LOG #123

 

I don’t know the date anymore. The days have passed by like a swift breeze in the night. I’ve done everything I can to get to these people. Their faces now seem more and more aggravated every time I see them again. The pedigree is still unknown, their hair grows long and tangled, but they wear clothes, and dress themselves with a reasonable, rational logic that far exceeds any cavemen like capability. So this leads me to believe they are from some land we never found, some place that went under the radar. I haven’t shaved in weeks, and they make me feel self conscious about my looks, because their faces, for some reason, are clean, and professional. They look at me in a comical way when I sit down next to them and begin recording my observations. They do not communicate verbally but their eyes speak volumes. What I still find extraordinary is their lack of response to the technology I hold in front of them. It’s almost as if they have seen these advances before. I hope to not discomfit them while I continue to inquire more questions. One of them has begun to follow me, and track my every move. He lays on his back, while I type, and he climbs the trees overhead, as I walk in the mornings. He has these grounded eyes that capture the very essence of curiosity that keeps me motivated. I have sent my findings back to headquarters. They haven’t replied for days, but I am hoping they are just waiting for a justifiable reason for me to continue to use their system for my explorations. I think they might be worried though.

Victim

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A discriminating sunrise hits the peak of the hills every morning. It hides behind a large tree, with branching limbs.  Now there is a cry in the night and a weary eye the next day. Now there’s a flash of emotion and a lost soul. It’s difficult to say when it will end or when it had begun. The world has diminished the very essence of life to a polarizing tool of destruction. A broken soul is now washed away because they have no comfort in the open. A young mother wakes one morning and drowns in toil, because she can’t feel the presence of the son she had held the day before. A father comes home from a long day at work, and has no idea what is happening. He calls for his son, and has that anticipation in his gut of the image of his face. He laughs and calls out for his son once more. A game of hide and seek, he assumes. Like always. He looks all around the house, through the pantry, around the corner, in the garage, in the laundry room. He’s smirking. “You’ve gotten good boy!” He decides to look in his room up the stairs. His shirt stained with the long work day’s work, and his eye’s wandering like a gracious young man receiving his first kiss, or his first car. The stairs heavy on his legs and back. He’s a young man, married just a year ago. When he sets foot at the top of the stairs, he smelt the perfume of his sweet wife. He heard commotion, and a clangor behind the closed door of his son’s room. He was now worried. He heard tears and felt the fear. He opened the door cautiously. On the floor by the bedside was his wife, the mother of his son, in tears, choking under the weight of the moment. “What’s wrong?” She closes her eyes and points towards the TV screen. The news channel running, he collapsed when he saw it. It was the name of his son, identified as the victim of a terrible destruction. He lay there next to his wife, holding her tightly. Hoping that he will come back. That maybe he will be given back from the heavens, like he is a stolen soul, a hopeful restitution that would never come.

Social media clammers, his son’s phone lays at the head of the bed buzzing. Facetious talk down newsfeed, some sympathy, some cruel tweets, and a revulsion amongst a majority. The father’s ears ring and his throat feels tight. A tear falls onto the bed sheets and slithers onto the newly installed wooden floorboards. The tears feel like a piece of his life escaping him. His arms grow heavy, as does his wife’s. They lay dead, void of life. Any more indication of their boy’s death would be superfluous, because they’ve gone through it all, but the TV, the men and women on the screen continue to discuss. Then in a matter of days, it passes over like a terrible storm. The heart still torn but now another story is out there, but there boy is still that constant missing piece. The deluge of raining fear settles within the household, and the tears now blood. The compatibility now gone between the couple. They gather their things, and burn down the past. The wooden panels crumble and the TV collapses. The screen of flames mask their emotions at the moment. They both feel empty, that is about the only thing they feel they share. The only thing they had taken with them out of that house, was the family gun. The morning was young that day, they stand before the burning house, gripping each other with envy of their past selves. A few tweets are sent out around the friendly neighborhood, and the clouds converge overhead. The man holds the gun to his wife’s forehead, and she tightly shuts her eyes. The slither of sunlight that slithered through the small voids of the clouds, had beat down on the outer coating of the weapon, exuding the morning heat onto the palms of the man. His palms now sweating, and his heart beating through his chest, he obliged with the inevitable evil that was to commence. A pulsing indention when he pulled the trigger and a recoil that turned the man’s wrist back, as his wife’s body propel backward. Birds fly from the foliage in the front yard. He blows out some air and swallows his fear and turns the weapon on himself. The end had come for him as well. His eyes fixated on the barrel of the gun, then he did it. Two dreaded, lost souls shredded to pieces, lay on the uneven pavement. The heart that was thumping through the man’s chest no more, and the tears that fell from the woman’s soul only hidden beneath the surface. It was only expedient now for the aid, the help to come, but they did not come for some time, only the bad weather did. The storm drew it’s sorrow onto the two figures down below. Their skin now wizened in the broken moment. They were buried by their son. Only a few attended their funeral, but many implied they would be there in spirit.

