Freedom

To do whatever I want - to live, to die, to suffer and cry. How sweet it is. How wonderful it is. How scary it is.

Let's go - there's a whole lifetime waiting for you out there - be it 60 years worth or 60 seconds. Make it last an eternity.

The Importance of the Macabre

People have been asking me this question a lot recently, on why I choose to support strange subcultures that embrace morbid themes, such as the Gothic culture, or why my writing is always filled with darkness and madness. Well, the simple answer is simply that that's the way I like it. Now before I go on, please, PLEASE do realize that I'm not saying that my beliefs and views are "Better than yours" or anything stupid like that, or that I know the strange mystical ways of the world and have gained enlightenment. No, this is nothing more than an apologia for the way I am.

The way I see things, as pretentious as this may sound, is slightly different from other people. I subscribe to the belief that people with strong creative urges have an essential self-destructive tendency not only in the way with which they hurl themselves at their art, but also at the way in which they experience life. The world is commonly seen through different glasses, vastly unique to how most of society would view it. Now, again, I'm not saying this is better, or an enlightened view, it's just different, that's all. Most call it wierd, and strange. In my case, as a storyteller I tend to see the world in the view of a narrative, with its heroes and anti-heroes and its characters and plots. Noting the fact that I live half the time in a separate dream-realm created from the world I spin out from my mind, the reality in which I exist is constantly warped by the realities in which I live.

A story needs and wants many things, by existing it creates a sublime beauty. As such, I do see a sublime beauty in all aspects of life, no matter how painful it is. Show me the picture of war and destruction and I can see the wonder and awe in it, the madness of humanity in its drive for forwardness causing destruction to all about it, and eventually the erosion of the humanity it defines itself with. Show me a picture of a broken family, and I can see the complex sadness prevalent in human beings that are so close yet still so far apart, each a dizzyingly complicated mechanism that ensures its uniqueness, and thus its eventual loneliness amongst the other heart-machines that trundle about it. Yet I can also see the hope in it, the chance at the creation of one's own family -made up of friends, of trusted ones. I can see the love without respect, the madness existing in love, the wonderful whirlwind concoction of emotions that life brings. And that is wonderful, it is what I believe to be true beauty - the experience of life itself. The living in the story.

Yet, the way I view these things can be considered as self-destructive, that my mind's eye constantly strives to break down and subvert what it sees, choosing to believe and not believe in accordance to a law that I confess I do not understand. Maybe someone with much more experience in life than me would understand the forces that sway his thoughts, but from where I stand, life CAN easily be seen as bleak and despairing, it CAN be seen as a cruel joke.

And yes, it is a cruel joke. I believe in God, and I believe that life as he made it IS a cruel joke by the definitions of cruelty and of jokes that we humans give. Life does throw shit at us, knock us down and cut our rope. It allows us to climb the greatest heights before pushing us off just before the apex. The fickle entropy that governs our existence then is capable of governing our lives, if we choose to let it do so. And yet, we do not, as long as we continue to strive, as long as we do not fall into the pits of apathy and nihilism, we continue to live on against the odds. And that is the story that God has created, the ultimate narrative, the wonderful, beautiful tale.

So what does this have to do with my darkness and my morbid nature? Well, I choose not to reject the entropy of life, the cruelty of others, the sadness prevalent in our struggle. Instead, I choose to embrace it, as does the Goth subculture, of which although I would not say I fully follow, I do admire and at times take inspiration from. I look at sadness in the world, and I laugh at the cruel joke that is life. Because when you are laughing, life finds it much harder to be screwing you over. Have you noticed, the subcultures that embrace themes of death and melancholy often are also the most cheerful, in the most sincere manner? Blues lyrics are a prime example of this, its musicians singing about funerals with a wide smile on their faces. They are able to do so because they get the joke, and they see what's so funny. That we, insignificant, miniscule bags of flesh and bone walking about a lone planet amongst billions, taking up a space in the universe infinitely small, fording the river of time that we are not even able to conceive fully in our heads with a beginning and an end, that we motes of dust are living, against all odds, in a world so dark and bleak, and that's worth being cheerful about. That all the darkness around me is to be embraced, that I should not turn a blind eye to it, but rather look it in the face with a lopsided grin. And when the darkness takes me, when life gives me an unexpected right hook, I can appreciate the beauty of my fall, and the even greater awesomeness of my climbing back up.

I do not embrace darkness and madness in an attempt to be counter-cultural or any other bullshit like that, not to rebel against my parents or against society, although at times I find myself at odds with the majority of society's views. I do so because at heart, I know that the way I see things, it's either to laugh or to cry, and that it's actually okay to do both as long as I allow myself to be CAPABLE of doing both. As long as I do not ignore the beauties of sadness, nor become blind to the possibility of happiness, I find that I will tread this fine line, and be glad that I have done so. The true sin, in my eyes, is to give up, to say to myself, "I do not wish to feel anything any longer.". Because no matter how hard life gets, it's still beautiful, and although it may never get better... oh well. That's life. You grin, bear it, and keep on walking, keep on living - as long as I can see the beauty in that, I can see the beauty in life.

