hrdlicka - poetry from the newspaper

God save the artists
the paints, the pencils
the sculpture, the canvas
the attraction, the alienation
the conflict, the vandalism
the artistic subtley that hides controversy
between the brushstrokes
prostrate figures covered in barbed wire
in the middle of a city divided between
war and fascism
works meant to to educate and communicate
a mission to oppose violence and uphold peace
inspire hatred
expressions meant to provoke the audience
to question, to confront
meet anguish, pain, and misery head on
in battle
the religious symbolism seen as the blasphemous taboo
among believers who call themselves just
God hate the artists
because they see truth buried in lies
and mold it for our eyes to find.

summer - from music

"Promise me we'll stay besties for life!" Amanda squealed, hugging her best friend Lindsay tightly to her.

"Promise!" Lindsay sobbed, wiping her nose on Amanda's black gown.

The girls had just graduated high school and were heading off to colleges on opposite sides of the country in just three short months.

Amanda pulled away and grabbed Lindsay's hand. She wiped her eyes and smiled. "We have to stay friends," she said to the other girl. "We know too much about each other!"

Lindsay nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Like I'm the only person who knows about that time you made out with Penny Simon's boyfriend in the boy's bathroom last fall."

"Lindsay!" Amanda whispered, slapping her arm. "I told you never to mention that again!" She tossed her hair imperiously. "Besides, I got some dirt on you too, don't forget."

Lindsay stiffened. Her hand grew cold and clammy in Amanda's grasp. "Oh?" She licked her lips. "Like what?"

"I know what you did last summer..." Amanda breathed in Lindsay's ear.

Lindsay jerked her hand away. "That girl drowned, I swear!" Her tears turned from tears of sadness to tears of fear.

Amanda's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about... I was just kidding."

Lindsay's heart rate slowed. She sighed and forced a laugh. "Of course. So was I."

Amanda's lips twitched into a smile. She threw her arm aroun her friend's shoulder. "We'd better get going or the party will start without us."

"Yeah," Lindsay said, letting Amanda usher her out of the auditorium. But her mind was still on that girl from camp last summer, the one who no one had liked. What was her name... Ophelia? Oh well, it didn't matter. She was dead and gone and as far as everyone was concerned, she'd simply drowned in the lake.

god is... - from phrase exercise

I hate the yeti
mild cheeses dance
on fat tires
horny butter is real
my hair
I try to run
you gotta try to see limes
time is sand
there, you can sail
my brother, my butter
god is the shit.
yuh.

by Alicia, Mary-Margaret, and Parker

what we do best (clean edit) - attempt at a monologue

The interrogation room was cold and unforgiving. Zeke sat snivelling in one corner, his massive hands cradling his head. His feet were splayed out before him, both all but torn completely from their respective ankles. He'd had a working-over, that was for sure, but I wasn't sorry. Zeke had tormented me from day one simply because he was bigger and older and smarter. Well lookie how the tide has turned, buddy. I'm not Farty-Artie anymore. You can call me just plain Arthur now because I am finally your equal... No. I'm your superior. It took some doing, but I've finally beated you into submission, brother. Scared?

I squatted down beside his hulking frame and wiped his blood from my knuckles onto his shirtfront. I heard his breath quicken. I could tell what he was thinking. It was just as clear as if he'd spoken it out loud: Here it comes, that final blow that will send me straight to Kingdom Come. I watched my reflection in his watery beetle-black eyes.

"Well, Zeke," I said, offering him my hand. "Do we have a deal or not? Your life for the location of the Legion."

He opened his mouth, breath whistling through the gaps where I had knocked out his teeth earlier. I knew what he was going to say before he said it, had known since before I took him into this room and beat the crap out of him. We didn't have a deal.

"No deal," Zeke wheezed. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back onto the gray cinderblock wall behind him.

I sighed and hung my head. A look of mock pity melted my features. "It's too simple for you to wrap your fat head around it!" I said to him. "Do I have to make this harder so you'll finally give up this stubborn act?"

He didn't answer, just sat there panting like the animal he was.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulle dout a dog-eared Polaroid photograph. Zeke's eyes grew wider as he gently padded his pocket. He stopped breathing and stared at the photo. I had him right where I wanted him and I felt downright giddy about it.

"I lifted it," I told him, reveling in the crestfallen look on his swollen face. "Right when we first met outside that bar tonight. You've taought me well, brother." I glanced down at the photo in my hand, running my fingers on the image of a small girl in a pale pink dress, her wicker basket of Easter eggs clutched tightly in her gloved hands; my niece, Rochelle.

"I'd hate to have to hurt her. She's so beautiful," I said, showing him her smiling face and the blood trails my fingers had left across it. "We've never even met, but I know she'd like me. I imagine she'd think me a... funny uncle." I laughed in his face, spattering him with my spittle.

"Don't you dare!" Zeke said, mustering up a last ounce of vehemence, just like I expected he would.

I curled my fist around the photo and punched him. His nose crunched beneath my hand and his head snapped back and hit the wall. I hope he saw more than just stars: I hope he saw whole constellations, planets, universes.

"So," I said as he squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed at his nose to try and staunch the flow of blood from his nostrils. "Do we have a deal... buddy?"

"Okay, okay," he gasped. "Deal." He held out a trembling hand.

I grinned. "Great." My palm slapped his, passing off the now hopelessly crumpled photo of his daughter. he hugged it against his chest and breathed a sigh of relief. He shouldn't get too comfortable. I was only just warming up. No, Zeke wouldn't leave this room alive, but he just didn't know that yet. Who was I to dash his hopes?

I leaned in close until I could taste his stale breath on my lips. He stunk of beer and vomit. "Where's Dad, Zeke? Where's the Legion?"

Zeke took a deep breath. "Dad's - "

"Don't say another word, Ezekiel."

My blood ran ice cold in my veins at the sound of Dad's voice just behind me.

I rose slowly, keeping my eyes locked on Zeke. That traitor had the nerve to smile. He thought he'd won again, but he was wrong. God, he was wrong.