The grass lay still the next morning, as if it had some things to figure out, and the sun now seemed dimmer. The burned house was still as it was. It stuck out like a sore thumb, and the wind passed by it with no worry because life went on, or that’s what they say it does. It was difficult to tell if there was any remorse, any melancholy that was real. It felt real but nature did its turn as it always did, following its own schedule, and washing away any evidence of the past. The flames drew away, and the phone that lay on the head of the bed wash away with it. It now is set on the head of the tomb stone, gravely staring at its owner, waiting to be held, to be in a position of comfort. Dappled stains of blood lay on the curtain of society and everyone attempts to wash it away. Not all the scars are perspicuous, some are hidden. So riots fight, and things continue. Protests take hold of the moment, and take influence by history’s notions, but still it continues. An omnipresent guilt reigns supreme over everyones head, and a ominous eye watches the field of yielding crime. But here comes the sunrise again, and the moon hides behind.

 

Identity

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Polarity can dwell inside. It is easy to be philosophical when life seems to be evolving every second, every minute. Are we the only constant? Or are we stuck where we are set? Can an imperial force overcome a do gooder? Of course because by the force of nature, it only becomes an inevitable force, and then an inevitable entity is born. There’s addiction, peer pressure, ingrained motives, social cliques, and more. You wake up in the morning, and you don’t want to be known as a dull human being, one that stays still, one that is monochromatic, in every sense of your life. So you crumble up all your pieces and put them in a jar, hoping to call it art or something. In reality, it could be art, or it could be only your perception of potential. Maybe there is something more behind the curtain. With the intention of growing, you throw out that jar. What do you have then? What is there then? A plenitude of struggle? A battery on the verge of running out of time? Do you resort to the basic human instinct and look only for the simplistic qualities of life; on the necessary?

The thrill of the moment, and the adventure of the edge. That is a resort for some. There’s an addictive mind that caresses life with a fragile touch. A vulnerable touch. a touch that conquers many to lay still, to recluse the body to a state of solitude no individual should suffer. Do you become the former or the latter? Is there something different? If you throw out that jar? What could you do with this life? Do you stipple with the horizon and call out the sunrise when your hungry for a beautiful picture? Do you laugh with the moon out but whistle when the day comes? There’s despite, enrage, inspiration, treating the youthful rejuvenation of the heart that now beats fast in the rhythmic song of nature. So is there a time of peace? In this time of seclusion? I think that is when you can find inspiration. When creativeness calls home, that is where I can go. It is deeper than what you might think. It is deeper than that abstract painting, and that coiled tree. Henceforth if we want to find it we must go deeper, (it must be noted, some of this what I am speaking of, is inspired by many, most notably that of David Lynch) to find it. So do you run with it? How would you justify the madness that ensues? The extreme culmination of all ideas within. The creative mind bomb that explodes. Justifiably so, you research the answers, you attempt to find sympathy with the others, but the reality is, you can’t. Can you change? Is it black and white? Is it living alone or dying the most noble of ways? Killing a man within to grow a different one. Sure, why not? A rambling can only go so far. And this is that stopping point.

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It’s A Complexity

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A facade. A killjoy. A inevitable sunrise and the absence of light. It’s the call of the heart and the strings attached. It’s conflicted somedays and somedays it’s relaxed. Sometimes the beat falls off its rhythm, sometimes it’s very well tuned. It falls for love but then stumbles over rocky ground. An inducing eye wanders its way, and it feels a courage ensuing but in reality it’s a false hope. A pretentious cloud covers the story, and you find yourself slipping even more drastically. I’ll read to her. Maybe, give her an eloquent monologue on my emotion. The voice within tugs beneath, and you feel grounded. I’ll send a letter, I’ll write a poem. I’ll tell my story. I’ll color the moon with the wonderful vitality of life. That’s all it is to it. So I fly away. I call upon a hero. I grab a cape, and soar to the sky. Plenty of emotion fueling my undertaking, longing to be wanted, to be insightful, to be matured in all things, to be a sagacious figure.

False entities. The stars align and a voice calls back. It responds to my heart and reads a prelude to a manuscript I’ve never heard of. It drowns my knowledge for a moment, as it links its head with mine. An ocean of appeal. It laughs and smiles. It gives me back my knowledge and shouts; “Be your own man.” A twitch on the ear and the shivers down my spine, I smile in delight. I soar back down to Earth. I write my story. A director films it and distributes its meaning through the eyes and ears of millions. Gratitude, isn’t the word. I couldn’t think of anything to appease the moment, so I smiled. I found her under the dark night, sitting on a wooden bench, under a collapsing tree. My eye now can make contact with the one that I yearned for. The disconsolate sun rests its head on the night desk, and I find the same feeling rushing in. She closes her eyes, and the tree gives way. The crushing weight toils over her failing body. Her heart stops. Her eyes let loose and skin turns cold. A light jumped the curb and acted like a new born puppy, wearing an agog brow and a keen insight on what’s to come. The beaming light, foiled through windows, leaving stripes of light painting the street. An impaling force scrambled through the universe that night. I searched for the eyes but they were no more, and my heart no more. I stripped off the cape and said good morning to the sun. My legs felt numb and my fingers curled into a fist, I pounded everything in sight. The sun rose yet again, but now it had seemed I lived in a paradox of my former self. A foil to reality, and a juxtaposed man, hypocritical in every sense of the word, because as he crawls the underbelly of courage, and talks love through his head, he finds no courage, to voice his thoughts. He can no longer force himself to rhapsodize his writings, they are now grounded with reality, but imaginative in what should’ve been. But maybe there is still hope, maybe he says; “there is still a future, in what I make.” But his heart pounds to the critiques and the judgements, the ridicules, are analogous to a stampede of dark eyes, and lost hope. A kindled fire whistles in the wind. Yet, it is too afraid to voice any louder.

