I’ll be posting Stories, Poems, and whatever else I feel like. I don’t promise that they’ll be good. I can’t even promise that I like them. Why post them then? Eh, nostalgia?

It’s my site, I can do what I want to.

I’ll also try to give them a Rating and a Theme so you know what you’re getting into before you click to read on.  If you think it’ll be sensitive material your precious eyes shouldn’t read, don’t click through!  I may, however, only do this for ones with touchy themes or language.

On to the horrors of my writing style!

Themes: Death

It would be Ella that found her first. She walks in the front door after unlocking it and calls out her friend’s name. There isn’t a response. The CD player in her friend’s bathroom is playing Kruder and Dorfmeister at a fairly loud volume, so she turns it off and shuts the door. She calls out to her friend again, but still receives no response. Ella finds that odd, but doesn’t think too much of it. Setting down her purse on the mizuya chest closest to the door, she slips out of her shoes and pads over to the computer room to check her email. Not seeing anything that especially catches her eye, she turns away from the computer and plops down on the couch to watch some of her Tivo’d shows.

Hours go by. Noting the darkness, and still no sign of her roommate, she ventures through the rest of the house, first to her friend’s room. Greeted only by the cat, she closes the door and continues to her own room to shed her work clothes and perhaps go take a shower. Ella opens the master bedroom door, flips the light switch, closes the door behind her, and hears her friend’s phone ring and vibrate itself off the tile sill on which it had been resting. It clatters to the floor and Ella gasps as she enters the bathroom.

Eyes staring off beneath their now clouded exterior, her friend is laying, no, slouched in a peculiar fashion in the nice, large garden tub that so beautifully accentuates the Italian tile bathroom. The girl in the tub is an odd shade - somewhere between blue and gray, but not quite either. Legs folded to the side, the body is positioned in such a way that her face is just enough below the water to betray the cause of her coloration, but enough above the water to have just one eye staring out across the pink-tinged water. Water-proof mascara applied the night before still stains the colorless cheeks and adds a stark contrast around her pale eyes.

At the autopsy, there would be no physical sign of the cause of death on the outside of the girl’s body. Her skin was not torn in any sort of suicidal fashion. After the contents of her stomach were examined, they would find no signs of alcohol, pills, or any sort of toxic substance. Blood tests would provide no evidence of drugs, save perhaps a mild trace of THC, but nothing amounting to an excuse for her passing.

For it wasn’t planned. Next to her on the side of the tub was a pink bottle of the Ice Cream Man by philosophy. It reads, “philosophy: a sweet man is a good man.” Lined up next to the shiny, stainless steel faucet was her cell phone, a tampon, and her mug of tea - half-full. On the end of the tiled tub area rests her t-shirt and sweats for when she was dried off, and her fuzzy, striped house-socks with anti-skid tread stuck to their crocheted soles. Everything was laid out so nicely, ready for her when she was done. Perhaps she didn’t need them where she was going, because they were still there when she left.

If a kid got its hands on this, I doubt they’d understand it anyway.

Themes:  Affairs! Oh my!

this surreptitious infidelity:
our collusive delusion,
a complicated melody,
entanglement loaded with confusion.

whimsical decision -
the future, hesitant and irresolute;
but magnetism caused a collision,
loneliness in pursuit
of an illusion, a vision.

Themes: Child Abuse of a Sexual Nature, Strong Language, Wife Beating, Death

My mother, not the strongest of young women, married a boxer named Jesus Hardin, but everyone just called him “Zeus”; that was his boxing name after all. He was a tank, a real brick wall of a man if there ever was one. His head nearly hit the doorframe as he walked through - he was practically a solid door himself. Tall, dark and handsome would probably have accurately describe him, but I would have left out the ‘he’s got a great personality, too!’ part.

My father had left us before I was even born. Metis, my mother, was kind of unsure who he was, anyway, so it didn’t seem to be too much of a loss. We were doing swell until Zeus came along though; that was when I was six. Three months after being married to her, Zeus started beating my mother. It’s not that he was a drunk, or an ignorant slob or anything like that, he just couldn’t hold his temper, or his pants up. As the new man of the house, he took a liking to me, in more ways than I care to remember.

