The Sound Inside Oneself
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“The next day brought death and judgment, stirring his soul slowly from its listless despair. The faint glimmer of fear became a terror of spirit as the hoarse voice of the preacher blew death into his soul. He suffered its agony. He felt the death chill touch the extremities and creep onward towards the heard, the film of death veiling the eyes, the bright centres of the brain extinguished one by one like lamps, the last sweat oozing upon the skin, the powerlessness of the dying limbs, the speech thickening and wandering and failing, the heart throbbing faintly and more faintly, all but vanquished, the breath, the poor breath, the poor helpless human spirit, sobbing and sighing, gurgling and rattling in the throat. No help! No help! He—he himself—his body to which he had yielded was dying. Into the grave with it. Nail it down into a wooden box the corpse. Carry it out of the house on the shoulders of hirelings. Thrust it out of men’s sight into a long hole in the ground, into the grave to rot, to feed the mass of its creeping worms and to be devoured by scuttling plump-bellied rats” —James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
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Not Now John
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Confessions I have forgotten how to write. These words can twist and mingle into anything; beautiful, raw, addictive like the taste of ash. I am an artist with an offset canvas, who is tired of only words, who wants to feel more than life—to seduce the reader into something real. Dreams are the Novocain that gets me by some days, and these are my dreams which I offer up for sacrifice, escaping the floodgates of my fingers. I want to fight against the trends and morph this Adam into my own revival. Is that possible today?
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numb look at the ocean above us— wild, the clouds clench together, holding its poise to give us the comfort that’s been missing. to free us of the belief that every jackal is a curse; that the right verse and the right prescriptions allow us to breathe. and though the west is slowly closing, the damned have never received such relief as it holds their cries, cradling them—building a wall around the history they carry. the clouds release, letting out a sigh; out of the solemnity its breath reaches the ground. we don’t dream often enough.
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Symbols I put our marriage in my palm, clasped them together and shook it all over this world. Someone always thought that it was glass which forced my hands to bleed so fiercely, but the stigmata on my skin is only a small symbol of love. Each week there is a new natural disaster. It’s just the world dancing the jitterbug against our backs—the oceans glow against the stars at the midnight mass of these palms. I still grab branches from the trees at night, allowing the bark to lash against my wounds, just to see the stars shimmer. Just to feel your heart pulsate against the cracks of my hand. The heart is the greatest gift you could ever give a person, but it is nothing compared to the marks I carry after lifting the soil from a pilgrimage my heart had been dreaming of since the dance had begun. Dreaming only passes the time and I can fill pages of the minutes that have been tossed out my window, and have been 6
greeted at my door. Time is greedy of us; never allows for the healing, but the gashes leave anyway. Sometimes they give scars but they never hurt. They only help me remember the world I am prone to forget. A world in which the love songs only have so much love to give, and there’s not a soul in it that doesn’t wish for them to be true. Against their feet I take our marriage into my palms and I shake it up with my own tattered twist and shout, because I only want to see what oceans can make a star glow when it escapes us; what natural disaster I can dive into and still walk up to the world and show that the songs were just songs, even though there’s nothing wrong with a memorable tune, there is still rapture that we can hold onto.
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Sincere
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Solace i placed stems in a cup filled with water, set it underneath the moon, and hoped for a leaf to grow. they have never needed love more than a heart living on grease and morphine before, but they are lost. they have sacrificed their roots from the earth and their bones have become brittle from the fall. the stars are flashlights for the misplaced spirits. lives only wanting to return back to the solace but are afraid of what is there to welcome them; and though my stems suffer they have already jumped into the caverns. i tried to drown myself once. the water caressed my heart as i stopped breathing, but i could still hear the waves rowing against the tabs of my spine until sand clotted against my skin—love was etched along my body when i awoke. the stems, the spirits, all wrote love on their bellies, followed the stars like i followed the waves. aimlessly. we had all heard the same thing that took us too far. the same words that turned our bones to ash—sometimes love is the one who’s wrong.
