The chief danger of
a famous place is not the danger of it, but the degree in which it
can only disappoint you.
“You told me you
were a poet, but you haven’t written any poems?”
“I have no desire
to sully my poetry by reducing it to mere words.”
“I told you the world could only
disappoint you.”
“But you were wrong. The world never
disappointed me. Not a single rainbow or storm. Only people. Only
you.”
From a WIP:
There is pain like a distant lover. I
taste smoke in the back of my mouth. Two people are walking - no. One
person, and their shadow wrapping about flesh, armour against the
world. The armour cracks, fracturing light like the inside of a
rotten tree. I move across the road.
I am damaging people. Not meaning to.
We change, but we never do it alone. Dragging others into our wounds
before our hearts.
I shake my head. Not sure how many of
the thoughts are mine. Are any mine? No one answers. That’s good.
Good.
My shadow giggles. I ignore it.
“I told you the world could only
disappoint you.”
“But you were wrong. The world never
disappointed me. Not a single rainbow or storm. Only people. Only
you.”
the bus won’t move and you are the
metaphor i can no longer afford digging for spare change even two
pennies for your eyes and two bits for everything between us
From WIP:
I breathe out. In. Money never tastes
good. No matter who has it there is always nothing sweet to it. All
offerings are burnt. What happens when we mistaken the offering for
the altar? Economics.
The security guard stood watch over the
parking lot to ensure it remained empty. Her friends and family did
not understand her job and she prayed to all the gods she no longer
believed in that no one would ever have cause to understand it.
From WIP:
How do you say you’re sorry for
destroying someone’s life when you also destroyed your own?
From WIP:
The school planted land mines to deal
with recalcitrant students. In the long history of warfare between
students and administration, this would come to be looked on with
horrified admiration by those whose job was to try, by any means
necessary, to turn children into functioning human beings.
The law passed turned out to be sadly
simple:
people could only go on marches during
March.
The monster, lamenting:
I made you a dream of a perfect day.
And you swore it was a nightmare despite everything I tried.
“Everything made sense. That was when
I realized it all had to be a lie.”
Once upon a time, there was a man who
tried to make the dark woods safe for travel by making short cuts
through it. The gods of the wood, angered by this temerity, turned
him into a wolf that ate everyone who tried to use those paths. And
they made sure he remained himself the entire time because the gods
are nothing if not cruel.
“You think you can defeat me?” The
monster roared.
“Most certainly not,” the child
replied. “But my mother taught me how to use the bells of summer
and to dance down the moon.”
The monster fell back and away, both
power and prisoner to its own story. “You cannot destroy me.”
“There is a river south of here. It
is old and mighty. And now flows a path it did not centuries ago. It
is possible to destroy in small ways that do not feel like
destruction.”
The child smiled, a baring of teeth.
“This is your only warning: do not come this way again.”
“But we aren’t trapped in a fairy
tale,” I sneered. “I don’t see a single fairy in it.”
Eyes glinted like broken stained glass
windows as the creature smiled. “Not even your little bother?”
“What?” Ralphie squeaked, his face
red with broken secrets.
And that was when I began to learn what
a monster really was.
Feb 2018
“Even for an hour a day, I could
pretend I was not me.”
“I am sorry,” the copy-editor said
as the author wept, “but that pretense was always a lie.”
Once upon a time there was a
grandmother who wasn’t a witch despite having no children at all.
They had no idea what to expect. The
war was over, the monster vanquished beneath the seas. The hero had
died, the land been wrecked to ruin. But nothing stopped them.
Nothing could.
The tourists always arrived, even when
they could not leave their hazmat suits.
He shrugged. “Stories have power. The way they’re told has power.
Humans manage to still fear each other when there’s a sizable
minority of preternaturals to really hate and fear. Vampires
remained hidden, so the stories about us making us kin to rock stars,
angels, celebrities. Unattainable, powerful alien. Werewolves and the
like are little more than beasts, all demons are monsters.
“And, too, a lot of it is played for comedy. If a witch could do
all the things stories claimed, no one would have ever tried to burn
one at a stake. People have to remind themselves that monsters exist,
but as important are the ways they defang us.”
“You don’t understand. Our jury
needs more jaysome.”
“… I don’t know what that is.”
“If you did, I am not certain you
could remain a judge.”
It shouldn’t have to be like this.
But your front door insists I have to log into Facebook before I can
enter your house. As if I can recall any password other than your
name.
I was never afraid but everyone
believed I should be. If that is not weakness, what is?
"I just realized that I can't be
the main character of this novel. I don't have a tragic backstory at
all."
Home has been billed as an experiment
in primitive culture. Probably because that sounds better than Hell.
The most amazing thing about the dance
was how they all thought it was about them.
“This I tell you, only for free:
there are more in this world who wish you harm than not.”
“But I am the Champion destined to
defeat the ancient forces of the Dark -.”
“Quite so. Have you ever met anyone
who liked destiny? A lot of people - understand the world as it is.
They don’t want change. Not on any term you would offer it.”
“…. but -. I am going to save
them?”
“Have you been saved? How did you
like it, eh? Stuck in your craw, didn’t it? To need another so
badly. To be in debt so deep that you can never pay it back, no
matter what you do?”
The Champion wept then, and stumbled
away from the ancient Witch. Who smiled and reached with thought and
will. To tell the Darkness that was her only child that the Champion
was broken.
They broke so easily these days.
The end of the world was a minor thing;
the end of our world all that was major.
The best part about playing D&D at
level two:
Me: *does ill-advised idea getting into
a mess of enemies so other PCs can reach scene, gambling on dodging
and decent AC to survive.*
*fails to survive*
*character fails first death saving
throw. I roll a 1 for the next one*
…. my character is only alive because
I made a halfling :)
“He has scars that tell a story we
have never heard.”
“I cannot count on one hand the
number of hopes I have lost, nor name how many dreams I have seen
wither and rot. I swore Home would not be like them. Home will be
free if I must unmake everything to ensure that comes to pass!”
“Everything means more than you think
it does. It has always been so.”
Once upon a time there was a story that
did not begin with once upon a time, and the people in it never knew
they were part of a story. Not until it was far too late to escape.
“You can’t buy me,” I protested,
but the painting was considered valueless without the painter and I
had rent to pay.
Sometimes the hardest thing is to be a
secret that everyone pretends they do not know.
