The Cherub's Ghoul

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy eight

The Cherub's Ghoul

From lands of lost

a cherub came

he thumbed a harp

and sweetly sang

skin like cream

and wings like dove

with hands too small

for common glove

and round his neck

he wore a bag

of leather tough

for such a babe

whence tender song

was softly sung

he daintily

made bag unslung

with kindest glow

he drew the string

angelic smile

unleashed the Thing

a flash of blue

like fire's scorch

entrapt in dark

the only torch

these flames of black

and indigo

from under hood

of ink, did glow

these eyes which saw

more than I said

and mouth which ate

more than I fed

a gaping maw

like flesh torn wide

he took my fear

to be his bride

he stood, a pit

of lustless power

at once both hole

and tallest tower

not that the wraith

exuded cold

but all source of heat

he did enfold

with vocal rattle

stolen from

a thousand men

sisters and sons

he spoke two words

that "Fear's unfair"

while Cherub laughed

and lounged on air

they both drank deep

my skin and soul

but 'fore I died

they let me go

and cut from thought

this awful thread.

But ho! What man

waits on my bed?

The Curious Case of Influence VS Inspired Self Reflection

The Curious Case of Influence VS Inspired Self Reflection

Influence. Oscar Wilde has said in his novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, that influencing another person is invading upon them a part of your soul. Poisoning them with your ideas and your beliefs, and impressing upon them notions and urges which are unnatural to themselves. 

Chuck Palahniuk wrote in Invisible Monsters, "I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." He expresses that who we are is just a collection of fragments of features and follies from both our friends and our foes.

Within each of us lies our true ideals and impulses, and too easily are we conquered by the beliefs of others. To me, the more I look around, the more I see this to be true. It's happened often where the thoughts I've expressed in conversation with a friend I've later heard to be re-stated by them as passionately and proudly as if the were their own. And I'm positive such situations have occurred in my own words as well.

You can already tell that while Wilde did not invade me with his statements on beauty, as I'll explain, he did influence me with his writing style. For I do not usually write with such properness and grandeur, but after reading his words I cannot escape the power of his impressions. At least temporarily.

Why is this? How do we stop such invading influences? How do we escape the ideas of our acquaintances? 

I suppose the only way to be one's true self is to learn who we really are. To know what we believe in our souls, and not the ideals of others. I've written before of the morals that we uphold, not because we are truly certain of them, but simply because they've been pressed upon us repeatedly. Until by sheer repetition of words, it has become our instinct to look down on those who lie and cheat, and those who are too bold with statements and insults. But it's these moments of brutal honesty which are the glimpses of one's true self.

Exploring the soul of ourselves is a frightening and difficult task. Looking inward is undeniably harder that looking outward. For a surface example of this, I'll use my own situation. 

I am a filmmaker, or perhaps in a delusion of grandeur, I fancy myself as one, and I spend a plethora of my time watching films. I view at least one a day, usually two, and still often, three or more. But how many films do I make? A pitiful number no doubt. I have made no feature films, but have seen over eight hundred. I ingest so many stories and dramas and messages without creating any of my own. Do you see what I mean about looking outward being simpler than inward? Can you think of something in your life where you act similarly?

This what I mean by learning about others, and how much more common it is than learning about ourselves.

It's not so simple to explore the unmapped terrain of oneself. I for one, cannot simply sit down and say, "Today I'm going to learn who I truly am." This would be perhaps a form of meditation. Maybe the people who do meditate can achieve this immediate state of self learning, I do not know. But for myself (and probably the average person of my young age) solitude in itself does not grant self-exploration.

When I am alone, I do think of many things, often in a fiery and eager state, but usually the ideas I explore are not of myself.

As an activity it may seem vain to sit and ponder one's own soul, and it can quickly lead to doubts and debates of the importance of one's existence, but this is not the dilemma of which I wish to speak.

So you may ask, what does inspire me to delve into the mysterious mountains of my true mind?