Though this may change in the future, as I experience more and more, I accept that. However, right here, right now, this is what I truly believe in.

a brokenness in my glass of wine,
makes it taste all the sweeter,
as shards cuts slits so fine
along my throat.

and the flaw in the gem,
the robe torn at the hem,
makes me laugh,
makes me cry.

at the madness,
the sadness,
and the match blown in the wind.

How beautiful, how wonderful, that we have stepped on the blank canvas.
Our muddy footprints as we keep the pace,
and a wry smile on God's face.

Pitter-Patter

Pitter-patter, the raindrops fall. On this All Hallow's Eve, I sit in my armchair close to the roaring flame, trying to gather what little warmth circling about the empty rooms into my cloak. Footsteps jolt me awake from the twilight before slumber, fear coursing through my frail bones momentarily, before subsiding as I realize they were nothing more than the sound of raindrops dashing themselves against my window-pane. For a brief, terrifying second, I glimpsed the shadows upon the living-room wall grow long and wave to me, the flickering, dying light of the fireplace flame playing tricks upon my eyes. For a brief, terrifying second, I glimpse once again my two erstwhile companions. The two, unfortunate souls. I grow old, too old for nights like these, too old since life and youth had been taken away from me - that cold All Hallow's Eve...

"Another case for you, Inspector. It's urgent too, the messenger sounded mighty worried."

"Really now. Just as I was about to clock off for the evening."

An errant sigh escaped my lips as I pick up my hat, just moments ago hung upon the rack. Putting one arm through the sleeve of my trench-coat, I turn to Superintendent Chatmers and Gilroy, beckoning with a quick motion of my head.

"Well, lads, let's get busy. Death waits for nobody, and we can't have a killer loose on Halloween, can we now? God forbid, it may actually cause a scare."

Grumbling, Gilroy grabbed his own hat and coat, palming his badge into his inner pocket, and slinging on his holster. "Well, that'll be a bloody shame, won't it? At least there's some excitement in the neighborhood, me wife was complaining about how Halloween no longer gave her the thrills."

Chatmers cocked his revolver, adjusting his belt, and replied with his jaunty grin, "Well, Gil, that's cos' she's used to seeing a terrifying cow-faced monster at home eating her food and sleeping in her bed everyday, as it is. I dare-say, after seeing you without pants, nothing scares her anymore."

"Shuddup, Chatmers, at least, I'll be going home tonight for a respectable dinner, not sleeping in some floozy's house and fu-"

"Alright, can it, you two. We've got a job to do."

I tried to hide a grin of my own, as the three of us stepped out of the station doors, into the cold, rainy afternoon.

The body was nowhere to be found. The blood, on the other hand, was everywhere. Across the street, from one end to another, it stained the grey cobblestones a deep carmine red, as if someone had opened a can of red paint and sprayed it across the ground. Passer-bys and general busybodies stood about, watching the scene of the crime with much interest.

And crime it was, undoubtedly. After all, no freak accident of nature could have ensured that the lines of blood lay scattered across the floor in such straight patterns. It was almost as if the victim had been sliced multiple times with an unnaturally sharp bladed weapon, so much so that although blood lay all about, none of it deviated from the sharp lines of crimson they created, save for the rain slowly washing them away, smudging the pattern. Chatmers whistled. "Poor bugger's dead for sure. You can't even find this much blood in a pig."

I knelt down beside the bloodstains, while Gilroy went about collecting samples. The newly-formed forensics division would want to check for any evidence of gunpowder - but I doubted it. The sprays of blood were too clean. Even a bladed weapon would have had a hard time creating such a cut, and subsequent blood-fall. Maybe one of those Eastern weapons that's been streaming in? It was said that they were sharp enough to cu-

"Say. What's that?" Gilroy cried as he pointed to the ground mere steps away from me. I whirled about, looking closely at the area - and then I noticed it. In that patch of ground, there was no rainfall. Looking up, I noticed that it was in the open, so it wasn't the rooftops. The rainfall simply... curled about that area. Almost into a discernible shape. Yet I couldn't exactly make out what it was, and attempting to do so, I began to move closer.

About two steps away, the patch of untouched air shifted, in a sudden motion. Taken aback, I drew myself to the left, away from its direction. That probably saved my life. I barely heard Chatmer’s cry for me to get away as he the loud roar of his revolver echoed through the falling night, nor did I hear Gilroy’s shout of horror. All I could hear was the inhuman sound of footsteps, squelching against the rain-slick ground, as they slammed down in staccato towards me. I noticed, with mounting fear, that the untouched patch of air was now dangerously close, and behind it, was left a series of print marks, as if a boot had stepped in the thin layer of water above the ground, leaving behind a momentary mark. Yet even those prints were so strangely spaced, jumping from one side of the pavement to the other, that no human form could have managed that. It was almost as if the footprints were in tandem with the rainfall. Pitter-pattering onto the sidewalk.