I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out the knife concealed there. I hadn't had to use it 0n Zeke; brute force alone had done the trick well enough. I pressed the safety latch up and the blade snapped out.

"Looks like our deal is void, Zeke. I get to kill you after all," I said to him; then, to our father, "It seems you've ferreted me out. Thanks. You've just made my job so much easier. You know what they say about birds and stones, right?"

I turned to face the man who had created me. The man who had stolen my life, my love, my family away. The man I hated above all others.

His eyes were still the deep navy blue that I remembered and were hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His hair had grayed since the last time I'd seen him and had thinned considerably. He was dressed as he had always dressed: in a button-down shirt and rediculous tie. Today, it was forest green with tiny hammers on it. He didn't look like an assassin. On the contrary, he looked more like a science teacher. But the gun in his right hand aimed at my stomach said otherwise.

"Ezekiel," our father said, looking down at his eldest son.

"He threatened to kill Rochelle!" Zeke whined, appealing to our father like he'd really care. It'd only taken me five years living with that man to realize that he didn't have an ounce of compassion for family in his body. Zeke had been around him much longer than I had. Hadn't Zeke known how callous and unfeeling out father truly was? I could almost feel bad for my brother if he really was that stupid.

"I said not another word!" Dad yelled.

Zeke fell silent at once. He had always feared our father, just as I had once.

Dad turned his gaze upon me. "You think killling me would give you all the answers, do you?" he asked.

"My mission is to locate the Legion," I said smoothly, but I could tell he didn't believe me. He never did.

"Julia doesn't want anything to do with you."

"Who said I wanted to see my wife?!" I screamed at him, advancing a step and raising the knife. "I want to know where the Legion is so I can burn it to the ground."

Dad paused and stared at me, squinting his eyes in scrutiny. "Look at this monster I've created, Ezekiel... I always knew you were the better son. What went wrong with this one?"

A snarl of rage escaped through my clenched teeth. Stupid old man! Didn't he understand that it wasn't me who had gone wrong, but him? I was never strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. He never saw my potential. To him, I was just a kid standing in the shadow of his big brother, his glorious, saintly, prefect big brother who wouldn't know true power if it slapped him in the face. It was my father who pushed me towards someone else I could look up to and learn from. Someone else who nurtuted my natural talents and created this so-called monster you see before you. And I'm powerful, Dad. I'm great. I'm better than I ever could have hoped had you never abandoned me. And I think if you'd stop feeding Julia your lies, she's believe me and come crawling back on her belly, begging me to take her back because you are nothing compared to me. Bow to your master, old man, and admit defeat at the hands of your superior.

"You're the monster, not me," I spat as I lunged forward with the knife.

He pulled the trigger. The gun went off before I had the chance to think. the bullet ripped through my stomach. I staggered and dropped the knife. I felt Zeke scrambling for it behind me, but I didn't care. Nothing he could do to me with that thin blade could compare to the agony in my gut.

My hands went to my abdomen and came back sticky with blood. My blood this time, not Zeke's. It took a second for it all to sink in before I fell to my knees with a groan. Blood trickled from my lips. "Son of a..."

I tried to look up at my father, but my eyes wouldn't focus. Darkness was closing in on me from all sides and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't will it away.

Dad squatted down before me and got in my face, like I had gotten in Zeke's back when I had been in control, back when I had been powerful.

"We all know that monsters do best, don't we, Arthur," Dad whispered. "Kill."

sequencing - dream

Cain stood on his brother's grave and looked down at the worn stone impassively. A lily wilted and died in his fingers. As he let the stem slip from his grasp, the wind blew, scattering the petals. Cain watched them turn to dust in the balmy air.

A bird sung. Cain looked up. The gravestones had closed in upon him surrounding him like stone monsters with wide-open mouths of spindly gently curving teeth. He took a step back, then another. The lamb on his brother's tombstone opened its sleeping eyes and stood, shaking the moss from its solid fleece.

Cain turned and fled, stumbling over gravestones that jumped to put themselves between him and his destination. When his hands touched the dirt, chains sprung forth from the earth to capture him. Fine filaments wove around his head like spider webs and attached to his fingers.

The bird continued to sing a melody that made Cain's head hum with the echoes of the notes as they faded in the stale, dead air. He searched desperately for the source of the beautiful music, breaking free of his bonds, even as they tugged on his limbs, urging him to stay still.

A tree as fine and as glorious as the one from which grew the downfall of Ada, shuddered to the surface from some deep unknown beneath the ground, turning over the glistening dirt and tearing out clods of grass and flowers with its massive trunk as it rose.

Cain stopped running and stared in awe as the branches raised up to praise the Heavens and the roots dug deep into the bowels of Hell itself. The birdsong came from the leaves; the wonderful hues of green that sunned themselves in the misty light. Apple buds blossomed and grew into fruit as big as Cain's head, their shiny crimson exteriors bleeding colour into the lifeless world.

The branches swayed, giving rise to another song, this, a somber dirge, and upon the needle-thin branches sat three birds: a small sparrow with black wings that seemed to glimmer with some celestial incandescence; a dove with pink-rimmed eyes of blood red; and a mangy crow, his once sleek feathers disarrayed and his chest concave with malnutrition.

"Pick," said the Rook above the growing din of the birdsong. The Seraph turned an inquisitive green eye upon Cain as the Crescent ruffled her downy feathers indignantly. "Pick," the Rook demanded, shuffling along his branch.

At the base of the tree appeared a box. The front was all glass and the interior was blindingly white. A girl was inside, huddled in a corner with her legs drawn up to her chest. She raied her head and stared at Cain with sad, pale eyes. Her mouth moved, but he couldn't hear her over the birdsong, which had reached a screeching pitch like the metal gears of some vast machinery grinding together.

Cain fell to his knees and crawled to the box, pressing his face against the glass as she did the same on the opposite side. Her lips formed one word over and over again. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped, the birds sung. Cain put his hand to the glass. She offered him a thin smile and raised her hand to mirror his.