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Don’t Drink the Nicotine Jared has always been taught that family is the strongest bond he’ll ever know. That he is loved for being alive, but he is not all too familiar with the changes in contracts that can be made. So at night he looks up into the sky and wonders how weak the irons are between himself and the rest of the household. He pours his blood into pages of unpublished journals, caressing their bindings like the flowers he’ll never touch because he doesn’t know how. Sometimes, words are empty like the freeway at two in the morning where your eyes can’t see anything save for the window from the headlights. Darkness is supposed to be empty, quiet—dreary—but sit inside long enough and you can hear the sins it takes on its back for every broken soul without a voice. It’s only a martyr for the lost—light only a savior for the living when we have not yet fully awakened. But enlightenment is still a distance away. I love you is food poisoning for the body, but the pain is worth it ‘cause there is not a person on this earth who can’t perform open-heart surgery to stop our hands from trembling, and release the love we have all been desperately searching for. He is a typewriter no one could ever fix; emotions, cracks, mistakes flurried onto soaked pages of misunderstandings. Jared is still learning that some hearts are only muddied up by polluted swamp water, and that forgiveness is only a few steps forward out of the murkiness, but leaves the past open. There’s still so much that can be said. Jared pummels through pages of nicotine-filled nights, the yellow stains stacking up higher than the sky, but he’s never afraid of how the stars feel because they’re the only acceptance he has ever known. And that’s all he wants before he lights another match. He still burns himself at night; the sticks are only a few inches away.
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Simple there were days I could not breathe. like the dreams, they left me frozen— waiting for a home that is not sealed inside a kiss. I put a flower inside a soda bottle, filled it with water and placed it inside the window. it still burns like the day I bought it. water can make anything grow. make anything breathe, even for a moment as it warms my hands; the ice cleansed away. such are the simple things.
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the sound inside oneself there never were enough poems written to make the dead feel loved; to make her arms stop bleeding, praying for her bones to be different. revolutions are too quiet; too mellow from the bullets, not hard enough to stop him from jumping. crawl through their ashes and spray paint what the dead so desperately needed before they were pushed so far out that the cliff never existed; before all the love had left their faces. sometimes the revolt starts with the sound inside oneself.
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Revival it was nostalgia the day you picked up this vagabond, and allowed me to hitch a ride like a photograph in your back pocket. we were a revival not yet heard. had our own dance against our own gospel hymns, and we knew all the good moves. made it so righteous not a damn soul could say no. you placed a bullet in my chest. i turned it into a seed and gave you the flowers after they grew. the colors never fade when the days are so right. somewhere there's a revolution happenin' and they're playing our romance because it's the only one that's not cheesy yet. i tossed a molotov into the sun because i couldn't see you under the moon last night; kissed you on your cheek as the light touched your face. the morning was never so alive.
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Supersaver
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Mourning It's awkward really; sitting in the passenger seat and riding on back-roads that connect to back-roads. Pest control hasn't changed. It still hangs there against the rotting wooden pole. One wonders if anyone ever notices, but bare trees have always left a few in awe amongst fields kept greener than spring. his hands could only hold a handful, and there's only a handful of problems that can be shelved into a library of quarters. The shimmer always dims before the dreams start to overflow. They fill boxes— so much dust in such a small space. Give a dime to hold them off. Though a dime is never enough, it is still something when never enough is all there is to give. It'll grow into a quarter one day—how the dreams brush the grass before the morning. The tips of their fingers only feel like fire as they nurture the earth. It only keeps the nightmares away. 15
Home I tossed a rock into a field, soaking from the rain; wanted it to return but it only skipped along to the next town. I pulled up the soil. Got my hands filthy as I dug a trench into the clotted grass, and called it my home. I was never going to see it again.
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Ain’t Workin’ No More After sliding a credit card down the crack of her ass, she took his cigarette and jammed it tight against his right eye; stuffed a dollar bill in his mouth and said, “tuition costs more.”
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Fire soak me in kerosene, light me on fire and watch me drown before I burn. our bodies shake and squirm together violently, as the fire grows in rhythm. we must have danced all night; hands touching, grabbing, caressing each other. but we never said a word.
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Forgiveness he draws a heart in the palm of his hand every day; thrusts it out, shows it to the world and says, “see, we’re not so different, you and I”
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Pilgrimage his voice grasped my spine and spun me so far that i had lost sight of the world— not able to breathe after the dust was shaken off my eyes. he escaped the dream ages ago, ran off, desperately seeking blessings from the muses. the heart had never felt so heavy before, but his pilgrimage had ended, and though his scars lay against his skin, like a roadmap to the novel of his tongue, his garden had finally produced the flower he had begged for.