Usually, and ironically, it is the outer influence of other's ideals. But it's not the same obtrusive poison of which I spoke earlier. It is not the drop of pigment which, once mixed into the paint of one's soul, cannot be extracted. But it is more a dollop of paint set before you, so shiny that in the surface, a colour of your own soul is reflected.

I apologize if I've become too metaphorical. What I mean to say is that by hearing of someone else's opinions, I am often able to learn of my own. For example, in my reading of the first part of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde has already mentioned much about youth and beauty. He speaks of how Beauty is a form of Genius greater than Genius itself, for it is undeniable and divine. This is something that struck a chord with me. I realized that in my heart, I mostly agreed with his words. That physical beauty, of art, of animals, of humans, and appreciating it is an ideal that I hold dear and truly believe in.

To further explain that this is not something that I've simply absorbed from outward influence, I'll clarify what was attempted to be impressed upon me. The common people (people that I run into in my daily life) have often expressed emotions of hate toward the standards of beauty that we have today. And I have always disagreed. I think that fashion and photography is a modern way of appreciating the human form. And the widespread deliverance of these images of gorgeous people should not be scorned as harshly as it is. 

That is to say, I don't think that women or men should see themselves as unappealing if they're not a likening of the famous beauties. But the "perfect" people do give us something to strive towards, if we're so inclined. They should be seen as a form of inspiration for personal fitness, if one is needed, or at least as a living, human example of art.

The individuals are to be appreciated and celebrated, and not ridiculed for making physical beauty a priority. But enough, I forget myself. 

I hope you understand what I mean about the difference between influence and inspired self reflection.

Perhaps that's another reason why I watch so many films; I hope that some with start the trains of thought that lead me to learn about myself. Because our interpretations of art reveal more about ourselves than they do the works, or the creator of them.

I implore you to look deeper into yourself, and more often. Try to differentiate the seeds of ideas that are yours, and the buds that have been planted by those around you. Try to explore your uncharted terrains, and as you find the hidden coves and overturn each moss-covered rock, share it with the world. Convert what you know into art. Into pictures and books and paintings. Into conversations with friends. And hopefully, the consumers of your work are strong enough not to be influenced, but inspired.

The Oasis

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy seven

There is a place where no one goes

where winds are warm

and palm fronds grow

Beside a stream that glitters gold

and whispers things

that go untold

And drops of dew that grass blades hold

and buds are born

that don't grow old

Only two seasons touch the shores

from spring to summer

to spring once more

And the moon and sun have faces joined

each one a side

of spinning coin

But round this place lies seas of sand

dry and dead

the no-mans lands

and after sixty miles hence

there lies a guard

a concrete fence

A forest waits beyond the wall

with trees that watch

the sands in awe

They crowd and push and yearn toward

the paradise

the summer shores

But broke boughs bend with effort cheap

and bow, become

the willows weep

Can I Just Say?

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy six

excuse me for staring
  but can I just say
that women are rarely
  women these days
and the way your hair falls
  and your features of grace
are pleasing and perfect
  in all the right ways

your expression shows joy
  and your shoulders hold poise
and you prefer men
  to spirited boys
you have a way
  of using your voice
to scold and seduce
  and egos destroy

we've only just met
  but already I know
that I'm going to miss you
  as soon as you go
because Darling, my Dear,
  -May I call you those?
I've fallen for you
  I've lost all control

so follow me, come with me
  stay with me true
for something so lovely
  I could never abuse
I may end up broken
  I seem doomed to lose
but for a touch of your charm
  I'd happily bruise

it's eyelashes long
  and brows raised in arch
it's knowledge of Poe
  and your passion for art
it's the way that you walk
  with swagger and spark
it's all of yourself
  that's stolen my heart

I deserve nothing more
  than to be left behind
but I swear to you babe
  I'd stay by your side
I'll climb and I'll crawl
  and I'll gladly die
so you may walk forth
  and stay sweetly alive

excuse me for staring
  but can I just say
that women are rarely
  women these days
and the song of my soul
 I wish I could play
because you move so quickly
  as you walk away.

RANT: Loneliness and an Exploration of What Causes It.

This is a sort of continuation of off my last rant.