I felt a cold breeze pass by my side, and threw myself backwards. Sharp, burning pain erupted in my right arm as the sleeve of my coat was torn, blood flowing fast from a razor-sharp cut across my forearm. More shots rang out as Gilroy drew his own sidearm, attempting to hit the menacing figure that was no more than an empty space. Yet they had no effect, the bullets not even impacting against the form, almost as if they were vanishing into thin air. I cried, my terror now utterly taking hold of me, as I rolled to my feet, sprinting across the street. An idea struck me, and I leapt onto the nearest carriage, avoiding the startled horses. I could hear the pitter-patter of the rain-steps rapidly drawing near, closer and closer.

With a quick hook, I knocked out the supports for the coach’s gas lamp, and wrenched it free with much effort. The pitter-patter was closer now, Chatmers and Gilroy were both shouting at me to run. Finally, I managed to open the lid to the lamp, and with a spin, tossed it straight at the patch of unmoving, yet fast-approaching, air.

The flames flared for a brief moment, spreading across the ground, and the empty space disappeared. All that was left was the burning fragments of the lamp, and the ominous pitter-patter of the nightly rainfall.

That night, upon returning to the station, I sat upon my chair and called upon the entire force. They were to scour the city and search for this elusive form, be it man or otherwise. If they did find it, they were not to engage, but bring back news of its whereabouts. I did not want to risk losing any men to the strangeness that was invading my city – on All Hallow's Eve.

My next clue came in the form of an old man, brought in from the street, dressed in rags. Another one of the homeless. Cradling a much-appreciated cup of tea from Gilroy, I faced this man in my office, listening to his words.

“I tol’ em’, see? I tol’ em’ about them devils, but nobody ever took my wor’s for trut’. Don’cha see? They preh’ on us. They will not stop. No’ for as long as we are about. Beneath of homes, they gath’r, waiting. Waiting. And taking us, on’ by one, until ther’ be none left.”

Gilroy shook his head. “Madness. He’s been driven mad by life on the streets.”

Chatmers, standing by the side of the room with his arms folded, indicated otherwise. “In times of darkness, let the blind man be the guide. In times of madness, let the madman lead the way. What else do we got?”

I looked at the two of them with a meaningful glance, wanting silence, before turning back to the raving old man. “Sir. Do you have any idea where these ‘devils’ of yours reside?”

“It ain’ no use. No use at all. We’ be all dead.”

“Sir.”

“Under our feet, the’ be crawlin’. Everywhere. In the pitter-patter beneaf’ the city, they’ be crawlin’.”

“The sewers?”

“No use… no use…”

The lunatic stared into his hands, mute momentarily. Mad as he was, I couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver leap down my spine. The events of the afternoon could hardly be explained by conventional means. A leap of faith may be in order.

The chance came soon enough. After the old man had left, the three of us had sat about the station, killing time as we waited for reports to come in. Then, a sweating, elderly officer barged in through the front, shouting. “Quick! Quick! One of our own, sirs! He’s dead!”

Leaping off our chairs, we gathered our cloaks. I strapped in my pistol, grabbing a gas lantern off the shelf. Gilroy and Chatmers both sported heavier armaments, Gilroy slinging across his waist a shotgun, while Chatmers cradled his hunting rifle. We set off, into the dark night. Midnight had long since gone, but the damnable rain continued, well into the early hours of Halloween.

This time, the bloodstains were still fresh. Confusing as they were, they faced a specific direction, headed down the empty street, in the middle. On the ground, covered in life-blood, lay an officer’s helmet, and a broken nightstick. The nightstick had been cut across the middle, at an angle, a clean, surgical cut. We moved down the street, all of us silent.

The bloodstains led to a manhole cover, some distance down. They seeped into the iron, draining away into the darkness below. Back-up had still not arrived. With trembling hands, I reached down, and lifted the cover, heaving it aside with some considerable effort. Steam roiled out from the open sewers, and inside, I could hear the rushing sound of drain-waters, as the rain poured into the city below.

“Are you sure about this? Should we wait for backup?” Gilroy asked, nervousness causing a slight tremble in his normally stoic voice.

Chatmers shook his head. “There’s still a chance that our officer may be alive. This may be the only lead we’ve got. We have to follow, before the trail gets cold.”

I nodded my assent. Turning to Gilroy, I tried to flash a smile that I hoped seemed brave. “What, scared of rats, Gilroy?”

Chatmers chimed in. “I’m sure your smell will drive ‘em away, no problem there.”