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the days that i heard your voice the vivacity pulled back my ears, trudging silently as if a breeze through the holes of my jacket. soothing, a nirvana not yet reached, drowning in an ocean of lizards— the bitter taste never leaving your words such persuasion
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The Day I Saw You If you’re reading this, then you’ve found me; washed the bottle dry from the ocean’s salt, and wriggled me out from the glass that I have been trapped in for a few lifetimes. Take a moment—a small breath, and understand what I have to offer. The waters can only soothe the aches for so long, even as they take you to the edge of heaven. Miracles are few, but I’ve never felt warmer than the moment you etched yourself along the glass of my shell. How extraordinary that we’ve met.
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Whispered Exhaustion Let it breathe like poetry, grow from hands and pen and paper bundled for pure admiration, crafted in time. Receives our praise, our Critique. Let it kiss the words like poetry romances them on a daily enigmatic basis. See it run rampantly in the open, begging for the truth in love songs—if truth was ever there, amidst a glowing inspiration. Hear it laugh on morning walks by the gallery opening with us or at us, meaning lost or regained, becoming notes from the air. Give it a chance and its own personal history. Let it shake the dirt from the shoulders of concrete and make its presence known. Watch it live like poetry, foundation being the hardest marrow—a wondrous echo in a charismatic earth. Let it be valued.
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Waiting for Our Ears to Listen I pulled a feather from my ear, plucked its spine into a stem and waited for the petals drip onto the floor. Magic is not always love. It can only grow so much; only so many wings can it hold in before it can feel its dreams, drape its fingers across those faces as they listen to its songs about the innocent—the desperate who are lost; who no longer hold onto hope because their ears had gone to sleep. I placed a hand over your heart, for I had wanted to hear your rhythm; I have been dreaming for too long, and my ears are growing small.
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Wandering
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Competition Pandering is a bitch when the sun is angry. Eggs no longer fry in the asphalt, but sweat from the body steams as it collects in a pool beneath the cracks. He stands at the street corner, waving at the traffic—sometimes dancing to get the slightest attention. His sign mingles and twirls amongst the scratching noises of tires against concrete, buzzing hums and clicks of new and lemon automobiles. On few occasions his work is slightly paid off with a few quarters, dimes, nickels, and a huge weight in pennies; though there are the rare events when the human soul is nice enough to toss a dollar to him. She sat across from him, her eyes leering at every jerk, squat, jump and dance move he could think of as she took large breaths from her cigarette. This was her country. Before the entertainment marched in, she ruled every little weed through the cracks of that street corner. Queen B, “Queen Mothafuckin’ B.” Her eyes grew fierce as her pile of change was low. It seemed the Wal Mart of the homeless had finally come to smoke her off of her throne. Queen B jolted up from her the edge of the sidewalk, stabbing her cigarette into the ground as she lifted her body righteously. Her feet dug into the street as she walked across to greet him, the cars stopping in her grace. She grabbed the man by his collar, punching him in the stomach. The groans hurled from his mouth as his body tensed and jolted forward. “Listen mista, you doin’ this work too fast. Givin’ people like me, hard workin’, a bad rep.” The man started to collect himself, his eyes staggering into his normal vision, no longer blurring out the faces or streets in front of him. He slowly started to raise himself, taking heaves 27
of breath as the pain throbs against his body. “At least I’m honest, lady,” he responded dryly, his hand pointing to her sign which told the world she was very sick and she needed help. God Bless was always a nice touch to a largely religious population. Queen B grew furious as she drove her hand across his face, leaving a few minor scratches along his cheek. He turned back to her, letting the sun smooth and caress the stings, “I’m not homeless, and I never was. I’m only broke.”
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Martyrdom I can’t believe you came in my hair. Here I am, working hard for you, making sure you are taken care of and all your needs are met and you go and mess up this hair. You, are one dumb son of a bitch; and yet you just expect me to be silent. Fuck no. I spend too much time on my hair, my appearance, to make your happy. I put countless of environmentally threatening hair products that some rabbit has used, and that I spend hundreds of dollars on because I want to look a little nice for my man but no, you fuckin’ jizzed in my hair, and I will tell you now that I am too high class to have some cheap ass bastard like yourself, ruin a good thing for me because you like to get a little messy. Darlin’ I don’t do messy. I am not a whore, and I am not asking for a favor. This ain’t the day to make it rain, and I don’t see any ones piling up in my waist, but I guess that doesn’t concern you, because why should you have to pay for a good thing when you can get it for free well let me tell you something mister cheap ass, I don’t deal with freeloaders in my home; people who choose to disrespect my fuckin’ appearance because they got little too happy. You coulda came in my eye, but bitch you came in my hair and that is the ultimate sin for which god strikes people down for because he knows how valuable a good hair style is. Even Jesus had 29
long hair. Look, see? He’s out there right now mowing the grass, hair as long as it could ever be…I wonder what his secret is. I imagine it’s the alcohol, but that’s another matter. Look, if you want to keep me happy you listen real quick, because I don’t fuckin’ play when it comes to my hair. It is the immaculate fucking god of fucking patience. It is the divine! Don’t you ever think you can fuck up a hair style like mine because ima do you like everyone else should have done you, my hair is more important than your merciless dick. Get out! And let me tend to my first love.