***

Lately I've taken to contemplating loneliness, what it means to really be lonely. You can have your family and friends and all that fun stuff, but you're always alone really. Other than the physical companionship of having someone sit next to you, maybe share their opinions with you, even make you laugh once in a while. Other than that, you really are alone. And even if you find someone to connect with, they have their own mind, their own thoughts and within that place they're alone too.

Anyways, I've been thinking about the feeling of loneliness, if it really is a feeling of despair, or if it's  technically being aware of being alone. Because we are, we are truly alone within ourselves, and so honestly we should be feeling loneliness all the time, should we not? Other than when we're with someone, but even then during a conversation you have your thoughts and you're thinking about something completely different or of the words you wish you really could say.

So the only time we're not alone is when two people are completely and honestly saying every thought that comes into their mind. But who does that? No one. People are too scared to say what they think and say what they mean and say what they feel, so we all end up bullshitting each other, and isn't that really the lowest of the low? I mean you start kidding everyone else and soon enough you're going to be kidding yourself too.

And then you're not just lonely, but you're delusional, you're a whole other level of lonely. When you can't even be honest with yourself and no one is honest with you, you're just surrounded by this world made of lies, just completely fucking made of lies, and who's going to break it? It's weird if some does right? It's like "What? You can't say that, you can't come here and just say whatever you want. That's not how society works, that's not how people work anymore, you can't have these urges, you can't want to beat somebody up, you can't just want sex for sex."

What kind of freak just admits that they want to break something? All of a sudden, everything that we were built for, every natural urge becomes completely unacceptable. We've created these lies and now the lies are the truth.  Like everybody wants love and relationship and has manners, and we're not allowed to kill, that's alright, but we're not allowed to talk about it? We're not allowed to talk about the urge to want to? It's fucked.

And now I'm the bad guy, because I'll admit that every once in a while I want to hurt something, I want to really fucking hurt something, and that's weird and that's wrong. When we we're meant to do that, we're violent creatures, we were meant to have anger. If we weren't it wouldn't Fucking exist. It's survival.

Although honestly there's been few out of all the times that I've wanted to destroy something that it was about survival, the rest of the time I just want to fucking do it. I just want to make something bleed because I'm fucking angry. Because it'll fuckin help me, cuz I will be happy. I just want to take something beautiful and shatter it every once in a while. And I think that's fine, that's normal, more people should do that, more people should at least confess that they want to do that.

Sometimes I just want to fuck something and I dont want to have to take care of it. I don't want a boyfriend all the time, I don't want to have to have this stupid emotional connection to enjoy physical pleasure, how is that something that we have made mandatory? How are two things that are so completely different, something that is so visceral like emotion, something that can be created on a whim that can be evoked with simple words, how can something like that have been made to be required so that something that is physical and tangible and real can happen?

We haven't made it so that you have to love or get to know your food to enjoy it. We don't even have to grow the food anymore, you can go out, get someone else to make it for you and all you have to do is enjoy it. No emotional effort, no six dates first, you just get immediate pleasure yet, that's completely ok.

Isn't really satisfying hunger just a physical thing? Isn't eating just a physical act that will result in an emotional response? Pleasure, flavours? Isn't sex then, in theory, just the same thing as having a really good piece of pie? All you're doing is something physical to gain an emotional satisfaction. And everyday people go out and indulge themselves in sweets and sours and salts and it's all fucking fine, but as soon as I want to go fuck somebody, oh that's immoral, that is a sin. I'm a whore and I'm a fucking skank. Well I accept myself and I'm honest.

And I don't know where I am anymore, I started off on loneliness.

I suppose it came down to lies really, and honesty, and how I just want to be honest all the time, but that's not allowed. And maybe that's why I'm lonely, is because I'm so honest. Because I try, I really do try to say what I think and feel, what I truly think and feel, not just a dumbed down and edited version of it. And because I'm the only person that I've met that does that, I'm extremely lonely.

