The Nightmare

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty five

The Nightmare

I was one in a group of one hundred. We all sat in a row, reclined and immobile in padded seats. Like asylum theater chairs. To my right, a lovely girl, frightened and downy soft, my closest friend. She stared straight above her, like we all did. Dozens of faces upturned, waiting for their moment of reckoning. And above us, gliding silently, an assembly line of faces parallel to our own, but these were eyeless and alabaster. Male mannequins without features. They faced downward, identical and blind, looking for one of us that was different.

From the left, the endless assembly approached. A single head, humming with omniscience, bore down on us. He seemed to see, to smell, to sense our souls. With each person he passed, he gained life, spirit energy, leaving behind a trail of downtrodden faces, suddenly aged and empty; leafless trees in the frost.

He was three spots-two spots-right next to me. His square jaw pushed into my vision. Time slowed. But no, it was the line that slowed as he came to a stop. But not above me. I was not pure, not unique. No desire for my individual sameness.

It was her, my soul mate. He, hovering above, she, nearly drowning in her own tears. His face aglow with the supernova hidden within her. From behind where his neck should have been, two silky, translucent obtrusions pushed forth. The amoeba-like apparitions moved through the air as if it were water. Floating and wavering, five probes formed on each tube. They stretched and squirmed and saturated the air with their coolness. Longer and longer, like hovering strings of saliva, they took the alien form of disjointed fingers.

The pointed tips yearned forward, and my love screamed with their closeness. Her lips trembled and eyes shook in their sockets, leaping around as though to escape her skull. Stretching, spreading, multiplying and morphing, the hands crept forward, swallowing the space by inches and inches and one inch more- I ripped the air open with a lung-burning NO. And stunned, the fingers hung over her skin, her lashes flung wide as she stared into sin.

Slowly, so slowly, like the turn of his head was stretching time itself, the head curved in my direction. His blank face uncannily echoed everyone I had ever known.

Though unmistakably an attempt at a human, he was just as clearly the child of science and hell. Made from something too white, and too stiff, movements too smooth and visage without definition except- When had that appeared? He had a mouth, a horizontal oval of red, with a rectangle of black in the center. And it was two-dimensional, so from the from it was wide and flat, but if he had turned sideways it might seem not to exist at all. 

The track glided backward, his face keeping a direct line with mine, turning as he came above me. He held his ghostly gelatinous arms out threateningly to the sides, long fingers quivering with excitement.

His rounded mouth split sideways. The top half moved right, and the bottom, left. The motion revealed new shapes, three connecting triangles, black, violet and orange. These too slid away to show the sharp corners of violent green and cancerous yellow squares. His skinny appendixes stretched forth, touching either side of my face. Long, knobbed and slick, the icicles slid down my cheeks and coolly caressed my neck. Colder and colder the creepers became, until I could barely feel them. So distracted was I by the design of colours above me that I almost didn't notice his hands were halfway down my back. My lungs seemed to crystallize, each shallow breathe sounding out with a crackle of ice.

The slithering nitrogen caressed and conquered my lower back, spreading flat around my kidneys. The face was a mess of geometric shapes, still spinning in a random trance. They slowed their movement as the ice spread around my spine, and snapped into a final position when the knives dug into my back. A face formed by dyes above me, two wholes left for no eyes. The tender flesh between my ribs and hips was pierced with heads of frost like daggers seared with the temperature of dark matter. Deeper and upwards the scepters where thrust, icing and cutting their way through my innards into my torso and up to my chest. The hands of the devil would be welcome candles compared to this nightmare. He hooked each crooked finger around my heart, and with one fatal snap, severed all of the veins, and sinew and life that connected my soul to my body. 

All that was left was a beast with a mask, clutching my heart in its hands.

The Valley

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty five

The Valley

They come here and fall in love. The sweet young things, swept away by the sun and the sands and the cool dollar signs. Here their youth seems justified, matched and rewarded with the vitality of the lake and the immortality of the sky. Cradled on all sides by mountains and swathed in the blanket of summertime, these girls, these tight bodies and bountiful smiles, they are swallowed here, in the valley.

As they fall through Autumn, memories of the months before blur the descent. The trip is drowned out by a sweet cacophony of downy brown leaves stirred by crisp winds which freeze the dedicatedly bare legs. 

Too distracted are they to notice that Summer has left without them. Dead is the season of their content, and with a wakening thud these buxom beauties land to spend Winter in the belly of the beast. Living, no, surviving year after year. Each passing Winter steals a little more of their youth, and a lot more of their happiness until they are left as icy and bitter as the season itself.