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Awake
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Morning Where shall I wander beneath this lazy waking sky, tinting a purplish glow? The leaves all scattered, wearing proudly their morning coffee, affectionately forcing me to stir this plastered green tea—the thing they now envy out of naturally glowing loss. My footsteps mark a badly paved road, leaving their invisible, shattered cells on the hot asphalt. The papers, wrapped in yellow, await their master's presence to deliver yesterday’s news. My neighbor, the early riser, waves to me, the insomniac. Always a kind brutality on his face. We all have secrets, and sometimes it is best never to know. I trail along to the next street over, more leaves pile in ditches, making the trees a defenseless beggar drowning in the winter. But she is not yet here.
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Grace he touched her spine, cradling a new note as his hands arched along the curve of his lover’s back. Her body lay against him slowly coiling around to meet him amidst the sun. she, was his obsession—the novel etched around his ring finger after she padlocked him in her asylum; hips could never break a man so quickly. hell was never for children but for him who can forgive though never allow himself the smile of forgiveness. her bones were an orchestra waiting for the gasoline to come alive; his brittle fingers only scratch at her surface before the fire never starts.
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take the rise out of my sunset tattoo fingers on my chest to cover the gashes from the day i stopped believing in miracles—my bones were too different, and for every year of color brought another burn to my skin because i never wanted to change. sometimes the heart is too shy to meet the earth waiting to greet it underneath this body. take my ashes and toss them into the lawn seats of the next big rock concert because they’ve had too much coffee to be drowsy. let the people twist and stumble over my spine, helping me to lose sight of the world. we are all jumping for an answer, only we don’t speak the same language as the sky; thunder can only grace our ears before a few more souls are mourned because they lost their vibrance. someone forgot to tell them that some days you have to plunge into the ecstasy to see where the love had escaped to. some of the body bags we carry have too much weight in their hearts. guilt is only a verb if you let it be, and there are days where we all wish that it could be, for being good is only a part of life; being whole, is the ability to experience it.
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Patience
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Patience never had to know God to keep the bruises from hurting.
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I Burned the Bridges to Heaven Only those who still have hope can benefit from tears. — Nathanael West, The Day of the Locust The room was filled with the smell of cakes and pastries, as well as coffee. Plates and silverware clanked together voraciously as the people around them ate their sweets and discussed the normal politics of the day. “Bachman said what? Still they protest? We should be thankful for what?” The bakery was practically a historical monument of its own sitting through all the historical changes that have happened in its tiny block. It has seen marches and influential people plow through; People protested then, much like they protest right now. Of course, it was never New York, but each state “must be occupied” as they said on the news and internet podcasts. Nevertheless, The Modern Day Delilah has lived, and it continues to breathe as much life into the cracks of that corner as much as the influential gods of television. Social politics grew and changed over the years, some people never did but there are always a few who never return. Her tables never empty and her customers rarely denied her the grace of attention. There were her regulars, the lovers in a turbulent world; the spiteful in a lovesick world—they rarely mingled amongst each other. Special tables were set up for special customers, and the bakery loved its modern regulars such as the singer. Her voice never left the walls of her favorite morning delight. So remembered by the staff they gave her a special on the menu. The Modern Day Delilah will be hushed the day she never returns. But her voice will never leave, as much as her elegance which always matched the words she sang daily. 37
How it lavished in the lines she sang as they graced the walls and the ears of the people. Such a world would never be the same without them—without her! Such is the life, and somehow the bakery knew its old regulars would return in some way. It would just have to be a surprise, much like the special of the day, which was never a standard delight. Delilah knew her share of love. From the first timers, the know-it-alls, the together forever but tomorrow forever ends groups all loved the bakery, and frankly Delilah loved them. They were her own soap opera, only a better deal than the sleazy television nonsense she had to make her customers sit through sometimes. She has heard and seen everything there is to world of love and then watched it create a new world in a rapture it has not yet experienced. “Larry was nothing more than an invalid dear. He had no style, no sense in this world at all. He was nothing like