My mother would leave for work early in the morning, make-up packed onto her face to cover the bruises, and I’d stay home with Zeus and watch TV. One particular day, I’d been playing outside in the dirt with some friends. It was a hot, humid day, much too hot to be outside and filthy, so I went in to take a quick bath. I’d just about gotten into the tub when the bathroom door swung open. I reached out to grab a towel to cover myself, but Zeus, with his fighter’s reflex, grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer, arm above my head. Swiftly he grabbed my other arm and spun me around so I was facing away from him. He then proceeded to push me forward to the tub and shove my face down near the water so that I was bent at the waist. I heard his pants unzip and crumple to the floor as he spit in his hand, wiped it between my skinny, little legs, then shoved himself into me. As he pounded me against the side of the tub, I began to shriek. To shut me up, he shoved my face into the water, my muscles tightened, and he just drove harder. After he finished, he patted me on the butt and lifted me by my arms into the water.

“Don’t you be tellin’ anyone about this, y’hear me?” he said, as he picked up his pants.

I nodded between sobs.

But just for good measure he grabbed my hair and pulled my head back and grunted, “Do you promise?!”

“Yes! Yes!” I cried. And I didn’t stop crying until I fell asleep that night, exhausted. My mother didn’t get home until late that night, so I had no one to tell, even if I’d dared.

My stepfather couldn’t get enough of me, which resulted in an abortion of mine when I was ten. My mother didn’t know about it and I was too ashamed to tell her. She thought he was having an affair with another woman because he never touched her in the bedroom. My mouth couldn’t speak the words to tell her, “No, it’s just me. Help, please.” So I endured it, silently and alone.

Now, somewhere between eleven and twelve years old, I’d met a young man who lived in a rather shady part of town. Lean and unobtrusively graceful, he was probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, and after living on the street most of his life, he had become pretty handy with a knife. I came upon him one day while I was walking home from school and stopped to talk to him. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t talk to people, but he seemed different. There was a calm about him, something in his dark green eyes that told me I could trust him. We sat and chatted for a while, him telling me of his adventures in a tough, scary sort of tone - but I took it all in stride.

“You’re not scared of me, are ya?” he asked, after finishing a rather gruesome tale.

“No. Should I be?” I had been sitting through his stories somewhat deadpan.

“Well, most girls fear for their lives when someone tells ‘em stories like I’ve been tellin’.”

“For me to fear for my life would mean that I feared death, and that’s something I could easily come to embrace, not fear.”

“You wanna die?” he asked, softer and somewhat puzzled.

“Let’s just say, I’ve got one good reason why I’d rather be dead, and it easily overrides any of the ones of why I’d want to live.”

“What’s your reason?”

“Will you teach me to fight with a knife?” she said in a steely voice.

“Will you tell me your reason?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.” So he did. Every chance I got, I’d run out to meet up with him, and he’d teach me to fight.

When I was about sixteen, I came home from school early one day. We had a half day at the highschool, and I just wanted to go home and catch up on some homework. I didn’t have many friends at school because I wasn’t sociable enough for that. It wasn’t that I was ugly or freakish, but actually quite the opposite; my hair was full and long, my eyes a light gray color, and my skin had a natural olive tone. But, keeping to oneself doesn’t spawn friends, so I was more often than not alone.

After walking through the screen door I saw him sitting there on the couch, waiting for me, my brutal master. I’d been hoping he’d be at the ring, practicing, but no luck. Long ago, I’d learned that trying to fight Zeus off wasn’t the answer. He was a hell of a lot stronger, and I just ended up getting more hurt and fucked even harder. I went upstairs to put my books down and he followed, leering at me from behind.

Once I’d dropped my books, Zeus took off my shirt and shoved it into my mouth and then pushed me onto my bed. He undressed, yanked off my pants, and went to work. Occasionally I’d whimper, to show my distaste for the whole ordeal, but if I got too obnoxious, he’s slap me. Instead I laid there, quietly taking the abuse, and even though I lay there, limp and unresponsive, he didn’t seem to care. Some days he would be rougher just to get a reaction out of me; today was one of those days, and he must’ve really had the bedsprings screeching because he didn’t hear my mother come home from work early - but I did. I started struggling and fussing like I was trying to get away. His big hand grabbed mine and forced them above my head. With the other, he began to slap me around a bit to sedate me.