Suddenly knowing exactly what needed to be done, Cain stood. With his hands, he grasped one of the tree's thick lower branches and pulled. The tree shrieked with pain as the branch cracked and the ground split open and fell away, leaving Cain, the box, and the tree on an island with roots that stretched into endless black space.

Cain gripped the branch in both hands like a baseball bat and swung towards the box. The glass cracked, relfecting her face like a kaleidoscope as she wrung her hands, impatient to be free of her prison.

With a grunt of effor, Cain struck the window again, this time shattering the glass into a million pieces that flew through the air, nicking him with tiny, sharp edges. From the hole poured forth a multitude of butterflies, mingling with the glass shards that dusted his skin. Cain cast aside the branch and threw his hands up to protect his face and fell to the ground.

The Rook laughed. Cain looked up into the withering branches of the tree. Dead leaves rained down on his body. "Wrong choice," the Rook said. The Crescent shook her head slowly as the Seraph turned away, unable to face him any longer.

Cain looked back toward the box, hoping she'd be there, ready to embrace him. But the box was empty save for a satin pillow in which the impression of her head still remained.

highgate (or the act of being grossly verbose)

During the day, Highgate Cemetery was peaceful, a little boring perhaps, when compared to the Highgate of the darkness. Night-time is when the spirits come out to play. Ghosts of wailing women search the yard for their children with rake-like fingers. The hungry dead rise from their tombs to feast on the blood and flesh of the living. Witched cast spells and conjure demons to corrupt the hearts of men. All this under the cover of darkness provided by clouds over a full moon.

But it was daylight when I ventured through the wrought iron gate into the historic cemetery, a perfectly safe time to enter, though the gate had been closed and the latch fastened. Determining it to be purely accidental that the gate had been left shut on such a beautiful morning for walking, I had no second thoughts about lifting the latch and slipping inside and closing the gate behind me once more.

Hands in my pockets, I began to stroll, taking in all the lovliness of the grounds as they spread ou below me. Trees flanked the grassy hills on all sides, their sweeping branches shifting in the wind and their brittle leaves whispering some long untold tale of nature. The tall and generally unkept grass rustled against the grey slate of the grave markers like a rattling breath.

I inhaled deeply. The air smelled of fall: of dead leaves and sunshine. My feet crunched in the fallen leaves as I walked the tiny, stone-lined path between the plots, admiring the aged stones and the romantic epitaphs engraved upon them in the flowery chiseled script of skilled hands.

One grave stone in particular had always scared and fascinated me equally every time I laid eyes upon it, and I felt my spirits sink as I turned the corner and saw it at my feet, a low, square stone, small and mossy with disregard. "I'm not dead, only sleeping," the epitaph read and then below that, the three chilling words that filled my heart with unimaginable dread: "Wake me up."

But what frightened me beyond measure, even more so than the strange epitaph, was the crude eye carved deep into the stone above the words. It was about the size of my palm, its almond-shaped lids containing an iris so dark and so large that hardly any room was dedicated to the whites. Three thick lines sprouted from both the top and the bottom in straight lines, giving the eye the appearance of having been drawn by a child. But there was nothing remotely childish or innocent in its sinister gaze.

I shuddered in the brisk October sunshine and pulled my sweater tighter around me. As I started to turn away, something caught my attention. The eye's dark iris seemed to glisten in the light as my shadow moved from over top of the stone.

Nothing could sate my curiousity, not even my unease, as I stooped down to further inspect this anomaly in the stone. I held out my hand and pressed my fingertips to the eye. A chill passed through me and I could feel the little hairs on the back of neck rise one by one. A cold trickle of sweat ran down the small of my back. My stomach turned.

Quickly, I drew my hand away and all feelings of disquiet immediately fled. With a sigh of relief, I looked down and found my fingers stained by with a dark red liquid. Horror surged through me once more like rolling thunder. I rubbed my fingers together, smearing the red into my skin and, as it dried, sticking my fingers together.

Blood.

that's the way i like it... ABSURD

Parker: I'm mad at you, you know.
Andrew: That's the way I like it.
Parker: Pardon?
Andrew: I said I've got a locket.
Parker: Oh? What's that got to do with anything?
Andrew: Everything.
Parker: To do with anything?
Andrew: Exactly.
Parker: I see... But I'm still mad at you, you know.
Andrew: I know you're mad, but I didn't know you were British.
Parker: I'm not.
Andrew: I knew it!
Parker: Knew what?
Andrew: You're not British.
Parker: I'm not? Then why do I talk like this?
Andrew: I don't know, you're crazy!
Parker: (jumps up)
Andrew: Do you have something you want to say to me?
Parker: (sniffs Andrew) You smell like babies... Do you have something to say to me?
Andrew: Yes... I'm a werewolf.
Parker: Well that's a relief.
Andrew: Why?
Parker: I like cats.
Andrew: Oh good, me too... Which reminds me... I ate your cat.
Parker: Jelly Bean?!?
Andrew: No, the other one... With the ears and the tail...
Parker: I only have the one.
Andrew: Oh, then it must have been that one.
Parker: Well, now I'm mad again!
Andrew: That's the way I like it.

goodnight, iris - chapter for NaNoWriMo

I.
John stood leaning against the dirty wall of the hotel room with a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Do you remember when we first met, Iris?” He put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled.

Iris nodded from her place on the dusty loveseat in the corner. “You pushed me in the mud and called me a bitch,” she said hollowly, staring at a spot on the wall. She hugged her arms around her body.

He exhaled a cloud of gray smoke that matched the color of the bedspread. “You pinched me first. It was justified,” John said, biting the cigarette between his teeth so he could smile at her. But it was the smile of a hangman; wild and hopeless. He could feel it pulling at his cheeks like his face was a rubber mask and he could only imagine how horrible it looked to her eyes.

Iris glanced over at him and said nothing for a moment. She looked as if she’d forgotten what he looked like and was suddenly surprised to see this strange man before her. Her face was so pale it looked green in the dim light given off by the lamp on the nightstand. Dark circles surrounded her blood-shot eyes. “John, we were ten,” she said finally, blinking, remembering herself and him.