That sucks, because that's the complete reverse of what I said loneliness was before, which was everyone lying and because we're lying to each other and lying to ourselves we've isolated our honest feelings. We've really isolated our souls, and we've trapped ourselves in these prisons of loneliness that have lies for bars, and outside of those bars are more bars that society has set up and that all of our friends have set up, so that even if we wanted to break through our cages of loneliness, there's everyone else's bars to go through.

And because I've broken through, (or mainly, still working on that), I'm lonely. Because once you get outside, there's no one else around, it's just a bunch of fucking bars. I look around and I see a big huge field of cages and every once in a while I'll see a hand reach out or I'll catch a glimpse through the bars at someone's true self, but suddenly a new bar comes because they see someone walking around, someone not in a cage and it fucking scares them.

Here I am in this valley of prisoners and everyone's all locked up inside their little cages surrounded by lies and I'm lonely and I'm outside and I'm waiting for someone else, for anyone else really. To just fucking get out, just break through, I'm not going to say it's not hard, it is hard, and you may lose friends but thats good, it means that you're moving forward. It means that you're slowly leaving behind all the other cages, and that's what I'm going to fucking do!

I'm going to keep moving and I'm going to walk forward, because I know that this big huge field, this plateau of all these rotten cages, this is not it, there's more. There is a place where there's people who are free, and they get to live in paradise and that's where I'm going. I'm going to break off my last few bars and I'm going to go there, and it's just going to be a whole group of people who are honest and true. I'm going to meet them, and we're going to share ourselves, like society has taught us not to.

I may be the only one right now, at least that I know of, but times are changing, and it's onwards and it's upwards, or it's jail. And I'm not going to stay here while everyone surrounds themselves with lies, and other people's lies and society's lies. I'm not going to do it, fuck that.

I know this sounds crazy, and you're probably thinking who the fuck does she think she is and why isn't she in a psych ward, but it's a metaphor god damnit! We all need to be more honest with each other, but mainly ourselves. If you want to break out of your cage, I want to know. I want to help, because honestly, I'm lonely out here.

RANT: Maybe I'm Fucked, Maybe You're Just Lying

Today one of the teachers at my film school said that often violence in films is gratuitous, meaning unnecessary, shocking and insensitive. She then praised on student film for being "the only one that didn't make [her] want to slit her wrists." She reprimanded us for using violence in a film, and then stood in front of us and made a suicide joke. And it's the fictional depiction of someone swinging a stick that's insensitive? Fuck that.

If people have the rights to attack and exploit every traumatizing event in the name of humour, then people should have the right to display violence and blood in the name of entertainment.

Is it not really the same thing? Making disturbing matters a source of enjoyment by taking away the negative connotations and consequences. Isn't it better to explore violence and pain through art and film than in reality?

I will confess, although I see it less as a confession, and more a statement of fact, that I enjoy violence. I like to see broken noses and bloody lips. I gain enjoyment, and sometimes even glee when I watch pain and destruction. Maybe it's fucked up, but for me, it's the truth. It's natural. I don't know if it makes me feel strong or superior or anything like that, and it's certainly not a form of sexual arousal, (though pain and pleasure can be as sweet a pairing as caffeine and nicotine.) it merely pleases me to see such things.

And as I sit here and think of it now, it seems to be quite exact events that bring such enjoyment. For instance, I don't like the slow, agonizing cuts drawn across flesh, not bones being cracked into smaller and smaller pieces, definitely not rape or pleas of pity. It's the more sudden, violent events that gain my reaction. Shot gun blasts to chests, 50 cal bullets that rip skull from spine in a splatter of blood. Curb stomps and whip cracks. Sword slashes. Explosions and fire and cries of rage as a hammer is swung into a skull.

Even as I write these things, I gain a sense of urgency, my pulse quickens, my adrenaline is awoken and I feel the urge to Hit something. HARD.

But I don't, and that's the human feature or practice or habit or form of surpression known as civility. One of the things that makes us human is our ability to control our emotions. But this act of "decency" is just that, an act. I am still an animal, I still have urges. My instincts still drive me to eat and fuck and honestly yes, kill. And if I can't express myself, if I can't release these urges through art, through film, then where shall I do it?

If violent videos seem too insensitive, maybe you suggest I should get out more?

