Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Adults: Not Fountains of Wisdom


As I've been growing and experiencing new people, new environments, new ways of understanding, and definitely looking at my parents and the parents of others in different ways, I've come to one basic understanding of the way the adult mind works, particularly the adult mind of parents.

ADULTS ARE ALL CHILDREN WITH BEER BELLIES AND HAIR!

I can hear the angered shouts already, and I'm pretty sure somebody just chucked a brick at my window, but I'm okay because my sister was in the way. Despite the fact that my mop just ain't gonna cut it, I'm not backing out of this opinion, and neither should you, because each and every last one of you above twenty egotistical maniacs knows I'm right. The only difference between the way you live your life now and the way you went through high school is that drinking is legal. Pot still isn't, so y'know, go hide in your basements again.

Let's begin with parents of younger children, shall we? There seems to be a rather large increase in the amount of five year olds who still shit in diapers because nobody bothered to teach them how to sit their ass on a toilet. You know what other numbers are going up? Illiteracy, undeveloped speech, autism, ADHD, and violent behavior. I wonder why this is? Could it be because you juvenile parents still think you're babysitting your neighbors lovely little pookums? Well, you aren't. The longer you leave your kid in the care of the television set, the more problems they're going to have. If you don't talk to your kid, they aren't going to learn to talk. And you should probably get working on their ability to read as well, unless you want them spelling their name wrong until the third grade.

As the children get older and begin to develop muscles (oh right, except their brain) and their parents begin to realize that they can have them do a few of the chores around the house. Unfortunately it doesn't take long for these pampered parents to realize that they can go ahead and drop everything on their kid, and take away what few privileges they have if they don't obey. In this day and age, parents aren't giving birth to continue their blood line or because they want to raise a family. They want to raise slaves. Little preprogrammed robot minions to sit through the abuse of a bad day (or a hang over, because man, that party) or a break up (because marriage is basically dating now, right guys?)

Oh right, marriage. Let's continue with that, since I've already brought it up. It looks like the dating game never ends, especially not after high school. Hell no, now you're in college and unsupervised. Things are really gonna hot up! Adults are jumping into more frivolous games than the cheerleading team ever would have dreamed, and more of them seem to think that marriage is Dating 2.0. So what if it doesn't work out? You can always get a divorce, right? It's not like you vowed to see each other through the rough times as well as the good, is it?

What. The. Fuck.

Seriously, anybody aged between twenty and fifty need to grow the damn hell up. Now. Our countries are being run into the ground because you guys have your heads so far up your shallow little ass that you're suffocating in your own intestines. Each and every one of you is a raging hypocrite, and you have absolutely no right to speak to "teenagers" as lesser beings, because your hormones aren't even flying off the charts and you're still acting like butt hurt little kids who just got their Game Boy taken away.
Seriously, parents, cut the shit.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Profile

Just a quick little update notice. I've added a "profile" section to the navbar, but because of how insanely late (or early) it currently is, there isn't much there. All you're going to find right now is my X-Box gamertag, and my Wii console number. So I mean, if you want to game, go ahead and add my tag. As far as Wii goes, I'll add some game specific materials later.

The profile page will be updated with a little more information about myself and also some other sites where you can find my work (all of which can already be found off to the side there.)

Actually that pranthesis brings up a good point.

Maybe I'll just use the "profile" page for gamertag.

Or maybe it's a bad idea I came up with while being unfunnily overtired. I'll figure that out later.

Friday, June 24, 2011

When There Is No Solstice

The ground is smothered beneath the wrinkled remains of the Spring’s harlequin leaves
Grim clouds cast the first of the season’s chilling, white warriors upon the forest
They gather on the trees, their magic spells making them sparkle with new life
Birds with cotton puff feathers coo to their mates as the first icy wind chills their hollow bones
Lerimoth steps forth from her carved oak cave, lightly padding over the crisp leaves
They hardly crinkle beneath her feet
She sniffs the frosty air and grimaces as the clouds begin to thicken
The silver sheen in her thin, silky hair disappears beneath the looming shadows
Something does not smell like her Winter spirits
Somewhere in her forest, the season refuses to change
She follows the scent of pollen and nectar, and listens as the forest around her hums with the labor of bees
Then she stops
Her cane falls to the ground
Winter retreats
The clouds clear
The Snow melts
Lakes begin to thaw
Flowers begin to bloom
Wars begin to wage
Dictators and Kings seek the bringer of Spring
With its power, there will be no end to the harvest
They will live in prosperity, and their men will be fed and fit
Their soldiers march forth, battling over the right to excavate the forest
Metal calls out across the Earth as sword meets shield, and arrow meets mail
A church burns to the East, ravaged by the Nundlok cavalry
War rings its own bells
Kalferd is the first to step ironclad boot beneath the dense, green trees
He is a mere slave troll forced to bear the arms of the Maliard infantry
Born into the service of the Malian army, Kalferd knows a life only of violence
As a youth he participated in the Games, a barbaric contest among slaves
The bones in his legs were shattered for over a year
He shakes away the memories as the forest grows thick around him
Allowing his mind to wonder will be the fastest way to welcome Death
Though he’s heard no other soldiers yet
Disturbingly, he’s heard nothing
Squirrels have not scampered, birds have not hummed
Leaves do not rustle in the wind
There is no wind
The forest is filled with a disquieting vacancy
At last there is a clearing of short grass and small petals
Kalferd spots the object of war
The Sun’s Tear, a large amber stone hotter than fire
Maliard’s King Artel has promised freedom to any slave who can retrieve it
Freedom at his fingertips, Kalferd ignores the burning of his palms as he grabs the Sun’s Tear
Suddenly the wind appears, bringing with it a pleading, vapid whisper
Kalferd pauses, considering the wind’s words
He looks at the Sun’s Tear
He looks at freedom
And thrusts it full to the ground
The Sun’s Tear shatters into a thousand sparkling pieces
Then burns away, leaving nothing but charred dirt and a thin scent of smoke
All at once the Winter takes hold
Stripping the trees bare, burying the gopher burrows, and freezing the soldiers in the distant fields
Lerimoth rises from the falling snow, using her cane to hoist herself out of darkness
She looks at Kalferd with shrewd eyes
Then nods
Kalferd is free of Maliard
He is free, but has no home
He is cold
He is hungry
But he is free

Anime Is Not Hentai!

I don't really know how the whole "all anime is hentai" mentality began spreading, but damn, it spread. Most people and their moms (especially their moms) seem to have this huge misconception that anime is little more than a sword fight followed by twenty minutes of gratuitous and uncouth sexual deeds. This is a completely false idea, and it is creating a disturbingly negative view of anime and of Japanese culture itself.

Goku sure is sexy this time of year.
Before I get into the full rant mode that I feel I'm becoming somewhat known for, we should probably go over a couple of terms. Hentai is a word that translates to something along the lines of "perverted and weird", but in the land of mass media it refers to "cartoon porn". "Cartoon" being the keyword there. Hentai refers to all pornographic material of a pen, brush, or pixel nature, be it Fairly Odd Parents or Naruto, if it's not a photograph or live action film, it is hentai. Unless it's considered "fine art", as that somehow has a free pass to show all the boobs it wants.

Anime in Japan simply means "animation", but because here in America only the things drawn in our American sketch pads can be considered cartoons and animation, "anime" has come to be a term used to describe "cartoons featuring somewhat distorted characters with really big eyes, huge hair, wide mouths, and awesome, bouncing melons." In some circles it also means "everything previously mentioned, plus it has to have come from Japan", because apparently Avatar: the Last Airbender doesn't meet any of the previous criteria.

Someone should explain this to me. Are there not enough boobs?
Somewhere in the mid-nineties, when anime was really just beginning to become a prevalent cash cow for children's networks, a group of bigoted parents got it into their heads that anime was some kind of Devil child porn. They then set forth on a mission to get this same ridiculous idea in the heads of every other parent this side of the North Atlantic and abolish this hideous oriental imagery from tarnishing the minds of their heavenly little cherubs.