Gilroy grunted, cocking his shotgun. “Very funny. Let’s stop talking and keep moving.” With that, he began to climb the ladder downwards, into the murky darkness below.

It was as if we had climbed a ladder into hell. The roar of the water was so loud that we could barely hear each other’s steps down the ladder, the steam and humidity of the trapped heat causing us to erupt in sweat. By the time we reached the bottom rungs, we were already drenched.

We had barely moved a short distance, following errant bloodstains, before I saw the victim. I will never forget it. I will never forget the sight of the poor rookie, dripping a trail of blood as the body was dragged across the floor, seemingly by nothing. The crumpled form shifted erratically, a few steps every few moments, scraping across the floor as the still-shining belt buckle across the corpse’s waist scratched the granite.

The body stopped for a moment. As if it sensed us. Then, it began to move again, at a much faster pace, skipping across the ground as if a doll with all its strings but one cut. We shouted, ordering the corpse to halt its macabre dance, and gave chase. Shots from my pistol rang out across the sewers, echoing down the tunnels. We ran for a long, long time, and soon I knew not where we were.

Then, finally, a turn left, up two flights of stairs, still chasing the body bumping across the uneven steps, down the tunnel and turning right and across left and – We walked into a hall.

A hall of horrors.

We all stopped then, unable to move, to comprehend in our small minds what exactly we had stumbled upon. It was as if a morbid hospital, with rows and rows of standing glass coffins lining the ground. Each was misted over with the humidity, but I could still barely sense movement within. Moans echoed through the hall, a few screams were heard, and I realized with mind-shattering terror, that this hall seemed to be endless. It stretched far beyond what could have been possible in this god-forsaken mausoleum, into the distance. The ceiling could not be seen; the walls stretched into the darkness above us three tiny figures.

I took a few hesitant steps towards the nearest glass coffin, naming it in my head so simply because the shapes resembled those found in funerals. Yet they were made of glass, misted over in the steam, a dull blue glow that was the only source of light in the hall emanating from these coffins. I wiped the misted glass, peering inside.

A hand smashed against the glass, from the inside, with a sickening thump. It streamed blood, black barbs catching it from all sides; even it seemed, from within. A scream rang out with such feeling that I was stunned, but even that barely contained the revulsion I felt as I peered in. A body, desiccated, almost nothing more than skin and bones, with a few stray strands of hair, stood within, with barely any space to move. It was hooked all over by strange metal barbs, through the ears, the neck, spikes pushed out through the eyes, and it bled all over, a deep dark red. By all means, it should have been dead. By God, I wished it had been dead. But it was not. It continued to move and squirm, moan and writhe in the confines of the glass coffin, unable to die, trapped in a terrible un-life.

Madness took me then, and I screamed. I smashed the butt of my pistol against the glass, hoping to shatter it, free the poor soul within. It didn’t even scratch. I began to gibber, explaining to myself again and again that this had a perfectly rational explanation, that the man was actually dead, that the world had not just turned itself inside out. I continued banging against the glass, until my hand was finally halted by the firm grip of Gilroy. Chatmers was retching into a corner, unable to stand the sight, the idea of such a torture. Gilroy himself, ashen-faced, trembled as he held me, but it allowed me to calm down. I extricated myself from his grasp, not trusting myself to words, and leaned against another coffin, catching my breath.

Then I heard it. Again. Pitter-patter, raindrops falling inside the hall. Yet, there was no rain. Footsteps, from before, staccato rhythms tapping themselves out in the echoing hall. As if rainfall. Leaping back, I felt the presence of forms moving closer and closer. Gilroy roared as he cocked his shotgun, and began spraying indiscrimate blasts into the darkness.

One must have caught a water pipe, because in a moment, the entire room was filled with spraying water. Then we saw the figures, moving slowly, jerking across the room towards us. They were countless, numbering in the thousands, and they moved with a deathly purpose, the shotgun pellets vanishing as they approached the figures. We turned to run.

We ran down darkened corridors, and heard the pitter-patter of the forms giving chase. Down winding staircases and up water-slick ramps, we ran for our lives, screaming, shouting, making noise to remind ourselves that we were still alive. It was not long, before we came to a gate, rusted shut, trapping us. Turning about, Chatmers began firing with his hunting rifle, to no avail. The pitter-patter grew louder and louder. Gilroy worked the gate, whimpering beneath his breath, before he finally managed to shift the gears of the mechanism. With a great screech, the gate swung open, Gilroy pushing down upon the nearby lever with all his might.

“Go! You know what to tell Lily.”

“But-“

“Just shut it and go!”

With a nod to my brave Superintendent’s actions, I ducked through the opening, Chatmers following suit.

“Gilroy! You can still make it! Come on!” Chatmers held onto the gate, attempting to keep it open despite the grinding mechanism. Gilroy leapt towards the opening. Yet, mid-leap, he stopped, as if held back by an unseen force. Then, he crashed to the ground, mere steps away from the gate. It smashed shut, with a definite clang, Chatmers barely avoiding losing his hands as he leapt back.

