Frostbite Lobotomy

Doctor Moreau retracts his claws, says,

“You are running out of time,” says,

“Your eyes are falling out,” says,

“Your spirits are escaping your sockets.”

“Don’t let us go,” my eyes screech.

“You have no say,” the doctor responds,

“Your ears have developed cochmognitis.”

I don’t understand.

I ask. He responds.

“Your ears wake no frozen rivers.” says,

“No tinny frequencies

can unfasten the waters.”

Make sense, please.

I ask.

His napalm laugh echoes

the genocide pheromones.

It rattles my icy tunnels.

“The ones arched over your rivers.”

He saw my thoughts. Damn it.

They project in my frigid caverns,

like the Iceland mines.

I reach up, daintily caress

the icicles, for fear of shattering,

exploding ideas, like nuclear apples,

tempting no one, with dry, burnt

taste.

He says,

“I will preserve your mind

in the cryostasis masquerade.”

Perjury.

The good doctor’s eyes heighten,

“Your burdens are erased,” says,

as he extends his fangs

for the feast.

Tossing Stones

Draft 3


Bodi opened his eyes. After a bright flash of light, objects came into focus. He saw the stone beneath him. He could feel the cool, wet touch, parts riddled with dampened moss. Further out, he made out the mouth of the cave, water pouring down the entrance from the darkness above. He began to make out shapes in front of him. A tall, dark figure stood at the mouth, tossing stones over the edge. Bodi remembered why he was here.

“You’ll never get me to tell you where they are.” Bodi growled as he wriggled around in the ropes that bound him. The old, moist, rotting chair that he was tied to had since collapsed from Bodi’s weight. He rolled around on the floor. Dampened splinters shattered off and lodged into his skin. The piercing of the wood was miniscule in the moment of urgency.

Bodi had exerted all of his energy. He paused lying his face against the cool, stone surface. The figure of a man approached Bodi. The sound of water rushing in the background drowned out his voice, though Bodi could still hear a low, muffled range of vocals escaping his mouth.

The tall man’s tattered, brown clothes hung off his body, various tears revealing his bony body underneath. Excess skin hung from his arms and ribs. The cloth swayed around as he leaned in closer to speak. Bodi still couldn’t make out the words.

The Tattered Man grabbed a fistful of Bodi’s long, muddy hair and lifted his head from the mossy, stone floor. “Are you hearing me, boy?” Bodi’s eyes connected with the Tattered Man.

“Let me soften you up a bit.” The Tattered Man threw Bodi’s head against the ground. Bodi’s vision blurred as a sharp pain shot down his spine.

Bodi squirmed as he tried to regain his senses. The Tattered Man knelt down further and grabbed a handful of rope binding Bodi. The Tattered Man drug Bodi to the edge, overlooking a one hundred foot drop-off, concealed by the waterfall.

“Are you ready to go for a ride?” The Tattered Man said, grinning.

“It’s...bluff…” Bodi muttered, still dazed.

“We’ll see about that.” The Tattered Man took both hands and grasped firmly to the rope tied around Bodi. With ease, he lifted Bodi two feet off the ground and began to swing Bodi back and forth. Bodi’s head entered and exited the falls.

Face-down, Bodi could see that he was being teased over the edge of the cliff. He won’t do it, Bodi thought, he needs those jewels. The Tattered Man stopped swinging Bodi and dropped him on the ledge without warning. Bodi knew he wouldn’t throw him without getting the needed information.

The Tattered Man rolled Bodi on his back. He smiled down at Bodi. “I don’t need the rocks, you mutt. They only want you to disappear.” The Tattered Man, Bodi realized, was not tossing stones. They were the gems, now lost in the abyss below. Bodi slowly decoded the Tattered Man’s muffled words from before. Bodi was of more value dead than the gems altogether.

The Tattered Man lifted Bodi back up and launched Bodi over the edge. Bodi’s sense came back to him and he realized what The Tattered Man meant. The prize was his.

Falling, water rushing around him. His depth of field began to narrow. Weightless he fell, water drowning out vision and sound. His vision was replaced with swirling light among the blur. The took the form of gems, and then complete darkness.

