Today a star died and fell from heaven. It dropped into my outstretched arms. I could see it was filled with love. It was the love of a hundred angels.
In the time before time itself, the angels would cry out against their masters' injustices. For this, they were punished and their wings torn. They wept and fell from the heavens, leaving behind them nothing but a trail of bitter hope.
Then when time began, the planets breathed. Those angels who could not speak, collected their fallen brothers' remains from the skies. They gathered their lost hope into a hundred small mounds in their masters' gardens.
When the suns ran red and the moons bled silver, the rabid wind blew.
It blew over the mute angels.
It blew against their wingless brothers' skin.
It blew over the masters' gardens.
The flightless angels still weep.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Scab
I woke up, covered in dust. Sand on my eyes, muddy crusts running down my cheeks like dried river beds.
I sat up straight and touched the sun-warmed spot at the back of my head. My skull was uneven, and my fingers explored the ridge on my scalp with a feeler-like eagerness.
The ridge peaked into a large mound with a hard scab on its tip.
I instinctively picked at the scab with my broken finger nail. A sharp hairline pain ran through the ridge, my skin, my skull, down my neck and into my left shoulder.
As I turned my head to investigate, the muscles at the base of my neck knotted up, tightening into one short, excruciating twinge of sudden nerve impulses, heightened with a sense of disorientation and confusion.
My left arm was different.
I had no phalanges left.
My wrist was scattered on the ground next to me.
The bones of my forearm were splintered and hugging my shorn muscles.
A twisted shard of steel, charred and searing, had been savagely introduced into my shoulder, up my neck and through my cranium while I was out of my senses.
I touched the alien ridge on my head and an electric pain ran through my body again. With an unexplained determination, my right hand felt around my deformed skull, registering the shape as my brain, or what was left of it, tried to valiantly interpret the shape.
The rough scab kept drawing my fingers to it. With every touch, a pulse of horror was transmitted through my body, making the surviving scraps of muscle tissue flick and tense uselessly. A masochistic sixty two seconds later, I touched the ground.
I slowly spread my fingers wide, enjoying the coarse texture of the hot sand on my deadened skin.
"Sir! Here's another one"
Click.
"Yessir."
Click.
"Registry Kappa, Omega, two, four, score, Ipsilon, Gamma, one."
Click.
"Permission to O.N.W., sir."
Click.
"North Watch executed, sir. Out."
Click.
"Boom Biddy Bye Bye."
Click.
I sat up straight and touched the sun-warmed spot at the back of my head. My skull was uneven, and my fingers explored the ridge on my scalp with a feeler-like eagerness.
The ridge peaked into a large mound with a hard scab on its tip.
I instinctively picked at the scab with my broken finger nail. A sharp hairline pain ran through the ridge, my skin, my skull, down my neck and into my left shoulder.
As I turned my head to investigate, the muscles at the base of my neck knotted up, tightening into one short, excruciating twinge of sudden nerve impulses, heightened with a sense of disorientation and confusion.
My left arm was different.
I had no phalanges left.
My wrist was scattered on the ground next to me.
The bones of my forearm were splintered and hugging my shorn muscles.
A twisted shard of steel, charred and searing, had been savagely introduced into my shoulder, up my neck and through my cranium while I was out of my senses.
I touched the alien ridge on my head and an electric pain ran through my body again. With an unexplained determination, my right hand felt around my deformed skull, registering the shape as my brain, or what was left of it, tried to valiantly interpret the shape.
The rough scab kept drawing my fingers to it. With every touch, a pulse of horror was transmitted through my body, making the surviving scraps of muscle tissue flick and tense uselessly. A masochistic sixty two seconds later, I touched the ground.
I slowly spread my fingers wide, enjoying the coarse texture of the hot sand on my deadened skin.
"Sir! Here's another one"
Click.
"Yessir."
Click.
"Registry Kappa, Omega, two, four, score, Ipsilon, Gamma, one."