John let the maniac’s smile fall from his face and took the cigarette from his mouth. “I know,” he said. He studied the soiled dishtowel wrapped around his left hand and flexed his fingers. It still hurt pretty badly, but the pain was slowly fading into icy numbness. He said nothing; he didn’t want to worry her.

“And it doesn’t matter now,” Iris muttered. She shook her head. Her greasy brown hair fell in her face and she made no move to tuck it back behind her ears.

“I know.”

Silence fell heavily in the tiny room.

“You shouldn’t be smoking in here,” Iris said after what felt like hours.

John glanced down at the cigarette in his hand and snorted. “Why not?”

“It’s a non-smoking room,” she explained, nodding to a sign bolted to the wall beside the bed.

He looked at the sign, then back at her. It was all so… funny. He felt the laughter rising up inside of him and fought to hold it back, just like the day that they had first met. Seeing Little-Miss-Perfect Iris covered in mud had been the funniest thing he had ever seen. Until now. The laughter bubbled over the surface and erupted from his mouth like a scream.

Iris jumped, her eyes widening in shock, but she quickly recovered and resumed rubbing her shoulders and staring off into another world – a better world.

John wiped the tears from his eyes and sighed. “You’re right, I. I should quit anyway.” He ground the cigarette out on the wall behind him and then dropped it to the coarse blue carpet beneath his feet. He watched her eyes shift toward the cigarette. Beneath the veil of weariness, he thought he thought he could see a hint of her old self. But maybe that was just his imagination, not her lip curling in disgust.

“Fine, I’ll put it in the trash,” John said, throwing his hands in the air and then bending down to retrieve the cigarette.

Iris said nothing, just watched him as he crossed the room and put the butt in the little hotel trashcan. By the time he returned to his post, she was looking at the wall again.

II.

John brought the car to a screeching halt on the sidewalk in front of Iris’s apartment building. He tugged on the emergency brake and grabbed the aluminum baseball bat from the passenger seat. With a quick glance out the windows and in the rearview mirror, he jumped out of the car and sprinted to her door, barely stopping long enough to close the car door properly behind him.

Frantically, he pounded on the doorbell beside her name. “Come on, come on,” he whispered under his breath. The door buzzed and unlocked with no salutation and John grabbed the handle and wrenched it open.

He took the stairs two at a time all the way up to the fifth floor. By the time he reached the landing, he was panting, but that hardly seemed to matter. He gripped the bat tighter in his hand and rounded the corner.

Iris stood out in the hallway barefooted and in her pajamas. Her carefully composed guise of dignified agitation dissolved as soon as John was within sight. She ran up to him and threw her arms around him. John could feel her hot tears running down his neck.

“I’m so happy to see you!” she sobbed, clutching to him tighter as if she was afraid he would disappear.

John kissed her cheek, then her forehead. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” He pulled back and held her face cradled in one hand. With his thumb, he swiped at the tears, and then kissed her lips.

“John, what’s going on?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but we have to get out of here,” he said, grabbing her hand with his free one and urging her down the hallway.

Iris remained rooted to the spot. “Shelia…” she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder at her apartment door which she had left slightly ajar. “Shelia’s in there… Oh, John, it’s awful,” she moaned.

John’s heart jumped into his throat. “We can’t help her, I,” he said.

Iris choked out another strangled cry. “We have to do something. We can’t leave her. She’s… she’s my best friend.”

John debated for a moment, then sighed. “Wait out here,” he said to Iris as he kissed her forehead once more and put the baseball bat in her hand. “If you see anybody – anybody at all – scream and hit them with the bat, okay?”

Iris nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving her apartment door. Her fingers curled around the bat handle and turned white.

III.

“I’ve been thinking, I,” John said, taking a pull on another cigarette. He’d given them up for all of about an hour. Iris didn’t seem to care as much as she might have once.

Iris didn’t say anything. John could hear her ragged and scared breathing from across the room. It sounded painful.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, smiling wryly down at his feet. He looked up after a few seconds to see her staring back at him, her brow furrowed and her chalky white lips pursed.

“Now’s not the time,” she said.

“If not now, then when? I’m not gonna get a second chance!” John yelled.

Iris put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut like a little child who’s just been told that Santa Claus doesn’t exist. “Stop it, John!” she wailed. “Just… just stop it. I’m tired.”

John relaxed and crossed the room to kneel down in front of her. He took her chin between his fingers and raised it until she had to look him in the eye. He wiped the tears from her sweaty face like he had done what felt like a million years ago, but had only been the day before.

“Just let me tell you I love you then,” he said to her. “Will you give me that much?”

Iris sniffed and lowered her hands. She nodded her head mechanically. “Of course.”

“Okay… I love you.”

Her lips twitched once then fell still, unable to rearrange themselves into something other than a grimace. “I love you too,” she whispered, then let her head fall onto his shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

John stroked her hair and tried not to look at the blood stained dishtowel on his hand. “It’ll all be okay, I. Do you trust me?”

He could feel her nod weakly against him.

IV.

John pushed the apartment door open gingerly. The room was dark, the floral curtains over the windows drawn shut over the winter sunshine outside. He stuck his head inside the door and listened. “Shelia?” he called softly, not expecting an answer. “It’s me, John.” Faintly, he heard something bump in the back bedroom.

John stepped the rest of the way into the apartment and pulled the door closed behind him. He made sure it wasn’t locked just in case Iris needed to get in. Or he needed to get out.

He took a quick survey of the room, looking for something he could use as a weapon should he need one. His eyes fell on the decorative vase Iris’s mother had given her as a housewarming gift when she’d moved in five years ago. It sat on the table beside the sofa and had only been used when John had given Iris flowers on special occasions.

John walked over to the table and took the vase in his hand, testing its weight. It wasn’t a baseball bat, but he figured he could do some damage, provided the glass didn’t break.

Whatever was in the bedroom bumped again and John jumped, almost dropping the vase. He looked down the hallway for a long minute, staring at the closed door at the end. Through the crack underneath it, he could make out a shadow shuffling back and forth on the other side.