Toxic Time Machine

In this barren and hazy asylum,

Of reveries and anxious ruin,

I enter this toxic time machine,

Never knowing where the next trip will lead me,

Senses numb as the motions blur.

Now in the clutches of

the intoxication

spooling

into my steps

In the confusion, she senses

my discomfort and

leads me

away

to the waiting

room irony

synchronized to the dissolution

of her disjointed words

The broken machine to

never shuttle back;

The gears of life

Grind away, wear down

As my heart becomes exhaustive and sluggish,

This dysfunctional time machine

misses its stop by a few milliseconds,

And I lust more for the high of wasted time.

Checkmate

Compressed under violet, grey, and black sky,

I stand atop this solitary stone fortress

that grips to the mountain.

The peak emerges slightly above

the lively, biting shadows,

shaped into mechanical fog covering,

filling the invisible base of the alp

and billowing like binding claws stretched

around the rest of the world.

Beneath my feet, a chess board resides.

The dancing torch flames perform

their ritual on the squares

of  crimson and dead black.

I stand as a lone king

facing an absent enemy.

I chance the frontlines for ghosts

of the yet-to-be.

No brothers in arms take their places.

They, too, are phantoms feeding fear.

My turn is yet to come,

in this specter massacre reflected

only by scaling shadows named for Mt. Iago,

warping earth and ash as it rises.

I make my first move,

and my last,

as the mountain collapses,

darkness clawing me

into

eternity.

From a Personal Portfolio

Well, again I'm rebooting another blog (and for another surprise, a third is on the way). This time, I decided to use this platform to post some of my personal work through the years.

A majority of it will be a mix of content from my college days and new content that I've been working on as a hobby. While some will get posted on here, the stronger entries will instead be entered into various contests and publications, which is another thing I'm getting back into doing.

Glimpse of the original portfolio. I've come a long way since then.

Basically, I'm sitting on a giant pile of writing over the course of the last five years. Some of it is short fiction while others are works of poetry. I've also worked on several feature articles for a now defunct news source that I'll probably publish on here at some point. Oh, and there are a few short screenplays that I'll probably convert to short fiction (for any easier read). Basically, I'll have something new to post every week.

What's the point of this? Like I said, I'm sitting on a lot of content. I figured it would be a good way to get it out there rather than hoarding it on my computer for the next ten years. I'm not getting any younger, so I need to be more proactive with my writing and what I really want to do with it.

First ever blog/self-publication, circa 2011

The few things that I have published in the past have somehow garnered certain attention. "The Waiting Room", which was written as a social commentary essay/script/short story (it has gone through every format imaginable), was requested at one point to be turned into a stage performance by a student at a university in Australia. I still get emails sometimes requesting the original "full version", which I unfortunately lost after several drafts and rewrites (I'll find it someday).

It just feels so good to know that people are reading and appreciating a true passion of mine, and I'm very thankful to anyone who took the time to read my content.

I may not always have the best stories or the most concise writing. I know I have flaws in my writing and I'm constantly working to improve myself. I believe this will also be a reason to keep working at what I enjoy doing.

Feel free to drop me a line with any suggestions, constructive criticism, etc. I want to remain interactive with this community, no matter how big or small it may be. Because I truly appreciate each individual that would take the time to read my work. You are my motivation to continue on with what really interests me. You and my crazy ideas.

Thank you. Seriously, you guys are great.

The Dead, In Union

Shovels high, shovels low,

Shovels high, shovels low.

Spotlight shines down below,

The tombstone, Jon Doe.

Never lie, never lie,

The shovels

high.

Reveries and fog,

earth and metal claws.

Secrets never show,

in Union, the graveyard

on a

hill.

Never show, never show,

the shovels

low.

A mechanical motion

that chews away.

in One,

in Two,

in Three...

They drip in sweat, fear,

feed the dirt, worms.

the Four,

the Five,

the Six.

Rotted wood exposed,

a heave and a pry

reveals the product,

the vessel, Paradise.

A channel opens,

speaks of life,

breathes the Carrier:

An exhale

of secrets and demons,

of amnesia

eternal,

and artificial

purpose.

The Signal