These People Are Aliens

First, a big thanks to everyone who's stuck with me thus far.

I appreciate every word of feedback and encouragement, and to those of you who don't commend me but still read my material, fuck you. But also, and more importantly, thank you for reading, and I hope I inspire/help/disturb you in some way.

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy five

Today I spent way too long drawing some of my favourite movie characters as aliens.

Can you guess them all?

I'll give you a hint on the first one, it's not the Hulk.

A Below Average Sketch

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy four

smeh

The Hollow Diamond

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy three

The Hollow Diamond

It starts, as all things do, with Flaming Pride.

An ounce of courage in a crystal cup. Give me a Sex on the Street. A Dirty Debbie. Hit me with a Twisted Integrity, light me up a Neverland. That's a shot of Goldschlager with a line of Angel Dust. That's the dangerous one. That's my favourite.

The second one kicked back better than the first, and the third one even sweeter than that.

I was flying with gossamer wings that trailed a powdery galaxy with each beat. Your breathe was the cool of the ocean breeze on my neck, and carried a smell like crushed honeysuckle. Already I leaned closer, the tug of your essence a gravity of unfathomable depths. 

You filled the stool to my right. Tinkerbell hovered above my left shoulder, her slippered feet brushed my skin and she whispered terrible truths while I accused you with a glare. How dare you come and intrude on my flight? Net me like a butterfly mid-air.

Helpless, without stakes or silver to ward off the wolverine, I tried what I could to keep up my guard.

"Look!" Tink shouted, "Look what he orders!"

It was a Moulin Rouge. Absinthe with a tab of Ecstasy. Another of the dangerous ones. Another of my favourites. 

They served snacks here too. 'The Wonderland'; a mushroom cap with a bowl from the hookah. 'The Wardrobe' was a cocaine-covered cube of Turkish Delight. The only rule here was no needles. Stingers down the street was the joint for the junkies. Patrons at Grimm's had class.

"You were toxic tonight." The words left your mouth like ice rolling out of a tumbler. Cool and quick, with no evidence of ever being shaken up.

"Hey! Idiot! He's talking to you!" Tink's tiny tongue tore into my attention.

I ignored her. It was true, you had spoken to me. And a compliment at that. 

The last four nights of the week, Grimm's put on a show. Dancers and babes with lengthy legs and bold breasts pushed to impossible heights. The girls glittered and shimmered and made long-fed fantasies come true. 

The show opened with Red Riding Hood, hiding a bodice of crimson and thigh high boots that grandmother would not approve of beneath her velvet cape. Next, Thumbelina, a petite crowd pleaser with big eyes, small hips, and the flexibility of a twelve year old gymnast. Then out bounced Goldilocks, in all her big bosomed blonde babe splender. She performed every move three times. Once really fast, once really slow, and once just right. 

And then it was Alice. She danced under dilating disks of neon, her world a spinning, swirling show of sexuality. Her bright colours and trance music emptied pockets every night. 

Rapunzel reigned with her rope of hair, tying herself in knots and twisting her way down a braided pole. 

Odette was the serene show. She rocked and writhed her way from swan to starlette. Fellows with fetishes for feathers followed her features every friday. She soared across the stage in swoops of white and swishes of pearly ribbons that echoed the curves of her body.

Dorothy skipped out and made her way down the yellow-brick stage on hands and knees. Her six inch ruby slippers clicked together around the back of a man's neck, as he swore to her there was no place like his home. She would simply smile and state how upset Toto would be if she left. Toto being her 240 pound personal body guard.

Once the Little Mermaid was done splashing herself with suds, and after Little Bo Peep found some sheep with friendly wallets, it was time for the grand finale. Just after midnight, when Cinderella had to be home, I took over the stage.

Clad in a dress that was emerald green and glittering, the bottom cut into jagged teeth, and sitting at a height that didn't allow for decency. Bottle-blonde and bodacious like Bettie Page, I danced in a display of dreams come true. Tinkerbell, my public persona. 

Eyes green like Anti-freeze, and lips redder than raw steak. Pom-Poms on my eight inch pumps, wings that pulsed with my wild gyrations. 