In the distance, held aloft by empty space, floated towards us another one of the glass coffins. It was empty. Within it, we saw the writhing forms of the barbs, hungering, seeking for life to attach itself to. It drew closer and closer. And Gilroy was dragged, slowly, painfully into it. Soon, only his upper body could be seen in the darkness, the rest having been entrapped in the open glass coffin.

Chatmers took aim, and fired. A quick lancing shot flew through the air, and burst open Gilroy’s head like a ripe melon. Better a quick, merciful death than the un-life we had just seen. I pulled at Chatmers, and we both scampered down the dark corridor, looking to escape from the same fate that Gilroy had suffered.

We came upon a flight of stairs leading up. Leaping them two steps at a time, we had almost reached the top, when I heard an ominous rumble, mixing in with the constant pitter-patter behind us. The masonry, unable to take the strain after centuries of disuse, gave way beneath my feet, and I plunged down into the darkness.

Chatmers turned and cried down to me, “NO!”

I picked myself up, constantly aware of the footsteps behind me, and shouted back up. “I’m fine! Keep going! Run!”

Turning about, I faced the empty tunnel before me, echoing with the increasing pitter-patter. To my right, I spied a tunnel leading upwards, perhaps even to freedom. It was my only chance. With a great swing, I flung my gas lamp towards the area before me, causing a slight flower of flame to erupt in the darkness, before dying out. Plunged into total pitch black, I turned and ran down the corridor, legs burning with the effort. I ran for hours, down winding corridors, unable to even remember if I was running in the right direction, just running away from the horrors behind me, and the hall full of the eternally trapped.

I broke into sunlight, smashing aside the manhole cover. The sound of carriages reached my ear like beautiful music, as I lay on my side, across the cobblestones, heaving and retching, almost blacking out there and then. I heard the sound of an officer ringing his bell as he noticed me, and I realized, with a jolt – I had made it.

Chatmers had not. We never found him. Nor did ever find the figures again, or the Hall of Horrors, as we had that Halloween day.

A particularly loud peal of thunder shook me from the half-dream, half-memory. At this age, I could barely remember the details, yet I still remembered the face of Gilroy all too well, just before he had been shot – in mercy. I remembered the face of the trapped person, the one whose coffin I had peered into, the despair, the sheer despair of the un-life.

And I remembered Chatmer’s face. Particularly well, in fact, for as I looked up, I stared into it, (there - outside my window!) just as I had remembered. In the rain outside my window, across from the armchair, there he stood, in a glass coffin. Terror took me, as I saw his writhing, struggling form, smashing weakly against the unbroken glass. To his left, in another coffin, was Gilroy, head somehow still intact, scratching feebly against the coffin lid. And to his right – stood an empty coffin. Waiting. In the dimming darkness of All Hallow's Eve, the clock struck midnight, and I once again heard, interspersed with the ringing grandfather toll, something I had not heard for years.

Pitter-patter. Step. Step.

Foolish Dare

Little Billy waked in through the door, the whirls and whorls of the rotting wood screaming oaken faces back at him, staring at him with maggot-ridden sockets. He wasn’t afraid. Charlie was about to lose ten bucks to him, nothing could scare him. Nothing at all.

Not the strange tree outside, with hanging fruits that upon closer inspection, weren’t really fruits. Definitely not that.

Neither was he afraid of the corpse sitting at the dining table, looking at him with its head twisted about its neck. In fact, he found it comical, hilarious even. He must have. He walked by without a second glance.

He wasn’t afraid when the lights went out, and the windows clouded over. The change in the scenery outside, twisting, distorting beyond the looking glass portals fascinated him, the slender shadows that danced about outside the house, or simply stood and stared, reminded him. About something. But he couldn’t remember. It was no matter. He wasn’t afraid.

It wasn’t scary when the walls began to talk. Whisper sweet nothings, offer promises of sleep everlasting, of screams and torture and bliss, the slight hisses invading his ear canals, rebounding and bedding within his mind. He wasn’t startled when the mouths formed out of the wallpaper, warping the smooth wood into life-like openings, dripping with a strange saliva-like liquid. He began to wonder, in the back of his head, why did he not feel the fear?

He didn’t feel spooked at all, not when the toddlers began crawling out from the cracks in the corners, from behind cabinet doors and beneath broken floors, flooding the room about him as if they were four-limbed spiders, fat human flesh squelching amongst each other as tiny hands and feet began to grope at him.

He could have run as the shadows in the room began to warp, the toddlers’ shade casting and growing, creeping into the windows and sliding them up, a creaking smoothness followed by the thump of wood hitting glass. He could have turned and fled when the slender figures standing outside, waiting, began to climb in, their unnaturally tall frames indistinct in the darkness.