“What the fuck is going on?!” screamed my mother from the doorway.

“Metis, go back downstairs,” he ordered, without even interrupting his rhythm.

“No! What the fuck is going on? What the fuck are you doing? Is that.. my daughter?!”

“Go downstairs, NOW!” He let go of me briefly, but I pushed him off of me and scrambled to the farthest corner of the room, huddled in a ball.

They continued screaming at one another for a couple minutes. Naked, he pushed her out of the room, into their bedroom and slammed the door. I could hear him beating her. I wasn’t sure what it was he’d picked up, but I could hear the solid thuds as it landed on my mother’s flesh. After a minute or two of this, the screaming stopped and he came out of the bedroom and stood in my doorway, like a cork in the neck of a bottle. I saw no escape.

“Where is she?” I asked timidly, hanging to a thread of hope that he hadn’t really just beaten her to death.

“She’s taking a nap,” he said sarcastically, cutting that thread.

My demeanor changed into a deathly calm. “You think I’m fucking stupid?” I said more than asked.

“She’ll be fine. Now, where were we?” He advanced toward my bed.

Today was my chance. I looked around on the floor and saw my switchblade in the jeans I’d been wearing. I scrambled for it and grasped onto it, not seconds before Zeus grabbed my hair and yanked me to my feet.

“Thanks,” I said, as I released the blade and buried it in his stomach, twisting as I pushed.

He looked down at me in disbelief. How did such a small, scared little girl get nerves to do that? Easily, I’d grown up a bit and I wasn’t nearly as scared as he thought.

“Who the hell do you think you are…” he gurgled, as I retracted my knife from his flesh.

“Athena, Goddess of War. Fuck you. I hate you. Die, you sick, abusive bastard.” I stabbed him again, this time in the side of his head.

Themes: Death, Suicide, Relationships / Strong Language

The air is silent, minus the hum of the ceiling fan over her head. Even her crying is silent. The tears stream down her temples and mingle with her hair without even a moan or a wail.
She lays atop her sheets. It’s hot and dry, but her skin is salty from the light perspiration that glistens under the intruding street light.
Her eyes are glazed in a sort of trance as she watches the spinning blades through blurry sadness. A piercing scream leaves her body - the sound of a violin as it reaches both it’s zenith and nadir simultaneously.
And the tears continue their flow.

Saturday:

“Hello?”
“Hey! I’m back! What’re you doing right now?” she asks enthusiastically.
“I was just walking out the door to go visit my dad and grandma for a bit…”
“Oh, well go visit with them. I’ll call you back later.”
“Is it pressing?”
“It’s never pressing. I just have so much to tell you! It’s been a month but it feels like forever. Go visit. I’ll call back…”
“Where are you? I could call you back.”
“Eh, I’m at a friend’s, but won’t stay here long. No worries. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay, later then. Bye..”
“Bye!”

Sunday:

“Hello?”
“Hey!”
“Oh hey! What happened yesterday? You never called back.”
“Yeah, sorry. I went to the movies then just got completely side-tracked with random bullshit. How’s your dad and gran?”
“They’re doing well, same as always. Worked on my car while I was out there. Got upset, so I left and came home. Granma was her normal naggy self. You know how it is.”
“Yeah. God, I’ve got so much to tell you!”
“Yah, so’ve I. A lot’s gone on…”
“Hey, can I call you back later? I’m gonna check my email then my buddy here needs to use the phone..”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“My friend’s friend’s house. So much running around lately. Jesus.”
“When do you get home?”
“I dunno, probably Tuesday. I have to go pick up my car from my dad’s house, then drive home.”
“Oh, yeah. You said that I could pay rent on the 28th, so I did, and all the bills are caught up.. and I think that should do it. Geez, you need to get home. Lots to talk about.”
“You’re so wonderful! I appreciate you so much, thank you for taking care of all of that. And yeah, I’ll be home as soon as I can be…”

But I wasnt.

Monday Morning:

She sits checking her email in one screen and reading her local online newspaper on another. Bored, and from habit, she scans the obituaries and stops.