I didn't do it for the money. I did it for the art. For the feeling of making someone's dream come true. When I was on stage I was the center of the world, and if I could take someone's mind off of the sad reality of the place outside of Grimm's, then I did my job properly. I was a living form of escapism. I danced to heal people, I performed to help. And tonight, according to you, I was toxic.

I had nothing to say. Usually gracious when given gratitude, I was unusually unnerved by your magnetism. And even though Tink was screaming in my ear about how good your hands would look wrapped around my neck, I ignored her and ordered a Hansel and Gretel. A shot of Fireball served with a gumdrop and a bump of MDMA.

Before I could pay, your slim, strong, and defined hand swept out a bill, and came back holding the candy. I was locked into your looks like a rabbit in a snare. You offered up the sweet, and we both took our neat little piles of pleasure with open eyes. My lips pushed apart by the probe of your fingers, feeding the sugary drop onto my tongue. Cherry. I chewed, every moment looking at you, every second edging closer to oblivion. We knocked back the cinnamon shooters.

It was terrible, your trickery.

Beautiful, perfect, poison.

Bliss in a bottle with death at the bottom.

Slipping and slurping and sucking 'til drunk.

I'll take a double cyanide on the rocks.

Triple arsenic, neat.

Serve me up a shot of mercury, with my heart as the garnish.

You are the exact man I need to avoid. With sorcery and spells and words slick with sin, it's easy to slip underneath your skin.

"I want to know you like no one ever has." Your voice, like honey over thunder.

It makes claims of love and passion, I see through the fancy phrases.

"I want to understand you. I want to be where you've been and feel all your bruises.

"Let me take your beatings.

"Let me take the stains of your sins and keep your silken soul clear."

Wild lies.

"I want to save you, I want to take you to paradise and dissolve your pain in the acid of my affection."

"He wants to save you!" Tink piped up, her wings beating a warm breeze on my neck.

Firstly, my fairy friend, he's lying, putting up a fiendish facade. And secondly, my slutty sprite, I don't need saving. I'm here because I want to be, this is my paradise, I perform in my own Utopia. 

I speak finally. "This 'silken soul' is not eligible for redemption."

I order a double Enchanted Forest. Gin and Vermouth with a drop of honey.

"Do you ever let anyone close?"

Not anymore. Using your black magic to read my thoughts, you say, "Who hurt you so bad?"

I sip on my drink. I will not just give in.

"Hey!" Tink, the naughty nuisance, whispered in my ear. "Just look! Look at his lips. Look at his mouth as he speaks. Oh if those aren't the most breathtaking lips I've ever seen. Isn't he wickedly handsome?"

Yes, he's beautiful. You have the ashen hair of a wolf, the sculpted mess of a man who attempts not to try. And those lips. Sultry and sinful, carrying the secret smirk of smugness.

"What happened to tear the hope from an angel? What cruelty was wrought upon you, to make you so solidly push aways all offers of devotion?" You spoke so sweetly of subjects you could not possibly know.

I watched your mouth move and wondered why we so easily get drawn to it. The sex and tricky devices of the lips are more tempting than the unforgiving facts so brazenly displayed in the eyes. While the eyes are the truth, the mouth is the liar. The thing that shapes the words of denial and utters the falsities of fibs. The sexual splender of the lips is a decoy to distract us. The way the soft pink lips of the speaker part ever so slightly to allow for a small slip of the tongue to wet the beds of desires. Lips that while they spew declarations of dishonesty, people imagine pressed to the base of their necks, or wrapped around their cock.

It's easy to believe the words of the devil when you're being showed the face of an angel.

And that's when I realized, you spoke pretty promises, and looked like a god among men, but you were nothing more than a hollow diamond, and I hadn't even checked for the wasteland in your eyes.

