Scream if you wish, it will not help. Claw at your eyes with dirty nails, smash at your ears with fists turned hammers. It will change nothing.
You need not see, or hear, or even feel. Your damnation knows no such boundaries.
It is your prison without walls, your nightmare from which you cannot wake.
It is your damnation.
Prepare for it.
Been thinking about writing and what I want to do with this blog alot. Come back on monday to see what happens.
I saw an Angel the other day…
Roasting on a spit…
And I thought…
I bet they taste like chicken.
There are Words,
so many Words
Languages in the thousands,
each with their words, each with their phrases
millions of ways to capture the world,
reshape it,
express it
But the human heart, in its heights of glory,
in its depths of depravity,
in its splendor, and in its horror,
defies them all
Within it lies the worst of humanity,
and the greatest as well
and though we may, for a moment, find it,
echoed in a moan, or reflected in a tear,
our Words,
all our Words,
will forever fail
I wrote a Fiction piece, entitled Franz, that was too large to post on my front page. However, it’s worth noteing that the story deals with the Holocaust, so it may be a sensitive subject.
If that doesn’t disuade you, you can read it here.
you can hear it, sometimes
when a heart breaks
at night, especially, while the world sleeps
you can hear it, sometimes
tear drops striking against a lonely pillow
lost in softness, but leaving stains
the clock taping out 2 and 3 and 4
and no other ears awake
a moonlit sky swallowed up by clouds
wishful gold consumed by somber grey
and in those quiet times,
it seems so loud, the sound it makes
but amidst the fervor of day
the sound, the light, the movement
as the world goes its ways
it’s almost lost,
that sound it makes,
when a heart breaks
but it lingers still, and when the quiet comes,
so comes it to,
that sound, that sound it makes
never relents, never retreats,
never
fades
to silence
never, that sound
when a heart breaks
Mid-afternoon on a day like any other, oppressively hot, desperately dry, the quiet suddenly shattered by the sound of an explosion. The blast was loud enough to make my ears ring, and close enough that I instantly sat bolt upright in the cab of my truck, grasping the rifle that hung limply against the door nearby. I cast my eyes around quickly; the palace to the right; a pair of vehicles ahead; and to the left the compound walls. Beyond the walls lay the sprawling buildings of the Iraqi city, a sea of brown from which the mortar strike had probably come.
Seconds ticked by; I sat there, one hand on the olive-drab doorknob, the other cradling my rifle, trying to decide, trying to act. Sgt Harper was inside the palace, where the opulent halls had been converted into a supply point, and even if he had been with me, it wasn’t as if we could escape to some place safe. I could scramble out of the truck, but that was pointless. The attacker was certainly firing from a distance, rendering my rifle impotent, and though the truck offered little protection, outside there was even less.
Another shell struck, but this time it didn’t seem to carry as much impact, it didn’t force my heart to crawl up into my throat. It offered a momentary boost of adrenaline, a momentary startle, and nothing more.
I could crawl under the truck, use it for cover maybe, I thought. But no, that wouldn’t really help either. Every place was as dangerous as the next, every action as risky as any other. For a few long moments I waited, before placing my rifle against the door once more. Leaning back, I stretched out along the seats of the cab, folded my arms behind my head, and slipped off my helmet, letting it rest on my chest once more.
Lying there, I took a long, deep breath.
Somewhere not too distant a third shell landed, creating another loud explosion. It was inside the compound somewhere, but I couldn’t tell where.
And then I closed my eyes, and slept.
“Boom Baby!”
“That’s your line, really? I mean, come on Dad, everyone is going to make fun of that.”
“What, you don’t like it? I think it goes well with the flashing lightning.”
“… Dad, it’s just… Tacky. It feels like you’re stuck in some other time…”
“Are you sure? I mean, I want them to love me, you know, and think I’m cool.”
“They are not going to think you’re cool. Especially not if you use that.”
“Okay… how about ‘Shocka Boom!’ or ‘Krakow!’”
“This is why mom doesn’t talk to you, you know that? You’re just weird.”
“… that hurts. You know that? It’s a good thing I’ve got a lot of love for you and her.”
“I know, I’m sorry… it’s just. I want you to do this thing right. Can’t we go with something simpler for the lightning?”