Thomas Patrick Kole
Died Sunday, August 3, 2003
at 9:37pm. His body was ejected
from his vehicle as he drove down
Highway 395 that night. He had pulled
over, then was turning around
when a Winnebago broadsided him
and killed him instantly…

There was more, but her eyes wouldn’t focus, or couldn’t.

“Hey…” called her friend Dean. “Hey, kiddo..?”
“Hunh?” she said, or rather, squeezed out.
“You okay?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so… My friend died last night.”
“What?”
“Uhm, yeah. Look.” as she pointed at the screen.
Dean jumped from the couch and abandoned the early morning talk show to read the news.
“Whoa, what the fuck..”
“That’s kinda what I’m thinking.”
Dean wrapped his arms around her, “I’m sorry, kiddo. I dunno what to say..”
“You drive a winnebago?”
“No, why?”
“Well, then don’t apologize. You didn’t kill him.”

-

She lay on her bed, quietly pondering all these things. Telling herself, “Oh, well he wouldn’t be home right now anyway.. he’d be at work, and even then, today’s Tuesday, he’s got Kung Fu practice to go to right now.”
The time kept going by and she just laid there, tears soaking her hair. And she fell asleep…until she felt someone rouse her.

“Hey.”
Without opening her eyes, “What?”
“You have a headache?” he asks, as he holds up an empty bottle of aspirin.
“I have a heartache…” she mumbles.
“How ’bout a stomachache?”
“Yeah, I don’t feel good…”
“C’mon, get up.”
“No, I don’t see any reason to.”
“Why not? What’s wrong?”
“You’re dead.. I.. I just wanted to join you. It hurt being so far away…”
“But I’m right here, so get up and let’s go real quick before you get any more of a stomachache.”
“How are you here, my dear apparition?” she opens her eyes to see a blurry figure who looks ghostlike between the tears and odd lighting.
“C’mon.”
“Wait..”
He slings her over his shoulder and puts her in his car.
“Yah, where are we going to now?”
“The hospital.”
“What for? How can you drive? You’re dead!”
“Why do you think I’m dead? Where’d that come from?” He started the car and took off at an incredibly illegal speed toward the hospital.
“I read it. I saw it. I was out of town, but I saw it online. You died in a car accident.”
“I’m here..”
“No! You’re dead. Perhaps by now I am too. Am I dead?”
“No, dear, you’re not dead.”
“Well..”
He pulled up at the hospital and grabbed her from the car and carried her quickly inside.
“She swallowed a bunch of aspirin!” he shouted as he ran through the Emergency Room doors.

A nurse nearby grabbed the stomach pump as another swung open a door and motioned for him to bring her inside.
“Are you her husband?”
“No, I’m her..”
“Hey, how many aspirin did you take?” the other nurse asked as she laid the girl on the gurney.
“Huh? I took them all. My heart hurt.”
“Do you have a history of heart problems?” asked the nurse.
“No, just recently…”
“If you’re not her husband, I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside while we do this.”
“Yeah, I understand,” and he walked out the ER doors and sat on the sidewalk, waiting.

Themes: Fate, Love, Relationships, Conversation, Strong Language

“So I sit there, and I get this feeling like we’re supposed to be together, and five seconds later you call me.”

“So?”

“So what does that mean?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Why nothing?”

“Because, I’d rather it not mean a damn thing. I don’t want you waxing all fatalistic an shit on me.”

“It’s so wrong?”

“What, to wax fatalistic or for us supposing to be together?”

“Us supposing to be together.”

“Well it’s funny, because sometimes, I feel like, yeah, we’re supposed to be together and I can see you being the father to my kid; but then I sit back and my ex-girlfriend calls me and, goddamnit if I can’t see her and I together too.”

“Fucker.”

“What? I’m being honest here. I’m trying to make it work with you and me. I’m trying to make me work with this.”

“Don’t try too hard, your ex might call.”

“Shut up.”

“Well?!”

“Well what? I want you to be trying to make this work, not just leaving it up to fate. Yes, I realize that things that are supposed to be just flow, but goddamnit we’re human. Get over the whole fate thing and I’ll get over my ex-girlfriend.”

“How long ago was she?”

She pauses and looks up at the ceiling for a while. Counting to herself, slowly. “About a year. Yeah, maybe.. no, yeah, a year almost exactly.”