He could have struggled when they grabbed him, dragging him up, his feet knocking against the steps as his unmoving body was brought higher and higher, higher than any floor the house could have seemed to contain, until he was brought into darkness. He stared out of the lone window, of what seemingly was the attic. And that was when it hit him. When he saw the small figure, hauntingly familiar, strung up across the unnatural trees from which hung strange spherical globes, that in closer inspection turned out to be eyes, numbering in the hundreds, staring back at you. The small figure was hanging from the cords, strangled coldly across the tiny neck, swinging, swaying slightly in the autumn breeze.

Then he knew, why he felt no more fear. Looking down, he saw his own flesh, his dark form roiling and churning, a darker black than the simple darkness of the attic about him. He was part of the house now.

Fear was a luxury meant for the living.

Fifteen Crows

Fifteen crows on a crumbling wall,

Stare at you as you fall,

Down the stairs, into the night.

Their job done, they take flight.

Fifteen crows along the street,

Fifteen crows you don't wanna meet.

Caw in silence as they watch with joy,

The roaring bus squash the prancing boy.

Fifteen crows up in the tree,

Look into the house with unbridled glee.

As they watch the Father snap,

The neck of the Mother in her afternoon nap.

Fifteen crows, I knew them well,

Brought them forth from the fires of Hell,

Forged their claws as the Devil did smirk,

As my hands did His dirty work.

Fifteen crows, I bear the pain,

Of all life's misery and its shame.

Of losing to the dying breath

Of losing to the must of Death.

Fifteen crows, they are my fault.

Yet their evil I cannot halt.

So all I can do is sing this song,

In an attempt to right my wrong.

Fifteen crows, their shadows fall,

Ringing out their carrion call,

As they gather to gaze,

Upon the girl choking in haze,

Upon the baby falling asleep,

In an unnatural heap,

Upon the man on the edge,

Leaping the ledge,

Upon the world on its brink,

And Death toasting a drink.

Fifteen crows up in the air,

If you see them do beware,

For the Dark Gods laugh as you dare,

live.

A Matter of Much Urgency (aka. Why you should always finish your plate)

There was a boy, his name was Bill.

He did what he did and did what he will.

"I am my own man!", he used to say,

"I am my own man, and I have my own way!"

Now the boy, as he ate his lunch,

Stopped his chew in the middle of his munch.

"So much to do!" he would suddenly say,

As he ran off - to laugh and play.

And the meal left alone, cried out in pain,

Not allowed its death, except to rot in the rain.

"Curse you, boy!", it did say,

"Leave me in sorrow and you will pay!"

On the thirteenth solstice, the walls of reality wear thin,

And a thing from the far realm, heard this with a grin.

"Want some help?", it said with whisper soft.

"In bringing these flesh-heaps down from their lofty lofts."

"We will turn their skins inside-out,

Slurp their brains as they run in rout.

We will fry their fat in my dark edifice,

Use their children as seasoning and spice."

"We will devour this world, no less.

All you have to do - is say yes."

And so it did bubble and warp, stretch long and thin.

Grow arms that were darker than sin.

A thousand breaks grew from an orifice,

Screaming, wailing for their sacrifice.

And as it rose it did caw and shriek,

Promises of a world empty and bleak.

And all who heard it went insane,

men leapt off buildings in a bloody rain.

Eyes popped out from tentacled limbs,

Demanding obeisance to its hunger and whims,

Their gaze looked through stone and skin,

Drooling as they saw your terror within.

And the abomination grew fat and old,

As the world grew lonelier and cold,

Until all that was left was Bill and it,

At the bottom of a churning flesh pit.

It handed him a spoon, one from before.

"Now eat me, Billy, eat me more!"

And it laughed as Bill began to feed,

mouth chewing corrupted flesh as it began to bleed.

Yet Bill could not satiate his unwanted greed,

To the voice of sanity he could pay no heed,

Until he realized that the flesh he ate,

Was of his friend and family-late.

And the Dark God laughed as Billy went mad,

Its curving beak slurping as it gobbled the lad,

Its other twelve beaks began to sing,

A song that held an ancient old ring.

And so the Endless One that was Billy's lunch,

gaped right open and ate the world with a hideous crunch.

So listen well, little girls and boys,

Finish your plate before you play with your toys.

Or it may listen to Endless Ones in corners curled,

And your forgotten lunch could end the world.

Derelict

The old man walked the house.

He was quiet and shy with a hat too big

For a head too wise,

And a heart too sick.

A slow brush across the mantelpiece,

Knocks over broken glass,

Shattered pictures of abandoned youth,

That he knew would never last.

And he completed the ritual,

The monthly routine.

Kissing the bloodless brows,

In basement unseen.

And caught in his gaze,

That pierces your core,

You see but madness there,

And sadness - forevermore.