Of course they forgot that Americans were responsible for South Park. Oops.

Now, I'll be fair and admit that yes, the hentai market is undeniably massive and a lot of anime features some form of perverse humor, be it cross dressing or the token sleaze bucket. Most of this is done for the same reasons that people cast Jessica Alba: marketing. Let's face it, sex sells. This is a universal, fundamental truth, and it is never going to change. This is the same reason half of the paperbacks on your wife's bookstand feature shirtless men who look like Leonardo Dicaprio. If your wife says it isn't porn, it's a book, she's lying. Go grab a Playboy and tell her it isn't porn, it's photography.

Screw the periodicals! I appreciate fine photogra- EW! HER FACE!
However, just because sex sells and is frequently used as a marketing ploy doesn't mean the material therein is actually a porn, or even close to it. Actually, a lot of American brands use sexuality to sell their products or attract viewers to their shows, movies, what have you. Don't believe me? You clearly didn't click the link earlier in this paragraph.

"Okay, Nate, we get it. Anime isn't porn, and sex is universally used to sell greedy people's shit. It's probably the same reason you chose to write this article. I bet you just wanted to get a sexy picture on your RSS feed or something to get all those nasty hentai perverts to click en masse."

"I clicked it for the blog! I swear!"

Oh yeah, "those hentai perverts". Let's talk about them for a minute. Next to the whole "anime is tentacle porn" misconception is the one about how everybody who watches anime is some dirty pedophile waiting in rose bushes to leap on your unsuspecting child as they waltz happily home from school. This simply isn't true. For starters: roses have thorns.

Secondly, nobody is calling the audiophile with four-hundred albums featuring not just half, but full-on bare naked ladies dancing joyously over a beach, swaying their hips in the moonlight, a pedobear. Nobody looks at the Trekkie and assumes he's going to beam their kid into his van. Nobody bats an eyelash at the old guy who happens to wear Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse on all of his clothes. But the second you utter the words "I like anime" and suddenly every parent in a fifty mile radius is making sure they're now giving you a seventy-five mile berth.

Convicted sexual predators. Every single one of them.
Something else that's happened is that somehow watching hentai is creepier and more perverted than watching real porn. But that's a rant for another day. Like July 24th.

The fact of the matter seems like it has less to do with anime not being accepted as an art form, and more to do with two things people are afraid of. One: foreign cultures, especially those of "the Orient", because everyone is actually a huge bigot. Two: peoples' irrational fear of not growing up. Before I finish up, I think I might elaborate on that last one a little bit.

There seems to be this fairly universal fascination with belittleing anybody above the age of nine who still watches cartoons, which are consistantly being proven not to be a kid's medium, or plays video games, or hell, even reads books. People for some reason feel threatened by adults who walk around wearing Naruto and Sasuke on their shirt, and I'm really not sure why, especially when more than half of these people claim to be strong advocates of individuality. My only guess is that these people who watch cartoons, play games, go to Yu-Gi-Oh! tournaments, etc., create this fear in many people because everything they're doing seems to go against the raging hard-on society has for turning kids into adults way too freaking fast. If you aren't straddling that hard-on, well, I guess it's like going through high school without sitting on one. And for some reason that gets you ostracized. That's another rant for another day.

What you should be taking away from here is this: anime isn't porn, hentai watchers aren't any dirtier than the average person, and we should all be a little more open to the individual hobbies a person wants to take up.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Poem-a-Day Challenge!

So I missed out on what I guess is national poetry month and wasn't able to participate in the annual poem-a-day challenge because I didn't know it existed. However, this is something I had wanted to try ever since I saw photographers doing their photo-a-day thing, and I'm pretty sure I saw some animators creating a new robot each day at some point over the past two years. While poetry has never really been my thing, and I've always kind of approached it in this weird, screw-eyed uncertainty (like asking out your first crush) I can't deny that it is becoming an increasingly relevant form of entertainment, stress release, grief filtering, and brain teasing. So I want to work on my skills a little bit. I want to take what little ability I have now and hammer it into something that might not be publishable, but will at least be amusing.

So what I want you all to do is throw some prompts at me. If you don't, I'll be forced to traverse the terrifying gullies of Google in the hopes that a hidden treasure trove of polished prompts is waiting for my discovery. Give me forms, patterns, topics, or any combination of the three. If you want me to write a haiku about the razor sharp edge of a can lid slicing through a trash bag, I'll write you a haiku about a razor sharp edge of a can lid slicing through a trash bag.

My goal is to write one poem each day through the entire month of July, so we've got about a week to get some prompts headed in my direction. Leave your prompt suggestions in the comments below, and feel free to submit more than once.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

The Killer Returns!


A few months ago I started this little project titled "Killer!!" which I promised would update regularly and then never really did anything with it. I set up a blog (and several other accounts), posted the first entry, and then allowed it to decay more than the bodies left by my protagonist. For the first month of this poor story's bastard existence, school and graduation had seriously gotten in the way, and the risk of not passing was too great to ignore. That took us into the beginning of this month, where I really have no damn excuse. Deciding that it's about time I got off my ass, I present the second entry, which has been edited for nearly a month and just collecting cyber dust somewhere on my sister's computer.

In the time that this poor thing was crying neglected in a corner of other abandoned projects, I actually managed to grit my teeth and finish the manuscript. Granted, the story isn't very long, but it was still written with the mindset I have when sitting down to write a lengthier work, so I'm kind of proud about this. I'm going to try to have them all edited in time to meet my new deadlines, and hopefully I can manage to actually do this.

Killer!! will have an update schedule of once every two weeks, and only on Wednesdays. The update will typically come later in the night, so keep your lights on.

If you've forgotten about the first entry, feel free to refresh your memory.

Pokemon Party Time!

Ever since my early days of childhood Pokemon has played a role in my life. When I was younger that role was far more consuming than it has been in the past few years or so, and this is due in large part to the fact that not only has the anime become a total tankfest, but the games have been rehashing the same generic everything for over a decade and have somehow managed to get progressively worse.

Munchlax lives with Snarf in the land of terrible fucking ideas.
It's amazing to me that something with increasingly terrible character designs, absolutely no plot, and a habit of continuously alienating its previous audience could have survived even half as well as the Pokemon franchise has managed to do. With each new iteration a new batch of unsuspecting halflings (read: second graders) rushes through Walmart like a pack of rabid dogs in a meat factory. Even the trading card game has managed to outlive every single one of its competitors and is still pushing out new sets and is routinely the focal point of nerd tournaments in the backs of local comic shops.

Of course ever since the beginning of time, or maybe the mid-to-late 1990's (but really, that was the beginning of time), Pokemon has been a festering zit full to the white capped brim with spin-offs and promotional toys. Sure, Yu-Gi-Oh! and Digimon and to a lesser extent Monster Rancher all had similar tie-in material, but Pokemon was like that classy looking slut that you knew had herpes, but you were willing to collect all of those painful sores (and there were 151 of them) for just a brief look inside.

Gotta cash 'em all!
On the Gameboy Color, which was probably selling like hotcakes at the time (what's a hotcake anyways?), Pokefans were treated with Pokemon Pinball and Pokemon Trading Card Game, the first in a long, long set of spin-off titles that would ultimately prove to be far more powerful titles than any of the mainstream games since Generation 2 (the one with Ho-oh and Lugia for those of you who don't care to remember what matters in life.)

Pokemon Stadium, Pokemon Stadium 2, Pokemon Snap, and Pokemon Puzzle League would all make themselves known as some of the greatest games on the Nintendo 64, which also became the home of Hey You, Pikachu! which never seemed to work right and that damn tiny microphone was always falling apart or getting lost or something. To most people this is about all they can remember in terms of Pokemon. Nothing worth while happened after these games. Fortunately for the rest of the world, these people are very wrong.