“Why’s she so hard to get over?”

“She and I, we were together on and off for over three years. She being mostly just a plaything. It was great for me because I didn’t have to have any sort of emotional attachment…”

“The story of your life.”

“But then it came to this point where I was just fucking with her head way too much, emotionally, and she loved me, and I didn’t reciprocate, and I just couldn’t stand watching her crying all the time. I was a jackass. She’s a sweet young woman who really didn’t need the abuse. So, I told her that I didn’t love her, to find herself and to stick with that for a while because otherwise she’d just continue getting hurt all the time. So she found another, emotionally unattached female who didn’t want her around all the time to get fucked over by and I warned her, and she got hurt, and goddamnit what happened?”

“So, why is she back now?”

“She called.” She looks at the floor, as if there are the answer to the secrets written in the ugly carpet.

“So? I call. Why the fuck can’t you get hooked on me and love me and not be able to get over me?”

“I’m.. not used to being in love, to having just one person at a time. I usually fuck up my relationships because they’re not right, or I see no future for them.”

“Thanks.”

“What?”

“The future has left the building with me in tow. I’ll see you later when you can call me without thinking about her.”

“What? She has nothing to do with the phone. That didn’t come out right. She has nothing to do with you.”

“That’s right! And it seems that you don’t want to either, so, here I go.” And he walks out the door.

“Goddamnit, get back here!” No reply. “Fine!” She follows him out the door. “Hey! Come back.”

“No, there’s no need for me here. Go play mind games with princess pity; I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”

“You’re not in the middle! I am! I don’t love her, I never really have. She was convenient.”

“Oh, if she could only hear you say that. ”

“She’d probably be hurt and cry some more. Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Call her up, tell her that. That she was only convenient and that you never loved her.”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’m done hurting the girl, geez. ”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“Are you done hurting me?”

“Have I hurt you? I thought we were doing pretty well.”

“Yeah, up until about five minutes ago when you said that you still wanted to bone down with your ex-girlfriend.”

“I… hmm.”

“You can’t even say you don’t want to! Jeezus!”

“Fuck off.. no, don’t fuck off. I mean, be nice, or…something. ”

“Should I fuck off or stay here and be silently laughed at by you.”

“I’m not laughing at you! What the fuck? Who said I’m laughing at you?”

“Well, you seem to be able to have play toys and not care one iota about them.”

“Did you really just say iota?”

“Yes, not the point.”

“Well, here, I’ll give you an example. I was talking to my ex-boyfriend the other day and he asked about my love life. I told him I had two, because at the time, Brian and I were still fucking, but you and I were really close, yes?”

“Yeah, thanks, great, so what’s your point?”

“Well, I told him, since he made the implication… well never mind his implication, but I told him that I had the one who was the play toy, fuck buddy, and the other who I really cared about. You. Brian was just… entertainment, and not very good entertainment, might I add. But you, I care about you so much, and I love you, and I want you around for years to come, but not if you’re going to have this attitude every time one of my ex’s comes up. Yes, I have a lot of them. No I didn’t fuck all of them. Yes, most of them are really good friends of mine and I talk to a lot of them on a fairly regular basis. It doesn’t make sense to me to make an enemy out of someone I was so close to at one point. Makes me terribly vulnerable.”

“Heaven forbid you ever get hurt.”

“Hey, I’ve been hurt plenty, thanks. I, I don’t want this right now. I’m going home.. damnit, I am home. Go home!”

“No, I’d rather talk about this.”

“I’m not really in the talking mood…”

“Talk.”

“What do you want me to say? I love you, I have for a while now. Yes, I may still have some residual feelings regarding my ex-girlfriend and may even think about…boning down with her, but I wouldn’t because I have you. Even if you are unavailable.”

“I’m available.”

“Yeah, for questioning, but not for a serious relationship. Lose the wife, then we’ll talk.”

“I’m working on that.”

“I bet you are. Fuckin’ procrastinator.”

“Hey, it takes time and money, and the latter I don’t have any of.”

“I wonder why.”

“So do I.” He looks around quizzically. “It doesn’t stick around long.”

“It doesn’t for many people.”

“Well, whatever. Are we cool now? Or the minute she calls you gonna get all weird on me?”