Leaves

All my life I’ve been told, by people, by society, that I’m choosing a life that will ensure with me ending up as nothing more than a leaf on a tree. Far, far away from the trunk, an outcast, insignificant and ultimately – replaceable. Expendable. Should I fall – another would grow, take my place.

My answer to that is yes. I am a leaf. I do live on the fringe of the tree, touching (only briefly w...hen the wind blows) a few other leaves in my cluster, then coming apart once again. I cannot survive prolonged contact with anything else, for fear of suffocation and having my purpose, my process left incomplete.

And yet it is my process that determines why I am a leaf. I am far away in order to create. To take the beauty, the sunlight of the world, and filter it down to words upon sheets of paper, to glucose absorbed by cells. I live, I thrive upon this process. Some call it madness, deviancy from the oxygen-breathing masses – the way I take what is thrown out, ignored by the rest, in order to live on.

And one day I will die, blown off the tree, falling to the ground. No matter how hard I try, escaping the tree would still end in death. And in this demise, I will crumble to dust, and nothingness – what I had created from sunlight living on for a few flickering moments. Maybe it coursed through the entire tree, giving it life for a few seconds. Maybe it reached only a few other leaves. Maybe it nourished only me, a single leaf.

Yet, what people do not know, what parents are unable to comprehend, what the trunk and the roots and the branches do not think about, is the reason why I do so. Why I choose to continue doing so. It’s not to feed the tree – I am not that noble. I choose to do so for the creation, the act of taking sunlight and transforming it into life, taking beauty and making it mine. I live, I experience, I feel, I laugh, I suffer – and through it all, I admire the beauty in everything. And I will always choose to do so.

Sprung

Wound-up tight from the left to the right,

he can't stay still though try he might.

Heart moments break and try to fight -

He's just looking for an excuse.

To break

The rhythm.

To sate the hunger and to scream and crawl

across the floor and up the wall.

To cry and press the self-destruct,

To unstuck the world in which it had stuck.

To fool the fools and burn the school,

To live and die and

not feel.

A single.

Fucking.

Thing.

For fuck's sake, won't you lot just shut up.

Leave it alone, and let it be.

If you can't see what you won't see,

It doesn't matter a single bit - doesn't it?

Cos' in the end this pathetic mewl,

this stupid song, this fairy reel.

Will fall and crash and rot and burn,

Placed inside a pewter urn.

Cos' in the end this is nothing more,

than anything that you've ever heard before.

In the end, this is mindless fun,

Back of throat kissing barrel of gun.

In the end, nothing will change.

In the end, this will be laughed at.

Pretentious and stupid, and childish and gay.

Funny as funny is.

Nothing but a phase they will say,

As I am eaten by the 'they'.

Cos' in the end, there are the businessmen.

There are the rich and there are the poor.

And there is the long-run - where we are all dead.

An open letter to Grown-ups

To all the Suits, the Bewares,

The Care-Too-Muchs and the I-Dont-Cares.

I just wanted you to hear me say,

that: No! I’m not a grown up in any way.

I don’t brush my teeth twice a day.

I forget important things,

Cos' important things have Grown-up rings,

Grown-up things with grown-up shoes,

Not suited to my childish views.

I don’t read the morning news.

I love to dream, to explore,

To imagine myself on an unknown shore.

To sleep in clouds

And dance with knights.

And fly away on stormy nights.

I love to laugh, to forget,

Meet new people I’ve never met.

Then promptly have them fade away,

Unless bribed, then they can stay,

In my heart like squirrels may.

I love to bruise and cut,

my arms, my legs, my butt,

I wear them proud, like battle-scars,

Gained from fighting aliens in the stars.

Not from falling down from the monkey bars.

I love my little childish ways,

So please, oh please don’t take me away

to your world, so cold and gray,

Come to mine, to laugh and play.

I promise you, it will be fun.

We can dance and laugh and sing and run.

Make wooden swords and jump on beds,

Spin little stories in our heads,

And believe them.

But in your world under a gloomy sky,

I’d think I would rather die.

Float to heaven or down to hell,

Into stars or down the well,

And in the dirt to dwell.

I’d rather eat poison or jump a cliff,

Stand in a furnace or under a lift,

Maybe shoot myself or get a wife,

Anything other than living your grown-up life.

So kill me now, unless you take my hand,

And we all go to Neverland,

Cos’ even if I’m eighteen or eighty-three,

I’ll always be a kid and I’ll always be free.

Geek Blog

For all my other interests - http://juvenilegeek.blogspot.com/

Amaranth

I stood in the middle of my room today, and mused about my life, as man is wont to do at times.

I thought back on the "me" in the past, and then turned to the "me" in the present. And I was amazed. Amazed at the changes that have occurred, and scared, for the changes that I know will occur. Yet though my form, my spiritual, mental, form, my soul is fluid in the midst of Time's domain, I find myself happy for this. In the center of entropy, I find myself happier in each incarnation, a never-ending stream of emotion and consciousness. That is life, that is the antithesis of stagnation and nothingness, to experience, to feel - to be human.