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Vanished

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I awoke to the soft grass and the fresh dew. I awoke to the small puddles and the large oceans. I awoke to the low hue sunlight struggling to vanish the clouds. I awoke to the “oh crap I left my contacts in.” I awoke to the nervous times and the anxiousness of the future. I awoke to the delusion of the past and the resolution of the future. I awoke to my own being yet still unsettled in that soft grass. I awoke in the palpable dream of my own. I awoke to no end, and no beginning. I awoke to my own foil and to my own vision of perfect. I awoke to “is it supposed to be soiled?” I awoke to the reality of this, that maybe destiny could alter my course. I awoke to the drop of the ocean. I awoke now to the kindled spirit in my midst. I awoke to the spite of the evil down under and the bundled happenings of life.

I’m awake. I live in my own head. I waken to a book in hand, a Stephen King novel. It’s done. I put down the words and feel the agony of a story settling. Salacious of my own life. A smattering of what I am, what I really am. Is it illicit to dream? If so, I juxtapose that perfect image with an image not of lavish comfort but of something quite underwhelming to some. The complete word upon that hilltop and the severing heat searing below. There’s the rolling film and the high price. Banished the well man and the cradle for which he was comforted with. I will only lose the moment in the faceless home that vanishes in the middle of the hustle and verbiage. It is only a memory to be made. A memory to search for and own. It is only seldom it grows abundantly. It grows exponentially within, shared only with a few. Because if it grows and spreads, gossip dissipates my heart. Laughter, misunderstanding, judgement, cruelty. Life hits me in the face with the critiques. The silver spoon in the sky reflects the sun off of its top and vanquishes the moon all together. In spite of that spoon I run. I run through the pages, and humble myself with the sheets of warm words. A screen of acknowledgement palpable, pours my breath from my belly, and stirs into the mixture of dismemberment and heartfelt cuts in the corner of the page. The large hand turns the page over and I see the eye of the lampoon. A befriended fairy superintendent over the soul walks the stale water and accepts the mystery that has been laid down deep beneath the ocean.

The leader of ridicule and grudge works, lights the flame. Resurrected hand painting a spirit the color of hope. A bar of sunlight seeks through the clouds now and I am awake.

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First short fiction

 

 

 

A new story

A piece of “A Chronicle of Subordination” 

A part of chapter 1 “Till Death Do Us Part”:

His badge, a dreaded sight of the inevitable. The chains now locked, and his head down, he was ushered into a police car, rather aggressively. His arms could barely function. They were weighted down by utter confusion. The cushioned seat became firm, and unforgiving as he had to now plead guilty to a crime he was questioning his own innocence of. The policeman was a loner. He alone, looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror, and he alone, fixed the mirror now on the loner in the back seat. Akakios had a heart that now beaten at an alarming rate. His palms began to perspire, and his eyes fell under a heavy spell. Any comfort was a collapsing fear, because a seemingly strong foundation was now a questionable structure. It was a cognitive response to doubt and a frantic subconscious at work. The pages seemed to fill with words expressed by a different man. Numbed was the man before. He was collapsed somewhere deep within, beyond rescue. 

    The car pulled into a vacant lot. The graveled lot scratching the underbelly of each tire and crumbling underneath the weight. The car screeched to a halt and the cop abruptly got out of his seat. An angry eye was fixated on Akakios. The door was pulled open and the surrendering man’s heart dropped. The cop, filled to the brim with rage, tore at the man’s arm. Akakios did not fight back. He took a beating. The liquid of life, spread on the cushion that felt so firm before, on the rearview mirror, on Akakios’ face. It was a grim scene. A scene that flashed by as fast as it started. The cop resumed his position in the front seat, and revved the engine. 
    “That was my son back there.”
    The cop adjusted the mirror.
    “Did you hear me? That was my life!”
    He put the car in gear, and drifted onto the main road. 
    “I pray to God, you rot in prison. I pray that you don’t even see the light of day. I pray that you slowly diminish into the man you really are. I hope, that you burn. You burn down there. I hope you dwell with the caregivers of Satan. I hope he enslaves you and you have to drink from your own drink.”

    

    Akakios had no response. What was he to say? He was crushed. There was no sympathy either. I suppose that made him a criminal, a terrible human being. He was infatuated with nothing. He was a man that flowed with whatever life brought to him in that moment. Did that make him inhumane? The car drifted into a parking lot. The lot was mostly full with press and other media outlets. The night was now threatening. The cop pounded on the dash.
    “I hope you die. You’re coming out with me and then you’re going in there.”