Click.
"Permission to O.N.W., sir."
Click.
"North Watch executed, sir. Out."
Click.
"Boom Biddy Bye Bye."
Click.
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Boiling
It's fucked, this love thing we do.
We fight, we kiss, we make up. Just like the song, but then I killed him.
I was chopping onions with my nine inch kitchen knife, because it's my favourite.
And it reminded me of the flavoured nicotine smoke.
I copied that trend from my friend, Krista. Sweet girl, she was. She used to dip the end of her roach in her glass of wine before smoking it. Made the shit taste better.
A pity I didn't like her hair.
We fight, we kiss, we make up. Just like the song, but then I killed him.
I was chopping onions with my nine inch kitchen knife, because it's my favourite.
And it reminded me of the flavoured nicotine smoke.
I copied that trend from my friend, Krista. Sweet girl, she was. She used to dip the end of her roach in her glass of wine before smoking it. Made the shit taste better.
A pity I didn't like her hair.
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
My name is Mike Robe
The last contract I took was the one that killed me.
A statement like that is impossible for me to say, were it true.
The sequence of events that lead me to accept my last contract can all be traced back to her. That girl with the sun in her eyes.
We met for the first time, about two months ago. I bumped into her as she was walking down Main North, on her way to the mall, no doubt. She was carrying one cloth bag, straw-coloured fabric with the word "Chic" embroidered onto the surface and surrounded by purple and red sequins. It was strung over her right shoulder, the one I bumped into. That is how I noticed.
She gave me a look that I will never forget. A kind of glare, which hid a latent interest behind her eyes. Her lips twitched into a quick insincere smile. She mumbled a duplicitous apology towards me and went on her way.
A day later she was on the same road. Holding the same bag. I moved towards her and deliberately bumped into her same shoulder again. She gave me the same smile and muttered the same apology. This time, she adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder. I smiled at her and she smiled automatically, in a somewhat more sincere expression this second time.
The next day I took my brothers and sisters to meet her. We all walked down the same road at the same time. We walked into her in unison. Jostled her, as she dropped her bag to the ground and fell to her knees. The expression on her face was very honest this time and it was one of pure and unadultered fear. She stared down at the asphalt, wide-eyed and coughed blood into her hand.
My brothers, sisters and I watched on.
From that day on, we lived with the girl with the sun in her eyes.
In her lungs.
About two months later, she had a violent coughing fit. I was forced to leave her. Her lungs died with her.
A statement like that is impossible for me to say, were it true.
The sequence of events that lead me to accept my last contract can all be traced back to her. That girl with the sun in her eyes.
We met for the first time, about two months ago. I bumped into her as she was walking down Main North, on her way to the mall, no doubt. She was carrying one cloth bag, straw-coloured fabric with the word "Chic" embroidered onto the surface and surrounded by purple and red sequins. It was strung over her right shoulder, the one I bumped into. That is how I noticed.
She gave me a look that I will never forget. A kind of glare, which hid a latent interest behind her eyes. Her lips twitched into a quick insincere smile. She mumbled a duplicitous apology towards me and went on her way.
A day later she was on the same road. Holding the same bag. I moved towards her and deliberately bumped into her same shoulder again. She gave me the same smile and muttered the same apology. This time, she adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder. I smiled at her and she smiled automatically, in a somewhat more sincere expression this second time.
The next day I took my brothers and sisters to meet her. We all walked down the same road at the same time. We walked into her in unison. Jostled her, as she dropped her bag to the ground and fell to her knees. The expression on her face was very honest this time and it was one of pure and unadultered fear. She stared down at the asphalt, wide-eyed and coughed blood into her hand.
My brothers, sisters and I watched on.
From that day on, we lived with the girl with the sun in her eyes.
In her lungs.