I close my eyes, and I begin to run my fingers down my memories.

They brush light wood of tables I have slept on, smashed in anger, drawn upon in boredom. They are rough with glue stains from the clumsy art of making miniatures that I pursue, they are pitted with knife holes from letter-openers stuck standing in rage.

My fingers brush the miniatures, and a voice rings out in my head. "Some things in my life, I have made by my own hand." I feel each one, each a vivid memory within my mind, of hours spent underneath a dim light.

My fingers brush past my photos, my pewter statue, its rough ridges bringing a bygone loved one to my mind. "Some are gifts given." I still love each that have gifted me, with the material, and the immaterial, knowingly and unknowingly.

My fingers reach my magazines, my paraphernalia. "Some are items bought." I remember saving up for each of these, to buy, to cherish and eventually, to forget.

My fingers touch the letterbox, chock full of letters I have written to a certain love. Mixed within are stories I have weaved, tales I have created, countless notebooks used, finished, filled with unwritten words. "Some come from the heart." Each was written with a quill dripping by my souls' blood, and on them lie the stains of tears, ring the echoes of laughter. My muse would have graced me with a smile, were she not so fickle, were she here right now instead of persisting with midnight visits.

My fingers touch my books. I remember each of them. Time spent, time wasted. Not a thing studied. Everything learnt. I have laughed, cried, sang, raged, slept on, woke up to, loved, hated, feared, embraced within these stories. I have climbed to the stars, dined with devils and danced with Gods. I have fought great evil, murdered great good, tripped the light fantastic, waxed lyrical beneath the light of a dawning star. "Some come into the heart."

"And all of them, all these things which are not things, but instead, are memories. They are all - beautiful."

"And there are more to come."

Snippets

I have not been updating this. I blame it on a new influx of diaries and notebooks that have inexplicably entered my life. All that blank paper, I cannot stand seeing it empty. They scream to be written upon.

Anyway, here's some snippets.

Today I went to church, for the first time in a while, hesitant, reluctant to once again have to struggle between being CHRISTIAN-METHODIST and being human. The sermon ended, the song started playing, and the Pastor went up, speaking in a deep, tragic voice, laden with sorrow. Laced with despair.

"We live in a broken world."

And yet, I find myself thinking... "What's so wrong about that?"

You see, to me, We live in a broken world, one that God let break, on purpose. No, I am not condemning the actions of God, and even if I was, I have no right, for He is God and I am Man. But I understand perfectly why God let the world break. God created a story.

Shakespeare could have let Romeo and Juliet live in the end, let one wake up just moments before the death of the other. Orpheus could have not looked back. Orwell could have destroyed his society with the strength of human spirit. Lennie and George could have lived on a farm with alfafa.

Sometimes, when you create a story, it leaves your grasp. Sure, you can pull it back, shape it as you wish, but in doing so, you lose something. Maybe it's the storyteller in me that says this, but... If God did not let the world break, then there would be no story.

------------------------------

Today, this -

Me: "Tis but the cycle of life, the strong eat the weak. Then get turned into handbags by tool-using bipedal mammals."

AL: "I swear you're a social darwinist at heart."

Me: "How can I be a social darwinist? There's no place in the food chain for artists."

AL: "I'm sure there is... somewhere near the tramps."

--------------------------

I finally reread The Little Prince recently, now being able to fully appreciate its beauty. Damn, its beautiful.In 78 simple pages, with badly drawn illustrations and spartan vocabulary, a strange french pilot who was no critically acclaimed literary deity did what Tolstoy in was unable to accomplish in 1450 pages, that is to bring me to the point of tears.

"It is the time that you have wasted for your rose, that makes your rose so important."

"I am responsible for my rose."

"And no grown up would ever understand that this is a matter of such importance."

Grim

Graveyard tombstones scattered, growing amidst the sparse undergrowth, each slowly being engulfed by nature's creeping maw. Each holds so much within, echoes of a life lived, deeds done, people loved, passion burnt. Each marking what once was a cage for hate, happiness, fear, the most inspirational and glowing hopes, the deepest depths of despair. Life compacted into a slab of cold stone, a couple of brief words. A date - beginning and ending.

I scrape a bony finger across one engraving - faded and eaten, the toll of time taking even memories and remembrances from mortal grasp. "Here lies..." A gash in the stone - a gash in time. "He will not be..." Liars.

I can't blame them though, these singing mayflies of the autumn sunset. They live, tiny candles burning bright with emotion amidst a sea of darkness. They promise to forever burn, to take care of the light for eternity. Then they flicker and die. There is no eternity, there is just me.

I heft my scythe, and go to reap my harvest.