Pokemon Colosseum, Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness, Pokemon Rangers, and Pokemon: Mystery Dungeon all have been released in the new millennia, some of which are sequels to previous spin-offs, effectively making them a series, and some have their own sequels, so they've started a series. Unfortunately many of these games have been overlooked by the general public, and even a large portion of the gaming community, falling into the realm of Pokefans. This is because everyone in the world acts like Snivy.

I called you a Snivy.
Recently my girlfriend has twisted my ignorant and critical eye into a pretzel of confusion and nostalgia by reintroducing me to the lighter side of Pokemon. Because she did this I found myself compelled to dust off that old Pokemon Rumble demo that had been sitting around on my Wii for months and purchase the full game, against the wishes and insults of nearly every video game review site known to the internet. And I'm damn glad I did.

Pokemon Rumble, while, yes, it is repetitive, will be fun as hell for people who like anything with a bit of an arcade feel, a dungeon crawler feel, a beat-'em-up feel, or Pikachu. At first glance the idea that "hay gaiz teh mons are toyz and cants evolve" seems like a lazy excuse not to make a full evolutionary chain or implement a level system, but this is actually not the case. Most of the Pokemon you encounter in the game will have their entire evolutionary line completely intact, and while they don't level up, that fact alone actually forces you to rethink your strategy every time you want to enter the tournament or charge into a stage. It's also some brilliant plan on the part of the developers to show off the four or five dozen Pokemon included in the game, and not let them rot in the realm of the under appreciated.

I've also seen videos and screenshots of PokePark Wii: Pikachu's Adventure which looked like the most ridiculous piece of crap to ever attempt cashing in on a popular franchise. But that was when I was in Walmart. After looking it up at home, PokePark Wii looks like it should have been named Pikachu 64, because it even has penguin race, and that's never a bad thing. Seeing some of the newer Pokemon (y'know, the ones I've been trolling for half of this post) in this light have also helped me get over my bullshit and acknowledge that they're not too bad. Except for Magmortar, because he's still bullshit. Same with Munchlax.

Stop. Ruining. Good. Pokemon.
So really, while everyone and their moms, and probably their dads, were out there dissing Pokemon for being a continuously recycled pile of nosehair burning Satan shit, the franchise was creating a treasure trove of little minifranchises that make everything the series has ever done kick an entirely new level of ass. If you've wasted all your time reading this crappy article, you should really go spend it butting heads with Rhydon. Not Rhyperior.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Conversing Is Not Links

Some people seem to have this inability to actually have a conversation with somebody else. This is something I've noticed more on the internet, but it does seem to plague some people in real life as well. Now, I'm not talking about being socially awkward and just not quite sure how to talk or which words to use or just not having anything interesting to say. Oh no, I can excuse most, if not all, of that. No, what I'm talking about are people who just can't go two sentences without sharing you a YouTube video or their usually bland 4chan lulzpic.

During the average day I'm on the computer something like an unimaginably unhealthy amount of ten to eleven hours. Sure, a fair amount of what I'm doing is forums, IMs, nonsensical wiki searches, but more than half of those hours are spent typing manuscripts, researching for manuscripts, or working on this blog. I can spare some time to chat with you, and I might even click a few relevant links that you feel could add to the conversation, but I am not going to sit there and smile happily as you do nothing but send me link after link after damn link. It's obnoxious, it slows down my computer, and it makes me think you're some kind of semi-biological spambot and not a person.

What bothers me more is how some people will interrupt the flow of their own conversation just to start sending you every issue of a webcomic they find the least bit humorous. Why? Are you suddenly bored with the conversation that you started?

Typically the people who do this also don't seem to have any real interest in conversing at all, or so it seems. They say what they need to say, or what they feel compelled to need to say, and simply don't acknowledge your response or simply answer back "Huh" before pulling out the ol' link barrage or saying something so completely out of the blue that you're left scrambling up and down your scroll bar trying to find any mention of anything that could even be remotely related to what was just said.

You might think this problem exists solely in the realm of instant messaging and internet forums, right? Wrong. The internet is so ingrained into our very minds that halfway into a legitimate, mouth-to-mouth conversation somebody will probably have to stop the entire flow of everything being said because "I have to show you guys this awesome video of a dude biking into a lake." Okay, it's impressive and all, but how does it relate to Transformers 2 sucking total balls? Don't you dare start Googling for comparison pics between old designs and movie designs, because that's even more annoying.

It's just so damn ridiculous that you can't have a conversation without some form of digital prop, and you can't end one without being a sidetracking dickwad. I want everyone who reads this to do me a favor and on a Monday half-a-year from now participate in what I am now calling "No Links Day." On No Links Day, which I swear will become a national holiday, you are going to do the world a favor and not post or send any links at all whatsoever. This includes file transfers, because those are just as damn annoying.

No Links Day is on Facebook!

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Super Guides Make Super Bitches

So around the time of New Super Mario Bros. Wii, Nintendo came up with this awesome new idea to help younger players (or people who just happen to suck) get their ass past the first Goomba. This wonderful little gameplay device was known as "the Super Guide" and was a way for Nintendo to go back to the old ways of challenging level design while still being accessible by people who don't have acute control over their thumbs.

You are weak! Let Super Kong handle this!
Now, some people seem to believe that the Super Guide is a horrible concept atrocious in design, use, and existence. For what actual reason nobody really knows. Most of the people keep saying the same thing over and over about the current generation being too lazy to figure out the game for themselves and being unable to handle challenges, or something stupid like that, because they know they actually have no reason to hate a Super Guide other than it's a part of the game the completionist fags (which I am, lol) won't need to use.

Their one real argument, that whole laziness thing I mentioned, doesn't even stack up. It doesn't stack up from an entertainment point of view, and it doesn't stack up from a business point of view. If I were the company, I'd want as many people as possible to enjoy my product the whole way through. Even if that means they just watch Mario and Luigi bounce around from Koopa shell to Koopa shell. Making a game where the average (read: majority) consumer can't get past the first level is a very bad way to sell your product.

This game. This fucking game.
From an entertainment point of view... let's face it, yeah, this generation is full of lazy bums (that's why none of these have shown up in the article yet), but when a lazy bum puts their money (or their grandma's money, or their mom's money, or daddy's money) into a game they expect to have a stress-free hour of fairly mindless fun. And if that means the game's difficulty isn't causing them as much stress as the break-up they just suffered through, then so be it. Games are games, and they should be fun.

This is all a good thing for the more involved gamer. A lot of you just don't know it yet. This will give developers the opportunity to create sadistically difficult stages like they used to do without completely alienating the all-important and unjustly criticized casual players who just want to chill out with Donkey Kong and don't treat completing the game like an Olympic sport.

And they never should be.
There are a few whiner babies out there who seem to think that because the Super Guide can directly tell people how to pass a challenge, solve a puzzle, and win the game that the developers will start pushing out largely junk games with stages that are either poorly crafted or hardly crafted at all. At first consideration, this is a legitimate fear. At second consideration you realize that it's total bullcrap, because the developing companies that will thrive through the "Age of the Super Guide" will be those who develop fun gaming experiences, and the Super Guide can only work to serve that purpose.

Plus you don't have to use it.

So what's everybody's opinion on implementing the Super Guide into modern games?

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Contagion


They bustled through the halls, around corners and out of classrooms. With both eager anticipation and relenting irritation they trafficked through the school and filed into the gym. Many hung around the doors to meet up with their friends and have meaningless discussions about who was going out with whom or the Godzilla movie marathon that had run the night before. Others, the more anti-social and studious members of the Junior class, quietly found their spot amongst the makeshift testing areas and took a seat at one of the tables.