“Shelia?” John called again, raising the vase to shoulder level. “Is that you?”

The door shook as something slammed into it. There was a low, agonized moan.

John took a deep breath and began down the hallway as quietly as he could.

When he got to the door, he reached for the doorknob and let his hand come to rest on its golden surface. John swallowed and offered up a little prayer to Whoever may be listening before turning the knob and letting the door swing open silently.

V.

John watched Iris as she slept. Her chest rose and fell irregularly beneath the thin comforter he’d taken off the bed and thrown over her. Her hands moved restlessly beneath the cover.

He shook his head went across the room to turn the dial on the old black and white TV that sat on a rickety table in the corner. The screen came to life in an agonizing burst of white static that droned like buzzing flies in his ears. He changed the channel. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

John turned the TV off with an angry huff and sat down on the bed. The springs creaked ominously beneath him. Iris shifted under the comforter and then fell still with a pained sigh.

He let his head fall into his hands. What had happened? Everyone had gone crazy. The only thing keeping him sane was Iris. He knew he had to keep her safe from this madness, but even he could only do so much. And when he couldn’t anymore… well there was always the gun he’d gotten off the dead guy at the front desk when Iris hadn’t been looking. There was only one bullet in the clip, but that was really all he needed.

John squeezed his tired eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. His left hand seared with pain for a split second, a brutal reminder, and then faded to numbness again. He pressed on it harder and continued his vigil over Iris’s slumber with gritted teeth.

VI.

Shelia stood before the closet doors like she would have done any normal day when picking out an outfit for work, but this wasn’t a normal day, and the only thing about Shelia that was distinctly Shelia was the golden cross necklace she wore. The chain was imbedded in her skin in the sticky mess of clotted blood and torn flesh that hung from her neck like an obscene tumor.

John tasted bile in the back of his throat. He swallowed it and adjusted the vase in his sweaty grip.

She hadn’t seen him yet. He could just hit her over the head and be done with it.

But just as John began to raise the vase above his head to deliver the blow that would crush the skull of his girlfriend’s best friend of nearly twelve years, Shelia turned and fixed her rabid eyes on him. John froze in horror.

Shelia opened her mouth and screamed. It was nothing like John had ever heard before, like nothing he ever could have imagined. It was the scream of a wild animal.

She rushed at him with her face twisted into a malicious snarl, her glaringly white teeth made brighter by the blood that flooded her mouth and stained her gums.

John didn’t think, he just let the vase fall.

Its sturdy base hit Shelia square between her eyes and shattered in John’s hands, nicking his fingers and slicing into the palm of his left hand. Shelia fell in a heap at his feet and John scrambled backwards to avoid her gnashing teeth.

There was a sizable chunk of vase still clutched in his fist and John used it, embedding the glass into Shelia’s chest as she staggered to her feet.

Her blood stung like acid as it poured out of the wound and soaked John’s shirtsleeve and skin. It made his grip on the piece of glass slippery. He bared his teeth and pushed deeper, forcing Shelia to her knees and then to the ground. He didn’t let go until she had stopped moving. Even then, he wasn’t certain she was really dead.

John stood over her body, panting. As the adrenaline began to fade, the pain in his hand flared up.

He backed out of the room and down the hallway, keeping his eyes on Shelia just in case. She didn’t move.

John grabbed a dishtowel off the counter in the kitchen and wiped as much of the blood off his hands and forearms as he could before wrapping it around his cut palm. He went into the living room and opened the front door and walked out into the hallway.

Iris was at his side before he could shut the door behind him.

He turned and her eyes fell on the blood that covered his shirtfront and forearms. She took a step back, her eyes tearing up again. The aluminum bat fell from her hand and hit the floor. The noise echoed in the silent hallway.

John pulled her to him, forgetting the blood and the pain in his hand. He tangled his fingers in her hair. She gripped his torso as if her life depended it. And maybe her life did depend on it.

VII.

When Iris woke up a few hours later, she asked for water. Dutifully, John brought it to her in a paper cup and held it to her lips, letting the liquid dribble into her mouth slowly. He sat down beside her on the couch, leaving space between them.

“Remember when you proposed to me?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah, what about it?”

Iris stared at that spot on the wall. “I think I might just accept.”

John smiled. “That’s great. What made you change your mind?”

Her eyes swiveled towards him, but seemed to lose focus. “Remember what you said, about not getting a second chance?” John nodded and she continued after taking a deep, labored breath. “Why would you need a second chance? Why not just do it right the first time?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

She crumpled against his chest like a flightless bird. “You don’t have to be scared, John.”

He kissed her forehead. “I know.”

“It doesn’t hurt any more.”

Grimly, John peeled back the comforter from around her body and lifted her shirt to inspect the bite on her side, just below her ribs. It stunk like rotting meat and the shredded edges had turned a sickly green color since the last time he had checked it. The muscle underneath was shriveled and black.

He lowered her shirt and tried to give her a comforting grin as he rearranged the comforter around her.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said again.

VIII.

“John, I need to tell you something.”

John gave her a sideways glance, trying not to take his eyes off the road as they sped along. “Yes?”

Iris looked down towards the bat that rested against her leg. “She bit me,” she said quietly.

Horror gripped at John’s chest. He slammed on the brakes. The car came to a halt in the middle of a desolate intersection. He watched a broken stoplight swing in the breeze overhead and what was left of a person stumble along a few blocks ahead. “What?”

“Shelia bit me,” Iris repeated. “At first I thought she was just sick, you know? She was sweaty and her skin was gray. She said she felt like she had the stomach flu.” Iris shook her head. “I told her to go back to bed, that I’d call into work for her.” Her eyes found John’s finally, after looking everywhere but at his face. “I went in there with some juice later on… I didn’t know, John… Oh, God!” Her chest heaved, but she had no tears left to cry. She covered her face with her hands.

John leaned over the center console and hugged her.

“I’m sorry,” she moaned into his chest.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he said, willing his voice not to shake. He pulled away and pressed on the gas. "Come on. Let's get out of here.

IX.

Iris had stopped breathing.

