe they weren't true after-all. So much for the writing class he had taken at the college. He'd never liked the stern professor who had tutored anyway. He was too stoic for a writer.  Plenty of lectures; but no passion.

Gently, he closed the glossy-white computer. Just before it shut, he glanced at the clock in the upper right-hand corner, 9:52 p.m. He moaned at the effort it took to stand again. He'd had no fresh ideas in over a month.

Walking past the cigarette burned armchair in the corner, he stood before the thick burgundy curtains. His hand went to the string that operated the dust-covered drapes. He firmly pulled down the cord to get it past a snag, then opened up a gap in the curtains.

Brick buildings with rusty steel frames and shoddy windows rose into the dark night sky. Trails of smog rose into the air from countless vents and chimneys. A light fog shrouded the feet of the structures. Zigging and zagging in an endless maze, pipes and fire escapes hung precariously from the decaying apartments and hotels. A single star shone brightly in the night. Far away, the wailing of a siren could be heard, the rising and falling of its pitch echoing down an alleyway.

The curtains closed with a thump. Starving artist... hmm, there was an idea. Had he eaten dinner? No. Lunch? Maybe. Food sounded good. He'd always been fond of food. Turning from the window, he reached for a pair of beige corduroys that lay discarded over the back of an ancient television.

Apprehensively, he pulled the brown leather wallet from the back pocket and flipped it open. Just as he'd feared, only some crumpled 'ones', and some receipts. Rifling through the rest of his billfold, he pulled out a few coins and set them on the desk. $6.13 in all. Dinner tonight, free hotel breakfast in the morning. He was covered until lunchtime tomorrow. If he was lucky, there was still some money in his checking account. He stepped into the pants. With a great deal more stress than seemed reasonable, he was able to stuff the wad of money into his right-hand pocket without any of the coins dropping to the floor.

Stooping over, he opened the drawer of the peeling dresser on which television was perched. He snatched a t-shirt from the top of the little stack. It was white, with a baby blue stripe across the chest. Does white go with beige? He half-heartedly considered. No, but blue does. Now mostly dressed, he glanced around the room for his pair of sandals. Can you wear socks with sandals? Sure, why not? Shoving his feet into them and loosely strapping the Velcro, he was off.

Maybe some coffee and a burger would tear down his writer's block. Or maybe I'll just crash, He thought.

End?

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Post Script

This is something I wrote in high school, which I ran at the end of my first book, "Dandelions", an earlier version of "More than Weeds". Basically, I was going to write a whole book on this character, but it never happened... that poor man.

Unfortunately, this does not bode well for the preview which I put at the back of "More than Weeds" either. Maybe I should stop doing that. Hmm.

That Damn Fox

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. So the dog got pissed and chased the fox down; tearing off it's hind legs and strewing its entrails all over the sunshiny field.

The End

Words from a Wizard...

Gills
Sneak
Twat
Drown
Heterosexual

Inspired by Dumbledore's inception speech in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, by J. K. Rowling

End

Transcendental Darkness

My most recent submission for Odyssey II, a poem this time:

They transcend time

The viruses en vita

Explosions of color

Tentacled expulsions

Deep dank darkness

Hell descending down

Violent virulent colors

Spines, horns, claws

Black, blood, ending

They will never leave us

The madness and seizures

They deceived us

And now they are here

The pentacle of poison

A pentagram of stillness

It all ends here

http://odysseyproject.deviantart.com/

Sunlight in 78 Words

An older short short story, previously unpublished...

He saw her first whilst walking through the woods behind his house. Her hair was fire, and her form flitted between the autumn trees with transcendent grace. Her radiant eyes haunted his dreams ever after. Soon, sleepless nights followed weary days as he endlessly sought her amongst the falling leaves and the shifting snow. As the years passed, he became a skeleton, then a shadow. In final fleeting thoughts he realized his folly. His angel was a sunbeam.

End

Moons

Dungaree lays his daughter back down in bed. He kisses her on the head, and softly closes her door. Once outside, he stretches with his hand on his back, and looks up at the silver moons. The South Down Village is a cliff one, with domiciles built into the rock faces high above the rushing waters of the endless jungle sprawl. Ropes and bridges zig zag hither and yon, but one gets used to the climbing. Anyway, the only safety afforded when living in the jungle zone is to be off the ground and out of the trees. Even then there is very little to be had.
Once, when Dungaree’s father had been a little boy, some of the village’s youngest and strongest men went down into the jungles to carve out a living on the surface. Of the ones who made it back, only a boy called Knees was able to talk, and they were all covered in cuts, bites, and clawings.
Dungaree can hear the animal noises drift up from the rushing rivers below. Howling and screaming monkeys. Bellowing bull boars, and yelling birds. Occasionally a tiger or a panther. On the bloody horizon, a couple of titanic freighters are blazing their way through the skies. Ships of steel and plastics with massive engines pulsing blue light. On their way to the desert zone probably, and then off world. A long time ago, before his daughter was born, Dungaree had worked on an interstellar. The hot between decks, checking dials and watching the epic cooling shafts. Their cargo was mostly petroleum for plastics, and clays for ceramics. Headed back and forth between the mines on the slave planets.
One at a time, the lights in South Down click off. Dungaree goes back inside and climbs into his hammock beside his wife. In the distance, a jaguar coughs his roar. The sun falls off the earth and the moons shine silver on the cliff faces. Everyone sleeps.

End

Release

inkWELL: Ghosts, has gone off without a hitch. The release is massive.
Thank-you, fellow writers and friends, for sharing this wild ride with me.

Now... only eight weeks until
inkWELL: Creation.