you, Derrick” the words rolled viciously from the squirrel’s tongue. Jay carried a black shine to his coat of fur, and from his chin to the neck of his shirt one could tell he had a blue under belly. His hazel eyes grew into the usual dreamy “I love you more than the world” look as his hands wrapped around the black hands of the raccoon sitting across from him. They slid up to Derricks auburn arms for a moment and he let out a faint smile. Jay was never the one. In fact, to Derrick, Jay presented himself to be sort of creepy. He was the kind of clingy guy who would follow your every footstep like a ninja at night, waiting for you to come home and becoming jealous of any single person who looked their way. He attached himself to the raccoon as he rubbed Derrick’s arm for a moment. Derrick’s body began to tense up as he realized the situation could get 38
much worse, maybe not at that moment, but progressively worse if given the time. He could just imagine the squirrel’s lovesick eyes darting at every scrap of fur he left behind, and here at this coffee table, it needed to end. Jay was like all the rest he had met, and Derrick still holds the scars from a couple of mistakes. He inched back a little bit and diverted his eyes to the table top thinking of how Jay was going to react when he gave him the message to go away. His hands had never been touched so gently before. Derrick could almost feel the love pouring through Jay’s fingers as they rocked back and forth. It took him back to Andre, a wolf who had left so many bruises on the raccoon’s past that Derrick had forgotten that the sun also rises. Jay’s touch brought back the smell of sterilized hospital rooms. The beeping of the monitors synchronized with the clanking of the silverware. He could hear the machine now, making sucking noises as it pumped air. Derrick closed his eyes and he was back in the bed, waking up to find a silver and white wolf staring at him. It held nothing; Andre’s eyes were empty as they watched Derrick slowly wake. “Thought I had lost you,” the wolf said as he laid his hands on the raccoon’s, the same loving touch as the squirrel. “Derrick?” his name echoed in the room but no one was speaking. The wolf was silent. “Derrick? Are you okay?” The raccoon blinked once and he was back at The Modern Day Delilah, Jay sitting in front of him though only holding a small card. “Listen, I have to leave now, but maybe we can do this again sometime. Here’s my number,” the squirrel said nervously as he dropped it on the table. From his pocket Jay’s phone began to ring and he flung it out while walking towards the door. Derrick sat back in his chair and watched the squirrel jump out into the winter weather falling from the sky. From 39
outside you could hear people singing Silent Night, their notes swept across the sidewalk as they heaved their voices through the cold. The Christmas month had begun. The carolers were out, on time as usual on the first of December. The raccoon’s coffee was getting cold now. He left some money on the table and slid on his grey hooded sweatshirt, walking out into the snow. He looked up at the sky for a moment, and then began walking up the street. Away from Andre, he had hoped. This was New Jerusalem for the raccoon. His freedom, his escape—everything he could hope for all bunched into one small rubber ball, bouncing up and down. And still the ever growing need to look behind him, over his shoulder in fear of the past, which had vanished years ago, would be standing right there as if to say, “How’s the patient today?” There were no angels there, and he never achieved such a holy status. He was merely a mediocre thirst to be called on whenever he was needed. That was all the past now, a photograph he could look back at and smile, or weep as he put it back in a box closest to his heart because one day Derrick will open it, and everything he saw then, sees now and may see soon will have changed. But the spirits will twist in his stomach until then. They will sing, and dance as he moans to forget that he was never born until he left the cage of a thirst. Spirits are never a matter of forgetting, nor are they a matter of remembrance. They’ve no memory in this life, or even the next. It is only the ones they haunt that the remembrance of the past is given to them. Derrick shuffled into his apartment, escaping the awkward date if one was to call it that. He leaned his back 40
against the door, laying his head on its surface, as if he was catching his breath, but he felt no fatigue. The cold was forced to retreat as the warmth of his home pushed it back, heating up his body he had to throw off his sweatshirt. The lights were all off, and he sat there in the solemnity of the passing. His legs felt damp for a moment. They were cold and swishing around as if he were in a pool. His body quivered as he stood there in the darkness, legs cold and wet. His hands dropped down to feel what it was that covered him, and as if his hand was lashed by the cold force he snapped it back and waited for the pain to numb away. It was liquid he felt, as if it were an ice cube melting in his hands, the water swishing in his palms, and he was immersed in it. Derrick placed his hand along his front pocket. The raccoon rubbed his thumb along the outline of what is a small tin box. The box was everything to him. He carried it wherever he went, taking in life with it, only taking what he needed— never indulging in any more than necessary. He stole a bit of life every