John held her head cradled in his lap, petting her with one hand and gripping the .22 with the other. Any minute now, she’d wake up again, and he’d be ready to do what he needed to do to take care of her. But for now, he’d let her rest. She deserved it.

He stared at that spot on the wall, wondering what she had seen there. All he saw was dirt-stained paint.

Iris took in a sharp breath, pulling John from his reverie. He wiped his eyes and watched as her chest began to rise and fall in short, quick bursts. This was it.

John pulled Iris closer and pressed her to him. With his thumb, he switched off the safety and placed the gun against her temple.

"Goodnight, Iris," he whispered as he pulled the trigger.

tree climbing - nonfiction

"">

Parker looked up into the tree. She could hear other children laughing up there above her, but the only thing she could see was leaves and the occasional disembodied foot as its owner swung his or her leg back and forth.

She could do this. She could climb straight up that tree and hang from the branches with the best of them… Well, she could if she was about a foot taller and had substantial upper body strength. As it was, she was 4’11” with arms the consistency of chicken wings: all fat, no muscle.

But she wouldn’t let that stop her, couldn’t let that stop her. How would she ever become a singing veterinarian pop sensation who also acts, designs clothes in her spare time, and takes the photos for the ads for said clothes if she couldn’t climb a little tree?

Parker looked up again. Okay, a medium-sized tree.

She stood on her tippy toes and reached up, her splayed fingers barely scraping the bark of the lowest hanging branch. She sighed angrily and let her arm fall. It was a big tree… Definitely a big tree.

Parker put on a face of fierce determination and bent her knees. She glared at the branch; how dare this tree mock her size by growing a branch too high for her to reach. She sprung, unleashing a Tarzan-like battle cry as she flew, arms extended, into the air.

Miraculously, she felt that branch land solidly in her palms and she wrapped her fingers around it so it couldn’t get away. It was only a little tree after all and Parker alone had the power to tame it, to force it into submission beneath her sweaty hands.

Her non-existent muscles strained as Parker began to pull herself up, slowly inching farther and farther away from solid ground and closer and closer to the sky. Her chin was level with the branch, her stomach; just a bit more…

Parker’s arms twitched and gave out. She was jerked away from her dreams of soaring through the treetops and to reality. Pain rippled outward from her armpits to her biceps. She let her body drop heavily.

But as her body fell, Parker became suddenly aware that something else was rising… Namely, her shirt.

Panic mounting, Parker looked up to find that her shirt was caught on the branch. She wiggled her body, but all she succeeded in doing was pulling her shirt off more. But she refused to ask for help from the parents standing nearby. Instead, she wiggled harder. Still, the material slipped; past her chest, past her shoulders, until it covered her face, the collar tight across her neck. Parker struggled to maintain her grip on the branch and her decency.

She couldn’t see anything with her shirt obstructing her vision, but all of a sudden, something pulled on the fabric and her shirt was torn free from the branch. Parker hastily pulled her shirt back down to cover herself. She sniffed and looked at the man standing in front of her, someone’s dad that she was really glad she didn’t know.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes…”

Parker ran away before he could see her crying.

hillbilly BBQ - flash fiction

"What 'chu think, ma? Breast or thigh?"

The old woman sucked her teeth and stirred the pot of creamed corn on the stove. "I don' know, pa! Whichever's the freshest!"

The old man grunted and lifted his keys from the singing fish key hook. He left the house through the kitched door and made his way next door to the woodshed whistling an eerie tune.

Inside, he flipped the lightswitch. The bulb flickered to life with some difficulty. The old man grunted again in approval and strode across the room to the freezer.

He inserted a key into the padlock on the handle and turned. The lock unhinged silently. The old man lifed the freezer lid and peered into it. After a few moments, he selected a length of meat wrapped in saran-wrap about as long as his forearm and twice as wide. He sniffed it, shrugged his shoulders, and closed the freezer before heading back to his house.

"I got a purdy good sized thigh here, ma!" the old man yelled as he shut the kitchen door behind him.

The old woman went over to inspect the meat with her bony fingers. "It'll do," she confirmed as she took it from his hands. "Damn tourists... at least they're good for somethin', right, pa?"

The old man laughed and looked longingly to where his shotgun stood propped in the corner. "Sure are, ma... Suuuuuure are..."

suspension

I felt her arms circle my waist from miles away. The disconnect between my head and my body at times like this was astounding. I didn't hug her back.

She sighed, breathing hot air on my chest. She smelled... off. Like milk you don't realize is spoiled until after you've taken that first giant sip. Her lavender perfume masked the smell, barely, and her hair tickled my nose.

"I love you... so much..." She adjusted her grip on the knife handle. The edge of the blade made a slight impression in the back of my shirt, but I was already thinking I could feel the cuts. "Do you know that?" She looked up at me.

I nodded. "Yes, I know."

She nodded too. "Then you understand why it has to be like this, don't you?"

I didn't answer.

"I don't think I could go on without you," she told me. "And I'd rather die before I let any other woman have you." Her empty hand clutched at my shirt. I felt another wave of panic rise up from the pit of my stomach and try to force my heart out of my mouth. I swallowed and gave her a level stare.

"We can work this out," I said to her, stroking her face.

She shook her head. I felt her arms fall away from me and it felt like the floor dropped out too, leaving me suspended in the air with nowhere to run.

I couldn't look at the knife. Wouldn't look at the knife.

"No, we can't work this out... Goodbye, Jonathan."

i wanted to know...