“How about just… ‘Boom’. I could do it really loud. Maybe with some echoes or something, that would be groovy.”
“Sure, fine. Just, you know, please don’t say it’s groovy when I’m hanging out with my apostle friends, okay?”
“All right, all right. ‘Boom’ it is. And I won’t say groovy around your friends. Now I’ve got to go find me some heathens and give this new sound a try. ‘Boom’. Yeah, I can get used to that.”
(Theme: Thunder. Link to my Brother’s Story)
So, i’ve decided to incorporate a new idea, which I’m calling ‘Linked Stories’ into some of my writing here. Basically, these are stories where my brother and I have picked some topic or idea, and write independently, then see what comes out at the end. So, any story with the ‘Linked’ tag, will also have a link at the end of it to my brother’s story, so you can see what he came up with.
(Update: If you want to read my brother’s version, here is the link~!)
There was a time, not too far in the past, but distant enough that the memories around it have begun to fade, which will remain forever seared in my mind.
I was young, probably only 7 at the time; my memory for dates and ages has always been poor, and lived on a farm in eastern Oregon. My younger brother and I were almost inseparable, spending our days and nights in close proximity, and though I tortured him relentlessly he was the only true family member I had at the time. We explored the farm on which we lived together, made toys from trash together, and generally cause my mother endless headaches together.
We also, not coincidently, bathed together, as young children often do. I think our mother encouraged it to save water, though I wonder at how efficiently that played out, considering the splashing and wave making that often accompanied these baths. Often, we would bring toys with us as well, some intended for watery use, and some not. Most of them were harmless, and I remember them now only as wet plastic or matted bits of wet cloth. Yet, there is one toy that stands out in my mind, and which I remember distinctively.
Now this was a time before plastic was recognized to be a member of the Axis of Evil (Iran, Iraq, North Korea, Plastic, and Al Gore), and a time in which it was used frequently in a variety of products. One such use was in ‘Happy Meal’ packaging, as McDonalds found new and creative ways to stir screaming children everywhere into action. In this case, it was a series of boat-designed boxes, which could be used as water toys once the nutritious and delicious food was removed and presumably consumed. The consumption part of that was sometimes forsaken due to the massive appeal of the toys, which bothered neither child nor corporate entity, but which caused mothers everywhere no end to their annoyance.
At any rate, my brother and I, thru some stroke of fortune, had acquired two of these wonderful plastic boats. They split down the middle so that you could remove the aforementioned food, but sealed tightly shut to keep water out during naval operations. This was the normal mode of use for these boats, but on this particular evening of bath time amusement, my brother had an alternate idea, one which can only be described as brilliant. Evil might also be an acceptable term, but more on that in a moment. Lifting the boat from the water, my brother popped the boat open, and then placed it in the water once more, driving the boat, now open like a gapping maw, in my direction…
Now, I’ll pause here to say that my brothers actions at this point may have been partially out of ignorance, but also perhaps out of malice. For, as I mentioned, though we were very close as brothers, I was more than willing to be a traditional big brother; which is to say, mean. Moreover, we went everywhere together, and on more than one occasion, while attempting to use the toilet at the same time, I had , entirely by accident, aimed too high and ‘shot’ my brother on the opposite side. Now, I swear that was never intentional, but it might explain some of ensuing actions.
… and closed the boat squarely, capturing my poor, innocent genitalia between the ridged plastic seal. Had he been less vigorous, it might have simply snapped and released, but he was apparently determined in his action, closing the boat tightly enough that it latched shut. Caught off guard, I dropped my own boat, mouth opening in a blood curdling scream. I fully suspect that my mother believed I would die at any moment, judging by the speed at which she arrived. If you had asked me at the time, I likely would have replied that yes, I was about to die at any moment. Or, failing that, ask someone to kill me and put me out of my misery.
But, neither was the case, and my mother quickly freed my poor member from the grasp of McDonald’s evil contraption. No permanent damage was done, but the emotional scaring is clear; to this day, I refuse to take a bath with my younger brother.
(For those who want to hear the other half of this story, check back tommorow, and I’ll have a link for you! My brother is writing the story as well, without coordinating with me! So, it should be interesting to see how he lies… er… relates… the story!)