Billy Arkin was one of those anti-social misfits who was sitting at a table long before the rest of the horde had decided to participate in the standardized testing. The five minutes he’d been sitting felt to him like hours, though he had managed to kill some time by tracing the cracks and grooves in the peeling paint of the decrepit table. An uncomfortable claustrophobia twisted his gut as the seats around him began to fill with not-unfamiliar but not-entirely-welcome faces. With an unusual anxiety and an irrational impatience he twirled his number-two pencil over and through his fingers as the spokesman teacher he’d never seen before began to speak.

“I hope you all enjoyed your breakfast,” the spokesman said with a false enthusiasm.

Billy glanced around to see how many “you all” was. To his astonished horror the majority of the Junior class had been jammed into the small gymnasium. Students cluttered the gym, covering the Beachpalm Dolphins basketball logo on the floor, blocking the bleacher seats from folding out if need be, but worst of all showing an utter disregard for personal space. Billy thought it was absurd to have a standardized test in this manner, it would be more than easy to cheat off somebody when people were so clustered together that you could see the papers beside yours with not even a flick of the eye. Besides that, Mr. Patcholin, an elderly math teacher with a bald and shining head, was sniffling and coughing so loud and furiously that his grotesque, sickly noises echoed off the walls. Thoughts of disease, specifically the swine flu which had reclaimed its position as the largest clinical scare of the century since the school year resumed, crossed through his mind. An illness such as that, or even the common cold, would spread like wild fire in this environment.

“So we don’t waste any unnecessary time, I would like the teachers to hand out the test booklets before they check attendance,” the spokesman continued, though Billy had missed any previous statements that had been made.

The test book was thick, too thick for Billy’s liking even though he know most of the questions would be multiple choice. He squinted his eyes and weaved his orange hair through his fingers as he flipped through the pages in the booklet. Writing was never one of his strongest subjects, and the test seemed intent on making him write pages about an utterly obscure subject that really only required a sentence or two to accurately explain.

This would have been merely an annoying task for Billy on most days, but with the constant hum, dim and flicker of the cheap fluorescent lights overhead it was a task he felt wasn’t worth the patience. His focus cracked completely when the buzz of a mosquito zipped through his ears. He snapped his head upward and hunted for the bug with his eyes, hoping it would be close enough for him to eradicate without much effort. But when he finally spotted it all desire he had to be near the insect was chased away by a feeling of unease, like he was somehow in danger.

He reasoned that his unease came from the odd behavior of the mosquito. There was something not quite right about the way the bug spun and swerved chaotically from one spot to the next. The greenish tint that colored the bug’s flesh made his skin crawl.. The way its buzz was loud and long, almost like a groan of pain.

It landed on the arm of Thomas Taylor, a large boy whom Billy knew to be quiet and fairly reserved. Taylor slapped the mosquito, though Billy suspected that the bug had been there long enough to have drained at least a little blood, but he thought little more of it and returned his attention to the test. Suddenly Taylor started coughing. Terrible, hoarse coughs that sounded as though someone had shoved razors down his throat. Billy glanced over and watched with wide eyes as Taylor bent forward and coughed loudly, spewing phlegm and blood across the table. His eyes rolled back in his head and with an enormous crash he collapsed to the floor, convulsing wildly.

“He’s having a seizure!” a girl shouted from across the room. Foam had bubbled around Taylor’s lips, smothering them like oozing, dripping pillows. A teacher, Mr. Fieldman, knelt down and asked Taylor if he was all right. The boy didn’t answer. He continued his spazmatic flail, like a fish on a deck, while Mr. Fieldman shouted for somebody to call an ambulance. Panic and excitement jolted through the air, and Billy felt the hairs on his neck raise up. Then it stopped. Taylor fell still and lay unmoving as the energy dissolved out of the air.

Nobody drew a breath. Not a sound defiled the momentary silence. Everyone had turned their attention to Taylor’s limp, colorless body on the floor. Even Mr. Fieldman had silenced his frantic cries of “911!” He remained motionless, hunched over the body and staring into its face as though he could stare the very life back into it.

Suddenly, and without warning, Taylor rose upward, grabbed Mr. Fieldman by the throat and clamped onto his shoulder with his foam veiled mouth. Blood darkened Mr. Fieldman’s suit as Taylor’s teeth dug deeper. The sound of ripping fabric and flesh tore through the air as the seams of Mr. Fieldman’s suit surrendered. Taylor gulped down his mouthful of meat before he dove forward for another as Mr. Fieldman’s eyes rolled back in his head and he began to convulse.

Billy stood too quickly and winced at the dizzying pain that swam through him. He didn’t know why he had stood, only that he had. It was as though Taylor’s bite had pressed some kind of button for Billy, and two dozen others, to leap from their seats. Mr. Patcholin and the spokesman were trying to pry Taylor off of Mr. Fieldman, but he spun quickly and slammed his jaws shut over Patcholin’s arm. The bald man screamed loudly, but not as loudly as the spokesman did as he tried to evade when Mr. Fieldman rose and lunged at him.

Watching this it all made sudden and perfect sense to Billy, who had enjoyed his fair share of horror movies, what was going on. He didn’t want to believe it, logic told him not to, but the truth was undeniable and staring him in the face. Several others had apparently risen to a similar conclusion, as they made a mad dash for the doors while Taylor and the three teachers flung themselves at anybody unfortunate enough to be nearby. Running for the doors with a hundred other students at his side had seemed like a grand solution at first, but the mass of students and teachers trying to worm and wriggle their way through the two pairs of small doors had soon created an enormous blockade of human and flesh.

It wasn’t long before others began to fall to the ground, twisting and turning as though their insides were burning and half devoured by the mindless savages who had once been their friends and mentors. After their few moments of painful rising, those students also rose to their feet and joined the consumption of their peers.

Stuck at the buck of the cluster that clogged any and all escape routes from the gym, Billy knew that it would only be a few moments before he was turned into one of the flesh guzzling monsters that hunted him. Or worse. At the rate their numbers were increasing he might be completely consumed before he would ever be given the opportunity to reanimate. In desperation he spun full circle and found what might have been his only chance. The bleachers were still folded against the wall, the seats creating a sort of ladder that could be easily climbed by those who could squeeze their fingers and toes between the cracks. Figuring that the zombies (he had forced logic away and finally accepted this fact) would be too clumsy to pursue him Billy flung himself against the wall and jammed his fingers into the small grooves between the seats. He scurried up the bleacher wall quickly while a few zombies grabbed for his heels, surprising even himself with his own agility.

The top of the bleachers were cluttered with the poles and stakes used to hold the volleyball nets in place in the spring. Deciding it would be a good idea to have those for defense, he grabbed one and poised himself like a fisherman with a spear waiting for his first victim to swim by. But when he saw another classmate falling to the horde Billy found an offensive use for the poles. He thrust down and forward at once, launching the pole through the air like a torpedo. It fell with the elegance of a dancer who happened to have two left feet, but it bit into its target’s flesh regardless.

He realized that he had trapped himself on top of the bleachers. By climbing up there he had doomed himself to sitting around until either the horde left or a rescue team broke through. Either way helping the survivors below could only increase the chances that he himself could survive. And he could help them, he reasoned, by arming them. Poles and stakes flew through the air as he tossed them towards anybody who responded to his calls of “who’s alive?” Though several people had successfully received his gift they were often quickly overwhelmed. Mr. Harris, the gym teacher, had made the most of the poles. Even then, only three zombies had fallen before Harris himself had become infected. Billy thought twice about relinquishing his last weapon to someone who would likely die in the next twenty seconds. It made him feel selfish, but he had never intended to sacrifice his chances of survival for anyone else’s.