You
You were a user
You used people like people use light

I
I was a loser
I lost faith like the faithless lose life

(chorus)
I wanted to know
What it felt like
I wanted to know
That's not right
I wanted to know
It's just spite
I wanted to know
Tell me tonight

We
We had a future
We had a future like the moon and the sun

You
You were the cancer
You killed like the killers who killed just for fun

(chorus)

Do-you-see-what-you’ve-done-to-me
Ripped-my-heart-out-but-still-it-beats
You-left-me-bleeding-on-the-floor
And-turned-your-back-on-me-once-more

Once more I will fight you
I can’t stand the sight of you
I will stand against you
And give back all the ---- you’ve put me through

Through all of these years
You’ve instilled in me my fear
That everyone I ever loved would disappear
And leave me alone to die here

(chorus)

Would you just let me die?
Or would you die by my side? (2x)

*my original conflict in lyrics project was bad so I posted this instead -_-

the sickness

The Sickness slipped into a house silently one day, simply because it was bored and had nothing better to do than to cause some chaos. No one saw it as it slithered through the rooms, sticking to the walls and falling into step with people's shadows as they aimlessly padded from room to room, oblivious to the malady that lurked just under their noses, but absorbed in the thoughts of imperfection it filled their heads with.
***

Sydney Morgan, a single woman of 30 or so with a short and stylish bob hairstyle and an amazingly proportioned body, was dying. At least she hoped so.

Sydney had been sitting up in her bed for the better part of three weeks with a blanket tucked around her thinning frame, staring at the small clock on her nightstand. It had stopped precisely at 4:52 a.m. on the morning of December 15, 2009. So had the clock on her DVD player, her watch, and the clock on the wall next to her closet.

She coughed once, blood spattering the blanket and dripping down her chin. Shakily, she raised her hand to wipe it away, and was horrified to see that the skin to which she had so religiously applied moisturizer and sunscreen to avoid age spots had turned black with rot.

With her other equally blackened hand, she rubbed the skin on her palm, gasping when it came off in a thin, papery sheet between her fingers. Distressed, Sydney threw the dead skin to the floor and scrubbed her hands together furiously, black flakes peeling off of her fingers, palms, the backs of her hands, and settling in her lap on the blanket like a fine dust.

Sydney realized suddenly that her hands hurt. She immediately stopped wringing them together and let them fall limply to her sides. Now that she thought about it, her whole body hurt. It burned like it was on fire. And it itched too.

Tentatively, she scraped her nails against her cheek, but felt no relief from the stinging itch that festered under her skin. She scratched harder, digging her nails into her flesh, and still felt nothing.

Sydney stood slowly, one hand still scratching at her face, the other securing the blanket around her shoulders as she unsteadily made the three steps it took to get to her vanity table, above which hung a large, oval mirror in a wrought iron frame. It was to the mirror she looked now.

With an inhale of horror, she examined her face. Once, fair and freckled, her skin was black and gone altogether in some places, revealing the white of her stunningly high and perfectly shaped cheekbones. She flattened her palm to the side of her face, and turned this way and that, her once blue, now cloudy gray, eyes following her reflection.

Her hair hung in matted clumps and fell out of her scalp with each twist of her head. Her lips had receded back into her mouth, it seemed, showing her bloody gums and brown teeth even when her mouth was shut firmly. Frankly, she looked very much like a corpse.

With a startled cry of anguish, Sydney flung herself facedown on her bed, aware that the coarse material of her comforter was slowly flaying the skin from her face as she writhed about.

“I was perfect!” she wailed, drooling blood on the sheets. She beat her fists weakly on the mattress on either side of her and tried with all her might to cry, but found that she couldn’t.

“You were perfect before. Now look at you, poor soul,” came a harsh and grating whisper from above Sydney. She felt a light pressure of someone stroking what remained of her lustrous brown hair and her head snapped up mechanically.

“No, I wasn’t perfect,” she argued with the whisper, which just chuckled throatily and flouted her foolishness.

“And aren’t you an ugly thing now?” it asked.

Sydney thought about it for a moment. “No,” she said slowly and uncertainly. “I’m beautiful still…”

She stood once more and wobbled to her vanity table, this time looking at the small picture tucked into the corner of her mirror where she could look at it everyday, as she was getting ready for work. The picture showed a very different Sydney Morgan with chubby cheeks and a toothy grin under a too-big nose, with her ex-fiancé Paul. Both were elegantly dressed in black, their arms linked together, standing with their backs to a pink sunset over the ocean on the deck of the cruise ship where they had met and fallen in love.

Sydney now ripped the picture from its hold in the mirror and held it with two rotting hands before her face. Slowly, tenderly, she brought the photo up to her mouth and kissed Paul’s smiling face as best as she could without lips, a smear of blood marring his visage as she pulled away and replaced the picture.

“I’m going to be perfect for you, no matter what it takes,” she said as she sat down at her vanity, the blanket slipping from her shoulders to expose a heavily bloodstained paper hospital gown.

With sure fingers, Sydney picked up her mascara and unscrewed the cap, placing the brush against her eye and swiping the air where her eyelashes would be if she still had any, humming quietly to herself.
With a sly grin of accomplishment, The Sickness left Sydney Morgan alone to die.

hunting (25-word story)

Professor Andrew VanHelsing stared at the beast and reached into his pocket only to discover his gun and silver bullets were in his other pants...

a little room and a sturdy jacket (description)

I have a room. No windows, just four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. There's a door, but I don't use it much, personally, just to recieve my daily loaf of bread and pitcher of water through the slot at the bottom.

Sometimes I imagine there's more to this room than the soft white walls and floor and ceiling so high, it echoes when I scream, like in a church cathedral. But at least churches give you something pretty to look at so you don't even want to think about screaming: Stained glass windows.

I pretend there's a window in my room. I like to sit there and poke my head between the red velvet curtains and squint past the grimy glass and metal bars.

Before me stretches the city in all it's foul beauty. Smoke funnels from the chimnies of mills and bake houses, pitch black against the cloudy grey sky. In the distance, half-hidden by this acrid fog, I can barely make out the outline of a clock tower and if I press my ear to the glass, I can feel the subtle vibrations of its vast internal machinery, ticking...

***

Jasper's jacket is made 'o the sturdiest material. A stiff fabric, like a canvas yeh paint on. It's white... Well, it was white once, but wif the way 'e carries on in there, I expect it'd be brown by now, ripped ter shreds if it weren't so damn sturdy. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I just wish to impress upon you the violent nature of it.

Some say we should treat 'em better, but I say let 'em rot in that room there. What 'e done ter his family is a sin, it is. Oh, but 'e'll get 'is own at the gallows come Friday and then it'll be God 'e answers ter, not me...