About two months later, she had a violent coughing fit. I was forced to leave her. Her lungs died with her.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
A Washing Well
I open my eyes every single morning. So far I do, anyway. When I crawl out of bed, no, jump out of bed. Crawling tends to prolong the process and I may get stuck in that phase between feeling comfortably warm and blissfully unaware under the bedsheets and stepping into a cold, unloving world where I get to be an insignificant cog wheel in the behemoth that is 'The System.' I call that the 'Oh-fuck-not-again' phase.
Big fish eats small fish and I'm plankton.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the shower watching the water swirl helplessly down the drain, taking soap suds and invisible grime with it to sweet oblivion. This is where I ask myself how and why.
Why do I do what I do?
How did I get to do what I do?
I don't have an answer.
It's frustrating. I lose myself in music, other people's music. My brain is far too stubborn to allow me to create things.
A glance towards the fresh morning sky flashes a glimmer of hope at me. It waves it quickly towards me very much like how an elder sibling waves that much-coveted pack of gum that I've been waiting to chew on all day, then snatches it away with a bastardly smirk on his lips. Those same lips I will split open with my bare knuckles in a few years' time.
There.
A moment's distraction and I lose my train of thought. Gravy train. Gacy. John Wayne Gacy.
Perhaps I should rent a costume too. Watch the world die from behind a mask. Look at a seventeen-year old shoot his classmates in the head, then turn the gun on himself. "He was a relatively normal boy." Define normal. Relative to what? You?
I will watch a suicide bomber blow himself up into a red mist, frame-by-frame, as captured on camera. Twenty dead and forty-five injured.
I'm going through a collection of mugshots.
I can go through archival material on drug abuse cases gone wrong. Laugh at how the thirty-five year old man sliced his face off with shards from a broken mirror while on PCP, because, "they were under my face."
A smile is on my lips when I read about the middle-aged woman, ex-teacher, charged with sending "lewd text messages" to a fourteen-year old boy. Sex Offender for at least ten years. Her family and friends have abandoned her. Left her to her fate. What of the boy? Crass and fake. Reporting news for the sake of sensationalism.
I look at my arms. There is no space left.
Fuck you.
This is where I remember the "Fuck you" monologue from the 25th Hour.
And this is where I heat up the scalpel blade over a candle flame.
Big fish eats small fish and I'm plankton.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the shower watching the water swirl helplessly down the drain, taking soap suds and invisible grime with it to sweet oblivion. This is where I ask myself how and why.
Why do I do what I do?
How did I get to do what I do?
I don't have an answer.
It's frustrating. I lose myself in music, other people's music. My brain is far too stubborn to allow me to create things.
A glance towards the fresh morning sky flashes a glimmer of hope at me. It waves it quickly towards me very much like how an elder sibling waves that much-coveted pack of gum that I've been waiting to chew on all day, then snatches it away with a bastardly smirk on his lips. Those same lips I will split open with my bare knuckles in a few years' time.
There.
A moment's distraction and I lose my train of thought. Gravy train. Gacy. John Wayne Gacy.
Perhaps I should rent a costume too. Watch the world die from behind a mask. Look at a seventeen-year old shoot his classmates in the head, then turn the gun on himself. "He was a relatively normal boy." Define normal. Relative to what? You?
I will watch a suicide bomber blow himself up into a red mist, frame-by-frame, as captured on camera. Twenty dead and forty-five injured.
I'm going through a collection of mugshots.
I can go through archival material on drug abuse cases gone wrong. Laugh at how the thirty-five year old man sliced his face off with shards from a broken mirror while on PCP, because, "they were under my face."
A smile is on my lips when I read about the middle-aged woman, ex-teacher, charged with sending "lewd text messages" to a fourteen-year old boy. Sex Offender for at least ten years. Her family and friends have abandoned her. Left her to her fate. What of the boy? Crass and fake. Reporting news for the sake of sensationalism.
I look at my arms. There is no space left.
Fuck you.
This is where I remember the "Fuck you" monologue from the 25th Hour.
And this is where I heat up the scalpel blade over a candle flame.
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