To his horror the zombies weren’t as clumsy as their staggering, sporadic movements made them appear. Several hands, most missing fingers or chunks of flesh and muscle, reached over the top of the bleachers before he had noticed them climbing towards him. He thrust his last sake over the edge, felt the impact and the resistance pushing against him, then yanked it back and repeated. Several times he performed these actions, not having the courage to look at his enemies until he was used to the sound of cracking skulls, the feeling of piercing flesh and the sight of the long strings of dripping entrails that dangled from the end of his improvised spear. He knew that if he saw those faces, recognized those faces, he could never bring himself to skewer them.

That’s why he was disturbingly relieved when he saw that most of them had been so horribly mangled that their features, if there were any, could not be distinguished by any means. Back and forth went his spear, up and down until it seemed as though he was gaining ground. His arm was growing tired and numb, but he continued the fight, forcing them away from his defensive nest atop the bleachers. Then he saw her. She must have been one of the early infected; her features had been, for the most part, untouched. Only a small scratch on her cheek, that bled to her chin, obstructed her face. Her brown hair was slightly mangled, probably from when she had the seizure. If her eyes were not soulless voids, if her mouth was not soaked red he may have thought she was still human.

It wasn’t just her undistorted face that made him hesitate as she flopped herself over the edge of the bleachers, it was who she was. Liz Timber was one of the few people in the school that he not only tolerated, but appreciated. The first person to show him any kind of compassion, the first person to welcome him when he had transferred into the district his Freshman year. Now he was faced with the decision to destroy her, destroy the first glimpse of happiness he’d seen in this mournful facility, or surrender himself to a more than grisly fate.

He could not bring himself to lunge through her, to kill her even though she was no longer alive. The shell that resembled her was enough, and even when her hand choked the life out of him he couldn’t find it in himself to tear into her. He tried half-heartedly to pull away, but as he saw the last of the flailing on the ground he knew it was useless, and that he’d be alone again if he survived. And he would have to killer her, he still couldn’t. They cascaded down, falling from the top of the bleachers until they both disappeared into the horde.

Lost In Thought

We’re here for the first time. This is our first meeting. You look confused maybe even scared. I haven’t shown myself to you. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I never will. I consider leaving without making myself known, but I force myself to stay. I’ve already brought you here. I’ve already come this far. I might as well go all the way.

Mr. Lewis’ voice drones on somewhere beyond. He’s writing more notes, and he’s move to the other side of the board. Someone beside you is closing the window blinds. Another is sleeping. Rain rolls across the window. We know this. We can see and hear these things. But they are merely in the background. Whitenoise in this pure, vacant space.

Really it’s just you and me. I don’t think you realize yet. Part of you is still taking notes, but most of you is here. You wonder why you can’t focus. You ask if maybe you’re sick. I feel bad for doing this to you. You scrunch your eyes and blink them open, trying to wake. You wonder what’s wrong with you.

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you. I tell you this, perhaps too boldly, because you leap in surprise. You shake your head. There wasn’t a voice. You were beginning to daydream.

I hesitate. Maybe I can leave now. Slink back in my cowardice and let you think that you were just dozing off. No. No, I can’t do that. It’s not fair to either of us if I do that. I came here to tell you. I have to tell you.

“It’s me.” The voice echoes across the darkness. You shudder. I can’t keep you stranded in this doubt. I have no choice. I show myself, without revealing who I am. You see me, a hooded figure. My face is masked by shadows.

You tell yourself to wake up. You tell yourself to leave. You can’t leave yet. I have to tell you. But the panic I’ve instilled in you fills me with guilt. I have to make this more comfortable. I don’t know how. What I do doesn’t do that. Not for me. But you calm down.

I fill this space with emotion. The stagnant, black emptiness suddenly brims with a unique warmth. The warmth increases in temperature as my heart begins to race. I can see you blush. I now it’s worked. I’ve filled you with emotions like mine. I don’t tell you where those emotions are coming from. If I tell you now, you’ll hate me.

Your fear has become frustration and curiosity. You want to know who I am. I don’t answer. I assure you that you aren’t crazy. I tell you how this is happening. The best that I can. There is still much that I don’t understand. I am a psychic. A telepath by nature.

You ask why I’m doing this. Why you. The answer almost bursts out of me, but I reel it back in. I fear you caught a glimpse. Your face is cherry red.

Our surroundings change. I make them change. I put us in Egypt, standing atop the Sphynx. This is not the place for us to talk. I take us to Paris where we scale the Eiffel Tower. Not here. To China during a firework festival. So close, but not quite.

I realize we must go elsewhere. To a land unreal. I begin to construct it, this new, imaginary world. It is both cold and warm. The air is nippy, but we feel as though we have drunk hot chocolate. Snow falls, sparkling in a majestic beauty that real life could not produce. Gentle music plays over the distant hills. It calms your insecurities, and eases my anxiety.

What time is it? How much is left? Reluctantly, I pull away from you. I’m afraid I’ll lose you and this place if I’m gone too long. I swivel around and glance at the clock. It’s later than I thought. It’s far too difficult to perceive real time here. Almost impossible to tell past from present, with all the memories floating about.

I return. I was gone too long. The world had almost faded. I try to bring it back, but remembering is more difficult than creating. I can’t reclaim that warmth from before. You shiver. Too cold. How do I help you? I must help you. This is my fault, and watching your discomfort is too painful. But I don’t know how. How?

You’re warm. Temperature rising. I was filled with comfort the moment you wrapped your arms around me. Now I’m doing the same for you. Together, we are warm. Creating a barrier against the frigid air. We spend what feels like hours there. We almost fall asleep.

I don’t understand why you did this. I scan your mind for logic, but your thoughts are nearly encrypted. I don’t get it. But I soon forget to care. I focus all of my warmth to you.

You ask me who I am. You ask to see my face. I’m not sure. Will you hate me after? Will this warmth disappear? Still, I don’t resist when your fingers slide up to grip my hood. My breath stops and my heart leaps to my throat as the shadows disappear. I look at you. I can’t read your expression. I fear for the worst. It’s all that seems logical.

And then…

You kiss me.

Death Row


DEATH ROW

     Slowly... quietly... she creeps forward, eyes never moving from the row of headstones. From the row of death. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and though it is sunny, there is a sinister chill in the air. Her shadow stalks behind her, lunging closer then falling back, as though sizing her up before making its final strike. Her shirt ruffles, pushed and pulled by unnatural forces. She can feel the hands slide over her body. They climb her legs, dipping in on the back of her knee, then slide gently over her tingling spine until they reach her neck. They tighten, so slowly at first that she can hardly notice, but soon she is struggling for breath. A feeling of icey cold horror sinks into her skin as her vision begins to fade. She tries to scream out, tries to call for help, but she has no voice. Soon she is with them. Sleeping beneath the dirt.

Don't Be Mad

I hope you don't get mad
         but I don't like it when you're sad
Your glass should be full
not empty or between
but spilling over the edge
creating a stream
         if you need some water
         you can borrow mine
                   I'm not thirsty anyway
Your swagger should not sway
Your frown should go away
Smile, if you find a way
And do your best to make it stay
         (I'm trying my best here)
                   (Please don't tear my rhyme scheme apart >.>;)
Running out of lines
But still so much to say
Though words are cold
So have a friendly-poem-hug
I hope you feel okay :3
         (actually, I'd prefer if you felt great)
                   (I'm trying not to push it)
                             (how far am I pushing it?)
                   (Should I take it back?)
                             (Smile, just a little, before bed, okay?)
                                       (Sorry I haven't quite mastered "the art" yet)
                             (Dream Well)

T'Was the Night Before Presents

I lay in bed
In the dead of night
Waiting for sleep
Waiting for him
Waiting for tomorrow
When there will be gifts
Games and toys and pie
Oh boy
I love tomorrow
I love it so
Suddenly a thump
A clatter and a crack
The tinkle of bells
Powdered snow falls from the roof
And sprinkles the yard
Like a sugar donut
It’s him!
He’s here!
Can I see him?
Can I say “hi?”
There’s a noise downstairs
The creeping of feet
The rustle of a bag
The guzzling of milk
I slip out of bed
Shiver in the cold
My breath slips away in whispered puffs
But I can’t be deterred
I must be tough!
Into the hall, I tip on my toes
Down the stairs
Through the kitchen
And then at last, he’s come to sight
The coat, big, red and bold
Is unmistakable
The sack at his feet is filled with toys
And games and cakes and other joys
His stomach bubbles and wobbles
Like a bowl full of jelly
His beard is long
And smooth
And silver
Like the bells on his boots
And the trim of his coat
He looks at me
Eyes wide with delight
A smile splits his humble, pink face
And I see now that the prints on the floor are not snow but
Blood
And the toys in the sack are not plastic or tin
But tooth, and bone, and torn bits of skin
The gifts by the tree
Are packaged like meat
I take a step back
He takes one forward
Eyes glinting blue and green
Like the lights wrapped about the tree
He holds out his hand
All sticky and wet
Chuckles real softly and says
“Merry Christmas to you,
My dear little boy.
Come look in this bag,
I’ve got you a toy.”