Push

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy two

Push

The red clay was dry beneath my feet. A hot dust which stole any moisture my skin held, leaving the heels cracked and crumbling like the cliff we stood near. Blistering winds raced in waves, tangling my hair and burning my cheeks. The sun beat down like a spiked club on my bare arms and legs. I clutched my shaking limbs around my naked body, hiding what little I could of the tender skin never usually bared to the elements. small pebbles and stones were gather by the fists of the wind and hurled at frightening speeds. The rocks tore at my pale flesh, puncturing and ripping so I was decorated with sticky stripes of crimson ribbons.

There was a girl in front of me. Her ruby hair was clogged with dust so it matched the dry colour of the dirt smeared on her calves. Her torso was slim and barren, like canvas stretched over iron bars. She looked right, and I saw her cheek was spotted with both freckles and blood. Her nostrils flared wildly, but her jaw was set firm in a vice of defiance. She didn't turn to look at me, and I was thankful our eyes never met.

Men; tall, broad, with eyes colder than frozen steel, even in the heat. They towered beside our line of nine, exuding authority and satisfaction. One barbarian with a burnt forest of hair used the barrel of his pump-action corpse strewer to shove the boy behind me. He whimpered and shuffled closer. I could feel his fear pressing on me like a brand to my back.

A piercing scream, a warbling cry of a soul being ripped from existence. It echoed across the area, bouncing and multiplying off quarry walls until twenty different women were calling to the heavens.

The line shuffled forward, and a sob muffled behind a raw-palmed hand escaped the foremost of the line. That was the last sound to be uttered from the child up front.

I was two away now. My knees shook, and my teeth gnawed at the meat of my bottom lip. I could taste blood and dust and the unbearable flavour of death. He was here, the devastating figure wearing a cloak made of darkness itself. I could feel him gliding close, his eyes the definition of nothingness, his mouth a hungry maw of ink that lead straight to the belly. His presence cut into my heart like the blade of his scythe itself was dug through the sinew in my chest.

The reaper had distracted from the removal of the foremost member of the line, and I received a blow from the shotgun to catalyst my movement forward. The hit was accompanied by a sharp crack, and the air escaped from my lungs. I ignored the broken rib and shuffled forward, a shattered toenail caught the side of a stone, the edge of which dug into the raw flesh of the nail bed.

I was close to her now, but not as close as she was to the edge. Her brick coloured hair buffeted into my face, and I smelled the faintest hint of wild strawberries. The tiniest sliver of evidence of a life which once contained freedom.

I swallowed quickly, trying to breathe deeply, but it was as though death was a vacuum which stole only the oxygen I needed. There was another jab to my ribs, and I felt the bone bend inward even more.

I brought my trembling hands away from my body, and rested them on her sharp shoulders. The edge of the cliff loomed before her, and she faced straight ahead, her eyes to the sky. I tensed up, preparing. Quickly, so it lasted only a second, she brought her hands up to mine, and I felt her fingers squeeze slightly, with the only strength she had left. It was a fleeting contact, a stolen goodbye, a secret thank you.

And then I pushed her.

thoughts

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy one

thoughts

Winter came fast.

The ice and cold swept over everything faster than I've ever seen. It seemed to be a matter of hours. Whatever warmth had been birthed by the short-lived spring was quickly eaten by the frosty bite of winter. Seasons of four seem to be a thing of myth. What happened to the days of summer? Where did the sweet heat of the fiery sun escape to?

Have the gods of summer been forever conquered by the spirits of winter?

I missed you for a while. I dreamed of the scorching blaze of well-lit days. But fantasies fade faster than photographs, and memories are merely mazes of escape. Facades of falsities. I choose not to get lost in them anymore, thinking of summer does not make it come any sooner.

If thoughts were things then I'd have wings and you'd burn brighter than hell. The mysteries of seasons unseen are cases for someone other than me. To delve into the diaries of danger, to read into the memoirs of fear, perhaps would bring an understanding of things, but leave the taste of insanity. I'd know you well if scars were to tell the stories they hold beneath sinew and bone, but these are the haunts of ages. When past and abuse are written uncouth, it's the present that loses all meaning. So wander not into the maze of fate, for finding your way is impossible when there is no end to be found.

I can be close to you without knowing you, and I can learn of you without touching you. But the stories of summer don't let you feel the heat of the sun.