“I haven’t gotten weird yet. It’s not a weird situation for me, just for you. I’m used to having two.”

“You better have just one, and it better be me, or else you’ll be one short, and it won’t be her.”

“Ah, you’re so clever. It’ll be you. I can’t deal with her emotional drama anymore. Being just friends with her works out the best anyway. She gets attached too easily.”

“Do you even know how to get attached? I mean, seriously, that’s all I hear. ‘Blah blah, she was too attached, he was too attached.. I couldn’t stand the emotions, etc.’”

“Yeah, I can get attached…the other person just has to be worth it.”

“Am..”

“Yes, you’re worth it.”

Themes: Coincidental Meetings with God and the Devil, Strong Language, References to Actions of a Sexual Nature

i think by now you can tell
there’s no one going anywhere
except all going to hell
what’s new, i say
this has never been much of a surprise
i think the good man’s heaven
is the bad man’s hell
so drink up my friend
cause i’ll be seein’ ya
later this evening
in a smoky barroom
that’s too damn crowded
and our elbows will touch
but we’ll neglect, according to her,
we’re to realize
that we passed each other
again, but this time
this is the last time
because i can’t stand
this passing life
where the hands fly by
and i brush shoulders with death
and have drinks with god
and am fucking the devil
cause god knows the devil..
is the only reason i’m still around.

Themes: Torture, Vengeance, Relationships / Strong Language

my skinny fingers
sift through the ashes
and scraps of what once
was you.

First you cut off your ears
so you couldn’t hear yourself
telling me sickly-sweet lies
that are such a part of you,
it’s hard to find anything else.

Then you cut off your hands
so you couldn’t touch me,
ever again, with those wickedly
tainted appendages that had so
easily violated me and every other
unsuspecting fool of comfort.

Then I cut off your feet so
you couldn’t run away as I
sewed your mouth shut so
I wouldn’t be subjected
to your fucking illusionary
words that showed emotion
and control.

But I left you your eyes,
the only window to your
Sadistic being of non-feeling.
You can watch me then

Peel the very skin
From your cold-blooded body
So I can cut more easily beneath
Your freezing flesh and
Remove the cap-sized vessel
That long ago atrophied.

I then lit you brilliantly
With my bic lighter to
Show you that there really
Was a flame in me –
However devilish –
That gains some sick
Satisfaction in my
Troubled life ever since
You skidded across my heart.

Themes:  Cannibalism, Love, Smothering, Absolute Randomness

she eats you from the inside out
she’s made of rotting candy corpses
you taste, she’s sweet, but not
she’s last year’s Halloween booty
her lips drip with crusty honey
her eyes sparkle with crystallized kool-aid
her skin is that fruit roll-up you forgot to eat
she’s sickly-sweet.

–

your snake love
Swirls like cigarette smoke
and convulses over me
with the entrails of
digested carcasses Screaming
for recognition from their
Nirvana lives into the
Present VOID called Reality.

–

My heart drips hanging
to the screen door oblivion
where the world is see-through
and flies land outside
sucking the living blood out
and infesting the life
with more annoying pests
to swat at.

–

I invite your lungs
To envelop themselves
In the dusty, hair sprayd
Feathers – collectively, my pillow, –
With such brash certainty
You best not fight off
My attempts with any attempts
At the moral conviction
So lacking in your life.

–

Posted to the bedroom wall
I dream of a place
Where teddy bears dwell
Where their fur conquers all
Fish walk up and
Nibble at my naked toes
And frostbite never gets
My nose for it is a
Perpetual oven of
Passionate pottery shards
And I just cut my foot.

Themes:  Anger, Misogyny

You?
You dare raise your voice at me?
You dare give me that
You-don’t-what-what-the-fuck-you’re-doing Look?
I know what the fuck I’m doing as
I deleteriously wedge my foot
Into any part of your anatomy
That isn’t sculpted to perfection-
Oh, that would be all of it.
You have the gall to believe in a
Male-o-centric world where
You’re the sun and I am just
A passing comet – icy ablaze
In my florescence.
Well, I hope someone douses you
With cold water so your flame
Quickly diminishes to smoldering nothingness –
Just like the empty void of
Black hole Society Meetings
Behind your eyes.