Wonderland

It's cold
Today is really cold
Way too cold cold
Polar bears would be shivering cold
Icicles are growing out of my nose cold
It is so cold
That the wind has to keep blowing just to stay warm
That wooly mammoths are stampeding through my yard
That the trees have begun to regrow their leaves
Because they need a blanket not to freeze
It is so cold
That birds have to glide like kites
Because they can't flap their wings
It is so cold
That fires have become spiky shards of ice beneath the chimney
It is so cold
That I'm going to pull my blanket tight
Watch the sun come up
Watch the bus drive by
And whisper to the frozen world
"Good night."

The Secret Stall

"Come on man. Hurry up." Ken pounded against the sandy colored stall, dancing erratically. He'd been holding it in since the day began, but the school lunch seemed to shoot right through him. Now he was past the bursting point. The point where you begin to sweat from the sheer strain of flexing every muscle in your body in an attempt to hold it back. The point where you're about to pop like a balloon, and your face turns blue with a lack of oxygen.

"Just use the next one over!" a flustered voice called out from behind the door.

"You know I can't," Ken said, glancing at the only other stall in the bathroom. It was known as the "secret stall." Nobody could manage to pull the door open. It had been shut for as long back as Ken could remember. He'd tried to open it once, when he was a Freshman, but it was locked from the other side. Nobody seemed to care enough to crawl under the door and unlock it, and the toilets overflowed often enough that thought to try immediately decided against it.

Still, he really had to go. Telling himself that it was a stupid superstition, Ken reached for the stall door. He pressed against with all the force he could spare, but the door didn't budge. It didn't rattle the way most stalls do when they're locked, it simple didn't move. As though something were pressing against it from the other side.

"Sorry about that." The toilet flushed and the door to the first stall swung open. A tall boy with dark hair stepped out, tugging up the zipper of his jeans. "If they'd just install some damn urinals in this place, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Yeah," Ken nodded as he rushed into the stall, barely remembering to push the door shut behind him. His jeans were hardly around his ankles as he found his center on the ceramic seat, and he was too relieved to care about the rank odor that spilled out of the bowl.

"I mean." The boy's voice carried into the stall as the sound of running water echoed off the tiled walls. "Just because this was an all-girl's school means we have to suffer? Bull shit."

"Yeah," Ken agreed, though he wished the boy would hurry up and leave. Talking wasn't something he'd wanted to do when he came to the bathroom. The boy blabbed on a bit longer as he dried his hands, then his voice disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Calmness swept over Ken as he went about his business. In the silence he couldn't help but notice the graffiti littering the walls. He scoffed at most of the stupidity. Misspelled curses carved into the sandy walls or bled in with sharpie were the most abundant pieces of literature. There was also the occasional angry boyfriend claiming his now-ex was a whore, and the desperate drug dealer scribbling an advertisement near the toilet paper. The most intriguing piece was a chain story about a man jacked up on shrooms tearing through a city like Godzilla. Ken dug around in his pocket for a pen to continue the tale, but just as he pulled off the cap the lights died out, casting him into darkness.

Five or six minutes passed before they flickered back to life. An odd sensation overcame Ken, and he grew eager to finish and leave, the graffiti story now the last thing on his mind. He tried to reason that it was just a loose bulb or wire, but he couldn't shake the feeling that thousands of tiny spiders were rushing up his back.

Then he heard it. A low wail and a moan, followed by a series of sniffles and sobbing, from the stall beside him. Ken sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do. The person had probably thought that the bathroom was empty, and he didn't want to embarrass them, but it didn't seem right to just let them sob. Slowly, so as not to alarm them, he cleaned himself and pulled up his pants.

"Are you alright?" he asked, as he zipped his jeans. The crying stopped, but Ken waited a minute to see if they might answer. When he heard only silence, he flushed the toilet and walked out of the stall.

As he washed his hands he eyed himself in the mirror, wondering if he should shave his stubble or let it grow into a beard. That's when he noticed it. Just beside the reflection of his chin. The door to the "secret" stall slowly creeping open. He spun around. For some reason his heart pounded against his chest and cold sweat drizzled down his face. He could feel his legs crying out to run, but he couldn't understand why/ Not until she drifted out of the stall.

She was a short girl with beautiful black hair, and a pale complexion that made snow look black. Her eyes were heavy and blotched with tears, her gaze fixed on the ground. But her most defining feature was…
"Where are my legs?" She asked as she floated toward him.

"I-I don't know." He tried to take a step back, but he found himself cornered by the sink.

"Where are my legs?" Sorrow filled the air as she drew closer. Then panic as Ken realized her gaze wasn't fixed on the ground. She was staring down, but not at the floor. At his legs.

"Where are my legs?"

Recipe For Disaster

"Do you really think this will work?" Dex asked as he gazed into the strange brown mixture in the bowl.

"That's what we're trying to find out. Whether this makes werewolf venom or cheesecake!" I exclaimed as my eyes glazed over the recipe in the ancient cookbook I had placed on the counter.

"But Robby! Mom said we're not allowed to cook! We'll get in big trouble!"

"Oh, stop whining and toss in those bacon bits."

Bacon bits? Wait a second, bacon bits? Did this recipe just tell me to sprinkle bacon bits into a cake mix? I read the ingredients list again, and then reread the instructions. Yep, I was supposed to add bacon bits. Even if this wasn't werewolf venom, it certainly wouldn't end up being cheesecake.

I speed read the remainder of the recipe and slammed the book shut. My eyes danced across the prismatic letters that formed the title: Edward Hancook's Recipes for Undesired Guests. The words glimmered like iridescent crystals embedded within the scarlet cover of the book. It was more beautiful to me then you could ever imagine.

"AHH! ROBBY! SOMETHING'S HAPPENING!" Dex shrieked and I turned to find him pointing into the mixing bowl.

I glanced into the bowl to see what Dex was going on about. He had every right to be freaked out. The brown mass inside the bowl had begun to wiggle and stir. It bounced about like some kind of animate gelatin. I grabbed up the cookbook and flipped open to the werewolf recipe. There it was, all I had to do was continue mixing. I grabbed the mixing spoon, hesitated, then smashed the glop. Mixing it was easier then I thought, the mixture was fairly flaccid.

"Come on," I said, turning to Dex, "Aunt Faye's dessert is ready."

Fairy Glasses

He stared at the glasses that lay bent on the desk, one arm reaching towards him despairingly. The other was folded across the two large lenses. His heart hammered against his chest as he tried to rub the memories out of his eyes. They wouldn't fade, the residual images of what he had seen persisted against his will. What was worse was the fact that he couldn't decided if he was utterly pleased and amused or completely disgusted by the visuals that had existed beyond the pair of lenses.