What of Spring? you ask, ah that inspiring time when Lady Earth blossoms into a Mother. Her children sing songs of glacier dew in morning-piercing melodies. That triple time, three months in a row, hopping lightly along with a tip-tip-tip toe. A command of movement given to two young lasses like "March, April May!" The wonder of which is not wasted on this pit of sagging skin and menthol cigarettes. No, springtime is welcomed, for it in turn welcomes the arrival of new slender does, budding with breasts and flowering while they still have a rose to grow. 

Cradled and cooed at then cat-called and crowded, quickly captured and caught up by vultures and hounds. Handsome purebreds though aged, their wallets are plump, and fat appetites are starving for fresh little cunts. See what song has been made by such a morbid routine? The murder of youth by the promise of green. Say goodbye to your soft skin, and goodbye to your dreams, for it's here they are swallowed by the valley, The Queen.

Snow to Honey

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty four

Snow to Honey

I saw myself walking down a street at the peak of midnight. That hypnotic time when Mother reigns, moving free and ethereal in her commanding hush of darkness. It was in this transcendent space that I wandered, soaked by the liquid moonlight, penetrated by the silver glow of that oversized stone. 

Bare foot by bare foot, I made my way through a quiet village, a place abandoned by God and forgotten by Lucifer. Cold cobblestones warmed by my heat, still air stirred by the sway of my arms. Waking from a long slumber, this personified mystery, this lost locale of intertwining elements. I walked on the line between worlds, I balanced on the equinox.

Nude, my lustrous skin repelled the gloom. Lithe limbs gliding in arcs, winding and writhing, carving trails of diamond-dust into the air, leaving behind a wake of suspended galaxies. They rotated slowly, giving off glints of the secrets of the universe while the miniature stars swirled in hypnotic eddies. The worlds were shaped by the curve of my hips and the sway of a shoulder. An eyelash dropped and fell to the earth, blooming into an ivory vine upon contact with the stoned pathway. It crept up the bricks of a boarded up home, blossoming every few feet into a gossamer petaled lily.

I watched myself move, and observer of my own body. At once seeing my motions as well as feeling the sky breathe upon my skin. An illuminated creature, all alabaster and cream. A crown of frosted leaves was woven into the lengths of pearly silk that was my hair. It flowed in rivulets, pouring around my shoulders and crashing in great milky waves down my back where it swept to a finish on the sweet arch of my bared upper thighs. The twists and curls wound wildly down to their glitter-giving ends where the ivory locks evolved into a deep shade of gold. A great gradient from the mid-length to tip, of cloud to sun, snow to honey.

Whispered and worshipped I walked through the grave of a village, one foot leading to another to give life back to the purgatory. Showing the undead that there is a matter betwixt the stars, and though it may be dark, it can still be touched by the light.

Still

Dear Everyone;

You must all be hoping for a story of how I got caught up in a two month long venture wherein I was captured, trained, fucked and loved and abandoned, and in the end found myself Queen of a kingdom full of ogres and nudists. God, lower your expectations a little. 

I simply had no inspiration. 

Why, you most likely didn't ask?

Because I was too damned happy. My life was simply delightful. I had two weeks off, full of novels and sunshine and vector cereal. Nothing to complain about. NOTHING to write about. And no, I couldn't have written about how happy I was, and definitely NO I don't get inspiration from sunshine or breakfast foods or little kids with face paint on, (that's Canada day, from what I remember, also too many flashes of Hello Kitty accessories for a mid-sized canadian town full of white people, but bitches love overpriced kittens with bows.) so really there was nothing to do but suffer through my blissful existence, contemplating the unimportant questions like Why some authors keep their middle initials, and How long it would take Usain Bolt to get me a coffee and When did I get that bruise?

So upset had I been that I hadn't written in forever that I got into a state of sadness for just long enough to allow me to think above the sea of trivial tasks and actually write something. It's not an epic or anything, but it's more words than cereal.

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty three

STILL

Your words capture me

and kill me

Glistening, untouchable

like gasoline rainbows

Suspended in space

You're voice, still here,

not echoing, but constant

Sounds unending

Respect,

             found,

                       new.

Newfound respect for you.

For me.

You told me once.

And I believed.

                        Believe

Still believing

                     Still listening

Reassuring in it's boldness

Hovering around still

            Not still, but moving

   Always never still.

Caught, preserved, but true.

        Happening now

        Happening always

Forever is right now.

Right now is forever.

drowning in a gasoline rainbow,

           I believe