We tried ter bring 'em up once, ter see how the others take ter 'em. Well, 'e took ter them like a wolf takes ter meat and twice as vicious. Nearly bit me finger off, 'e did. It was back to the basement wif 'em after that.

Now 'e just sits wif his face pressed against the wall, laughing 'is 'ead off and when I come down to bring 'em food, 'e snickers and says, real quiet like, "I'll bet a finger's twice as nice, but I can't afford the price..."

bach's toccata and fugue in D minor (dialogue)

“You play beautifully,” Sophia whispered as the last note faded.

The Inspector’s fingers gently lifted from the ivory keys and settled in his lap. “Thank you.” He didn’t look up.

“Have you classical training?” she inquired, shifting on the bench to get closer to him under the pretense of straightening her skirt.

He shook his head. “My mother taught lessons. I was bound to pick up a few things.”

"A few?" she laughed airily. "I'd certainly say it was more than a few... Tell me, Inspector: Have you ever dreamt of playing professionally? I dare say you'd fare better as a musician than as an officer of the law, what with your talent. "

He shook his head again. "I only play for private parties." A small smile graced his lips. "Besides, I have many talents. I happen to enjoy my current profession and there's always work to be done."

Sophia snorted. "Yes, work to be done, papers to be notarized, bodies to be examined..." She suddered despite her flippancy.

The Inspector shrugged and raised his hands once more to the keyboard, but only to pull down the rosewood cover.

“That piece..." Sophia began, "what was it? It sounded somehow familiar, but I know it couldn’t have been: I’ve never heard anything so beautiful before, or surely I would have remembered it.”

"Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. It's one of my favourites." He gave her a rare smile.

She blushed. "I think it's one of my favourites too..."

monologue for fugue

Dr. Thomas Sharlen:

"Me? Me of all the people it could have been, you ask. Don’t look so shocked. If you’ll but think one moment, it will all make sense. Who else cannot withstand the light of day or the sun’s cruel heat? Who else has a steady enough hand, a left hand, as you so expertly deduced? Who has the expertise to dissect the bodies so carefully, so meticulously and preserve them like they were only sleeping? And who would have the audacity to leave them on your stoop but a man not afraid of your power?

You see it makes sense that I am the perpetrator of these crimes, does it not?

Don’t reach for your gun; you’ll never make it in time. My knife will make quick work of her throat. Not quite the masterpiece I was hoping for my grand finale, but certainly a piece de résistance. She’s not you, of course, but as close as one can get without raising the dead…

Ahh, the look on your face tells me you already know… And yet the look on her countenance tells me she does not. Why keep the fair maiden in the dark. Shall we bring the family secret to the light then?

You say at one time you had a proper family: A father, a mother, some siblings perhaps, or maybe just one, a sister or a brother. Tragedy struck like it does in so many comedic tableaus, leaving just you and your mother and a sister, sold to a brothel for a crust of bread.

She gasps! Her eyes ask for your confirmation, but she needn’t search for something that can stare her straight in the face. Namely, your eyes, which are so like hers, it’s a wonder she didn’t notice before. And the freckles that dust her cheeks, that she tries in vain to cover with powders and paints. Do they not mirror yours almost exactly? And dare I mention the hollow look about the face and the lithe musician's fingers?

Is this man, this man that you claim to love so passionately, not your brother? Well? Answer me!"

life or death situations.

Juliet gasped.

Just when she thought she'd never see him again, there was Rider.

She was ready to yell at him for leaving her behind again but noticed that Red was there behind him, holding him still with one hand on his shoulder and a gun to his neck. Her sneering face just visible to one side of his head told Juliet that the fight was over... and that they'd lost.

"You thought he'd live forever, didn't you?" Red asked, squeezing his shoulder and ripping the fabric of his jacket with her fingernails.

"No..." The back of Juliet's throat burned, but she refused to cry. Not here and now in front of that monster.

Rider stared at her, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. There was no tension in his body. Juliet knew he'd given up. She wanted to scream at him, but didn't. Maybe she'd just give up too.

The cigarette he'd put in his mouth before charging into the lab was still there, hanging from the corner of his lip. The smoke curled up and away as Juliet watched it burn lower.

"I guess I don't have to tell you it's over." Red smiled. "You're a smart girl..." Her finger twitched on the trigger.

"Don't give up," Rider said softly, giving Juliet an imperceptible wink.

Juliet's eyes flashed from Rider to Red and back again. "I love you," she told him.

He dipped his head and took one last drag off his cigarette before pinching it between two fingers and tossing it to the floor. He raised his foot and ground it to ash on the tile.

Red's smile widened until it threatened to split the skin grafts on her cheeks. "How can you love something that doesn't exist?"

Her finger bent and the gun went off.

shaggy dog

I. Andrew was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pencil down on the desktop before him, scratched his chin, and stared thoughtfully towards the classroom door.

But the longer he stared, the more he became convinced that the door was, in fact, opening slowly.

As Andrew stood to investigate, a big, slobbering beast with red-rimmed eyes burst through the door, dashed across the room, and ripped Andrew's head off with one swipe of its terrible claws.

The monster laughed as Andrew's body fell heavily to the floor at his feet: He knew that supper was ready.


II. Brandon was expecting company for dinner that night, so he decided to head off to the supermarket to buy ingredients for his famous tongue stew. Brandon lived in an apartment two blocks away from the closest market, so he decided to walk, as it was a very nice day outside.

Once at the market, Brandon bought a box of broth, a few potatoes, and a half-pond of minced tongue. After waiting at the check-out for some time, Brandon paid for his groceries and walked away with two bags in his hands.

Outside, Brandon saw a stray cat. It seemed friendly enough, so Brandon stooped down and set the bags containing the broth, potatoes, and minced tongue on the sidewalk beside him. He reached out to pet the cat, but suddenly, the cat grabbed an abandoned grocery bag in its mouth and sprinted away.

Brandon jumped to his feet. "Somebody stop him!" he cried, pointing a finger at the retreating animal. "That cat's got my tongue!"