That fairy the night before had told him of the glamour, the curse that had been put on the glasses. But he didn't care, he was much more interested in the fact that a fairy, a real, live fairy with two fly wings on its back and a height of no more than six inches, had been standing on his bookshelf explaining to him the laws of magic and glamour. Glamour, he recalled, was a field of magic used primarily for illusions or misconception. A troll could use glamour to disguise himself as a human, for example.

He had not believed the fairy the night before, but now that he had experienced the effects of glamour first-hand he had no doubt that everything the fairy had said was true. Because of that truth he was reluctant to wear the glasses again, but already he could feel the queasiness that accompanied the motion sickness he experienced without them. He must have made a face, because the blurred figure of a girl appeared before him. He squinted, but could barely make out the concerned expression on her face.

"Isaac, do you feel alright?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Isaac replied as he placed the bridge of his glasses across his nose. A delighted smile spread across his face as her clothes vanished before his eyes.

Bot Fly

CONTENT WARNING: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

     The teal carpet scraped against her exposed knees, burning ever more intensely with each passing second. She dragged the copper zipper slowly down its chain and hiked down his denim trousers. With fasciantion and finesse she slid her hand over his pelvis, rotating clockwise as she slipped the button out of place and pulled apart the cotten curtains of his boxers. Her tongue slid over her shining, red lips almost on its own as the pheremones excavated her senses. Then she saw it. Darting in and out of the flesh near his head. Sickly white and peppered with wiggling black dots. It writhed horrifically in an attempt to avoid sight. She reeled back in terror, recognizing the horrors of the bot fly.

An Understanding

I've come to an understanding
         Oh?
         About what?
    Well, you see
    The whole time I sat there
    I couldn't figure it out
    This tight
    Painful
    Pinching feeling
    In my bladder
    And only now that I'm standing
    Do I realize
    I have to pee

Life Flows Downstream

Flowing
Like a river
Trickling
To the floor
Shimmering
As though crying
Deepening
From red to black
Leaving
Me to die

I'm Sorry

"I'm sorry…"
     No, it's okay
          It's not okay
"It's just that…"
     No, it's fine
          It's totally not fine
"Do you understand?"
     Yeah, of course
          No, not at all
"Are you okay?"
     Yes
          No
"Good"
     Heh
          Why?
"See you around."
     Later.
          Good bye…

Smile

Happiness
Head held high
Humming hubristic hymns
Hopeful
Humorous
Hinting
That something is wrong
That something is very, very wrong
That something is going to break
That something is going to give
That something is losing hold
That I'm going to
Let go

Almost Done, Guys

As some of you may or most probably are not seeing, the front page has been flooded by poems ranging from ridiculously shoddy to amusingly acceptable. Those are all of the poems from my DeviantArt account, unless a few were not organized into the right folders or something. Which seems a little too likely, because there's at least one essential piece of literature that I didn't have the pleasure of bringing over here to ruin your childhoods. Since I couldn't find it, and to completely fill out this list of internet shared poetry, I'll be scouring the depths of my long-dead message board The Write Club in the hopes of drudging up a few of the lost poems. I've also got a few small pieces of prose I'll be sharing.

While I was transferring all of these poems over, I began reading them over and it's just laughable how bad some of them are. Yet, I'm not embarrassed about sharing them here, or even having my name attached to them. A lot of people will be wondering "Well, why the fuck not, Nate? They're total rubbish." And they'd be right, for the most part. Except that today I also saw the stages of my improvement over the past year, and while I'm still only a marginal poet, in multiple definitions of the word, it's comforting to know that I've moved into a slightly better cesspool from the one I had started in, and that I'll continue moving from cesspool to cesspool until finally I land in a tide pool. Or maybe a Jacuzzi!

Confession of a Lost Boat

I must confess that it was me
I'm the one you want
The one who sent you those letters.
You know the ones?
They were stuffed with chocolates?
And covered in flowers?
Do you remember them now?
Those were from me,
I'm the culprit.
Not Tim, not Tom, not Jim nor Jack
It was me.
So now you know,
Now that I've confessed,
Found guilty by the jury,
Oh! What a beautiful mess!
Take me to a cell,
Lock me in the dungeon,
Through me in the gallows.
I don't care, but there's one thing that I must hear.
Could you take a moment, take a step back.
Before you make your final judgment, please allow me to defend my actions.
You see, I could help it no more.
To see you cry the way you did.
It was all good, all set and well that I could sit by
While you smiled.
But then you cried.
Why did you cry? Weren't things going so well?
But you cried, you cried forever.
And now you're drowning.
And well, I've always wanted to be the one with the boat,
The one to pull you out of the lake.
So please, take my hand.
Take this hand that has written letters,
That has picked the roses, that has mixed your chocolate with it's caramel gut.
Take this hand, that does not sting from pushing you away,
But instead bleeds for holding too tight.
Take this hand, and I promise to you,
I promise to you that it will not let go.
It will not leave you flailing,
Leave you sinking.
Leave you reaching
As it pulls away
No
Because it's reaching for you
But your hand, your grasp
They reach for the boat that has sailed
The one that is leaving the harbor
The one that will not turn
That will not look back.
Please turn around,
Please look here.
Please grab my hand,
Don't disappear.

Moo Says the Cow

"Hoo," says the owl
"Moo," says the cow
"Quack," says the duck
"Squeak," says the mouse
"Meow," says the cat
"Woof," says the dog
"Ssss," says the snake
"Chirp," says the bird
"Bzzz," says the bee
"Fuck!" Screams the angry little poet who just stubbed his toe

Paint the Walls Red

The walls are white,
Simple and pure.
They speak of peace
Of pleasure

But they lie.

There is no peace
Purity is dead
Let's pick up our wrists
And paint the walls red.

Still Friends

I woke up this morning,
Looked at the sky,
Saw the sun rise,
Wanted to fly.

Fly amongst the clouds,
Fly right to your side,
But then I remembered,
And my ambitions died.

Never will we touch again,
No more will I see your eyes.
Your cute little ears will never again
Hear my desperate cries.

I'll bleed quietly,
By the scars near my hand,
And fly elsewhere,
To a different land.

Saddened this has come to pass,
Dying at its end,
Because I know you didn't mean it when
You said we'd still be friends.

Bacon

Being more
Awesome than
Cereal
Or
Nutter butters

That Day

What
Evil
Does
Now
Enjoy the
Seduction of bringing
Death, leaving me
Alone without
You?

Bare

Like a shell
My skin was thick
Hard, impenetrable
A shield against the world
And then there was you
Picking and poking
Scratching and peeling
Until I grew weak
And let you in
We spent some days together
Me without my skin
Then you left
Left me alone, bare to the world
Helplessly exposed to the pervading horrors of
Life
I quickly began to whither.
Soon I will die.

Terror

They hide in Darkness
Pain
Panic
Chaos
The monsters and the nightmares
Lost
Confused
Alone
They come in the night
Crawling
Creeping
Stalking
To descend upon you
Falling
Sleeping
Forgetting
Your heart is theirs
Silent
Cold
Gone
For the taking

Twirl

Up, down
All around
A circle in my hand
It spins, it loops
Dancing through the air.
Like a lever it cranks
Prompting my machine of thought
Spinning and spiraling
Not growing dizzy
But somehow
Learning to speak

Hold

Fear of loss
Of death
Of the unknown
Desperately holding on
To hope
To love
Never letting go
Of safety
Of you
Knowing that I
Can't survive
Can't hold another
So please don't
Let me die
Let me go
You're the only branch
I can hold.

Disassociate

Out of focus
False touch
Misleading smile
Cold shell

Where is the warmth?
The happy eyes?
The lasting caress?
Where are you?

Fleshy shadow
Shallow eyes
Silhouetted soul
Bitter breath

Now just a memory
Replaced by you
So unfamiliar
Who are you?