day, and felt that maybe he’d learn that it was more precious tomorrow than it was the moment he picked it up. He rubbed his thumb along the outline as the liquid around him began to rise, slowly starting to drown his waist and soon the box in his hands. Derrick pulled it out, stared at it, and opened it up. When he looked up from the box he saw he was standing in water, a cold stream sloshing around his legs. There was a mild confusion inside him, but it was subsided by the box as he looked at it again. As if he were holding his own child he cradled it in the palms of his hands. He didn’t move in the water, just stood still and facing its current. He took his fingers and reached inside the box, lifting something out. It was thin like a sheet of paper, folded neatly and slightly faded yellow. He began to open it, seeing a small bit of ink. A smile trudged 41
across the raccoon’s face as he began to remember what the ink was. “Where’ve you been?” a voice interrupted him. His body began to tense up, afraid of the voice. It held in it a small piece of spite, its tongue lashing out with chains. “I asked you a question, where have you been?” Derrick flashed his head around the area, the water no longer surrounding him. It was his apartment that held him captive as he stood there silently watching a speck of fur appear. It was Andre! The past stood right there in front and there was no angel to save him in this cage. The raccoon could not move; only stand in the quiet of the room, fearful of what Andre would do to him. The wolf jumped at Derrick pinning him up against the wall. The raccoon winced as he felt his fur being pulled out of him, his feet could no longer reach the ground as Andre lifted him up. “I expect answers when I ask questions,” His voice began to get louder, his anger could not be subsided any longer as he balled one hand into a fist and thrust it into Derricks stomach. The raccoon cried out as the force shot through his body. Andre smiled and then dropped his victim, “you’ll do better next time.” He lay on the ground coughing and cradling, but when he looked up Andre was gone. Slowly the pain he held in his stomach whilst his attacker stood before him, washed away, going back into the waters it came. The marks that should have been there never appeared, only the old remained. The raccoon picked himself up, still wanting to feel the pain as he cradled upward like an elderly man in the snow. His feet rushed towards the bathroom; he felt sick, nearly deathly in the darkness. Tearing off his shirt he saw the scars, pulled his fingers along the branches of his back, how they sprawled out 42
and consumed his fur! It was his curse, carrying the weight from seeds he never wanted planted in him, but was forced on him. A dreamer can only bear so much pain before they collapse. Derrick walked away as the pain lingered among him. He entered the solemnity of his home once again, hoping it would stay as such. Peace is a gift he had always longed for, but it was too pricey for him to hold, even for a small time. Andre was gone now he told himself. He was gone, and he could never plant another seed in him. Derrick cradled his box again, held it close to his chest as he poured himself onto the couch, laying his head backwards and closing his eyes. “I burned the bridges to Heaven,� he murmured softy as he drifted away.
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The Sick and Depraved
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http://www.creativevagabonds.com Vagabonds is essentially a Creative Arts anthology. We accept photography, poetry, short fiction, creative non-fiction, and digital artwork. At this time Vagabonds has been extended to a twice a year venture. Our first anthology was released on August 6th, 2012 and has been pushed around the writing scene. We do offer physical copies of the anthology, and they are free. if interested in a physical copy just shoot an email over to hitchingpoets@hotmail.com and we will do our best to ship you a copy. Vagabonds is completely a non-profit organization. Though the Anthologies are free we do accept donations through paypal. All donations go towards keeping the anthology running, printing costs, project designs, promoting expenses, etc. Anything donated to Vagabonds is greatly appreciated, and we thank you for your gift! If you would like a copy of the anthology, please email. hitchingpoets@hotmail.com All physical copies of Vagabonds are free.
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How to Fuck up Your Kids. It's a comedy I'm working on in collaboration with a couple of friends. And yes it is literally conversational tips on how to fuck up your children. Why? because modern parenting has merged into this realm of blatant paranoid schizophrenia. Parents are uptight, vigilant at the wrong times, though it is great to be so, at the wrong times does not just make you look crazy. You BECOME that insane mentality. People refer to you as the wacko up the street. Take a breath for a moment.
What do we seek to do? Well, it's a book, a comedy. Read it and enjoy the laughs we have to offer. We are here to say it's okay. You're not as bad as you think you are. You're not the freezer lady. There's worse things you can do to your children than what you are doing right now. It's comfort. Now available for Nook and Kindle devices. http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/systematicweasel
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