Letting go
With little care
After you brought me
Way out here

Where is this
This place so dark,
So empty, so cold?
Where am I?

Endless Night

Darkness moves in
Removing my sight.
Cold kisses me flesh,
In this endless night.
But without love I,
Have no will to fight

Rope

It strangles
It kills
It bites
And it burns.
But this rope does so much more.
It loves
It comforts
It soothes
And it relieves
Me of this world.

Cheated

Am I selfish for feeling empty?
I can't help but wonder
As I lay down to rest.
The cold has settled in me,
My plans completely foiled.
For weeks I had longed, ached for this day
But when it comes, the light is yanked away.
Why did I awake at all?
Oh yeah,
Because today was going to be special
Today was going to be great!
But no, not in my life.
Screw you, Fate.
Just once, for one day
I'd like something to be right.
Is that so wrong? So selfish?
That just once I want my plan to not be
Crumpled, destroyed, stomped, crush, spat on?
Of course it is.
Why would it not?
It's just myself at the center of that thought.
But still I can't help but feel
Cheated
Cheated out of the one potentially good day,
Cheated out of warmth
Cheated out of rest.
But over years, I have grown weary of this cheating.
So now I place my thoughts to sleep,
My heart hardly beating.

Pretend You're Here

Cold heart,
Lonely room.
I hear the screaming
Far too soon.
Needing someone to hold me tight,
I can't get through this lightless night
Without you.

A ghost whispers
Of the past.
Answering questions
I never asked.
Things that chase me, things I fear
Only you can stop these tears.
Only you.

No eyes to see,
No ear to tell,
Nobody to hold
No light in hell.
Then there was you,
The only person who
Would hear.

Where have you gone
At this late hour?
To home, to friends?
To let me cower?
I need you now, but you are there,
So I'll lie down and pretend you're here
With me.

Mask

I wear a mask
A mask that hides
My thoughts away
But-

I wear a mask
As do you
As do they
-today-

I wear a mask
My true self
Sadly denied
-I-

I wear a mask
A smile,
Painted and dry
-tear-

I wear a mask
Forgetting aspirations
Hopes and, desires
-my-

I wear a mask
It suffocates me
I can't breathe
-mask-

I wear my mask
At least I did
Until I threw my fear
-away.

Final Farewell

They arrive in droves
And gather upon the grass,
Young and old, men and women
With clothes blacker than starless night.
Heads bowed, listening to silence,
They sway slightly as though blown by the wind,
And look down, eyes focused on the
Coffin.
How did it happen? - Suicide. - No, murder.
Their murmurs rise as time crawls by,
But the mournful air does not subside.
Family, and friends, all have come
Together to see off that man now lying
Dead
In wood; oak it would seem.
Flowers fall upon the bed,
A blanket of roses, lilacs and lilies.
The visitors continue to pray, to mourn, though some
Cannot bear to see longer,
And turn away, or into shoulders
As water slides down their rose-red cheeks.
Silence settles over them again.
The flowers stop falling,
The sobbing silences,
But the mourning goes on,
As they bid their friend
His final farewell.

Beneath the Skin

I look around, somewhat sadly.
Why do I feel so alone even among this group of friends?
I know the reason, but I'd rather not admit it.
It's because I long for...


     Why is this being written?
     What do you think you're doing?
     Stop moping!
     Be a man!
     Aren't you a man?


I feel weak sometimes,
but never like I do when I think of telling her.
My cowardice is soul consuming,
despicable I know.
     Shut up!
     Where do you get off?
     Just who said you could be so depressed?
     Man-up!
     You're disrespecting your gender!


I've felt like this before,
I think,
I'm not sure,
It's not hurt like this before.
     What hurts?
     What pain?
     You ain't bleedin',
     So stop cryin'!
     You're hurt because you're weak!


Sometimes I want to tell her,
No, always I do.
But she won't want me,
not even I do.
     If you told her,
     She would laugh.
     Why wouldn't she?
     You're so stupid!
     Give up, man-up!


I fear denial,
Judgement.
And it would be awkward,
would I hurt her?
     Of course you would!
     Look what you do to you!
     Do you really think she'd be
     Happy near you?
     Even your mother hates you!


In dreams I tell her,
and she says yes,
but then reality is considered,
and dream becomes nightmare.
     Oh Lord, here it comes!
     Here comes the crying!
     The meaningless words,
     and the empty tears!
     It's not like you really care.


Ugly eyes,
gross physique.
Repellent smell.
Three truths of me, too apparent.
     Self-concerned crybaby!
     Nobody wants to read this dribble!
     Why do you continue to type?
     If you're so sad, just die already.
     Waste of space.


It would relieve me,
to fall from the world.
But that's no solution,
death is submerged in anguish.

     Shut up, moron.
I can't.
     Why not?
Because I-
     Because why?
I want to-
     Can you?
-tell her.
     But you won't...

Coldest Nightmare

I stare at the cold day,
Through the frosted screen.
In the snow she stands,
A figure too seldom seen.

I forget to breathe,
For just a moment.
Pound the glass.
And immediately lament.

She looks at me,
Shakes her head,
Then turns away.
My heart feels dead

Captain Lou

A rocket ship sailing across the sky,
with young Captain Lou waving
as he passed the planets by.

Stars whizzed by, and blinked out of sight,
as did comets and meteors and suns
and moons as he zipped through the night.

Beyond the reaches of the stars,
above Mercury,
and below Mars.

Away he went where none had gone,
and for many days he carried on,
until at last Lou came to see:

A rocket ship sailing across the sky,
with young Captain Lou waving
as he passed the planets by.

Stars whizzed by, and blinked out of sight,
as did comets and meteors and suns
and moons as he zipped through the night.

Beyond the reaches of the stars,
above Mercury,
and below Mars.

Away he went where none had gone,
and for many days he carried on,
until at last Lou came to see:

A rocket ship sailing across the sky,
with young Captain Lou waving
as he passed the planets by.

Stars whizzed by, and blinked out of sight,
as did comets and meteors and suns
and moons as he zipped through the night.

Beyond the reaches of the stars,
above Mercury,
and below Mars.

Away he went where none had gone,
and for many days he carried on,
until at last Lou came to see:

Heads or Tails

"Heads I win
Tails you lose"
You smile and flip the coin
It spins and spins and spins
Up and up and up
Then down it falls
In slow motion

The odds are stacked against me
I know that I can't win
but I can't help but stand there
watching that coin spin

Screaming Silent

I tried to ask you for help
     But I couldn't find the words
I knew that I was falling
     And I knew that I would die
But it seemed weird, and it seemed selfish
So I smiled and chose to lie
     Well, I didn't really lie
I just never told you
And that was fine
     You had other things to talk about
So we talked for a while
     Think I made you smile
          But I was running out of time
I still wanted to tell you
     I still knew I needed help
But I didn't want to say it
     Well
     I didn't know what to say
I hoped that you might see it
     That you would ask if I'm okay
          But you didn't
               But I don't blame you
It's not your job to know
     You aren't my keeper
          To burden with my woes
Maybe if I knew
     How to say it
But it would be awkward
     You shouldn't worry
          I shouldn't tell you
               I'd look like a poser anyway
Maybe I am
     Yeah
Nothing's wrong
     It's all in my head
          Well, it probably is
     But that's really no excuse
          For seeing myself dead

Be Kind, Rewind

Wake up
What for?
It's the same thing day in and day out
Struggle to keep my eyes open
Struggle to fake that smile
Act like an idiot
Because that means I'm okay
Do what I'm told
Or at least
Pretend to
Deal with that shit
I don't know why I do
It's not like it helps
Then its head back home
Deal with the things that live here
They think they're a "family"
Really they're like pitbulls tearing each other apart
And me along with them
Go to sleep
Hope I don't wake up