The little girl cringed in horror. The man who had taken her terrified her like nothing else had ever done. He was older, maybe 65. The liver spots on his arms and hands and his snowy white hair told her that. He had tiny crow’s feet around his eyes. But, the sunken, midnight eyes and blood-red lips screamed volumes – they were more than subtle indications that something was not quite right with this man.
He slowly crept to his basement. The smell of rot hit him, awakening a powerful hunger in his stomach. He prepared his instruments and got out the Polaroid camera he kept for occasions such as this. He walked over to the red-haired, eight-year old girl cowering in the corner and took her picture. The film shot out of the front of the camera. He walked over and placed it on a drying rack, then turned back towards the little girl, murder gleaming in his cold, dead eyes. He took a step towards her and she screamed.
“Go ahead and scream, bitch. There’s no one who can hear you. This basement is sound-proof. No one will hear you and no one will miss you.” He unlocked the cold, steel locks on the chains binding her to the wall. Carefully, so as not to bruise her, he yanked her off the floor by her hair and set her down on the cool, steel autopsy table with a thud. He strapped down the leather restraints around her arms and legs.
The dim light reflected off the scalpel as he lifted it off the tray. A scream escaped from the girl’s lips as the blade sliced cleanly into her flesh. Mulrey sliced out a huge chunk of flesh and stuffed it into his salivating mouth. He chewed incessantly, relishing the tangy flavour. His hunger grew more with each bite.
Quickly, he continued to slice off more and more flesh, making quick work of the small girl. When his hunger was finally satiated, he rinsed off his instruments. He threw the girl’s remains into a barrel of lye and rinsed off the table.
Picking up the photograph, he placed it on the wall with the others – just one more of the many victims of his unnatural hunger. He made sure everything was clean and put in its proper place before leaving. He then switched off the lights and went upstairs to watch Jeopardy, humming the Final Jeopardy music as he did.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Painting
She stared at it, not believing what she was seeing. The painting had an ethereal quality to it, drawing your eyes instantly to the bright silver-blue water of the river. You couldn’t help but notice that as the rest of the painting was dark, done in the blacks and greys.
She stood as if in a trance, watching as the river seemed to twist and turn… flowing through the painting and about to spill out onto the floor. Blinking did no good. The more she blinked, the more she could see that it wasn’t an illusion – that the river really was running towards her.
Carefully, she took a step closer, touching the canvas with her fingertips. The canvas felt cold and wet, as if it really were water instead of paint. Rubbing them on her pants leg to dry them off, she took another step towards the painting.
She reached towards the river, pushing her hand at the water. Instead of stopping, her hand went right through, as if breaking the surface of the water. She kept pushing and pushing until her arm was in the water up to the elbow. Looking around and seeing that no one else was looking, she continued pushing her hand through the painting until she had been swallowed by the river.
She looked around the countryside in the painting. The dark colors clashed even more brilliantly with the vibrant river and gave the landscape an ominous, threatening feeling. She looked up at the sky and saw dark storm clouds had gathered, promising pounding rain. Not seeing any shelter close at hand, she ran.
I have to find shelter, she thought, but where? There is none in this landscape anywhere. She kept running, running far past where the painting’s borders had been, running until her legs just wouldn’t carry her anymore. Spying an abandoned house a little ways off in the distance, she hurried to it. Opening the creaky door, she stepped inside just as the first wave of rain began pelting the earth.
The rain fell hard on the dilapidated old roof, sounding like rocks pelting a wooden plank. This isn’t an ordinary storm, she thought. There’s something wrong here.
She glanced out the window and immediately wished she hadn’t. Where it had once only been dark and ominous outside, the ground was now littered with color – color from the bodies of helpless dogs and cats that had fallen from the sky.
What kind of place is this, she wondered. What kind of place actually rains cats and dogs? She scratched her head, perplexed. Nothing was right in this harsh, alien landscape the artist had painted. Had this been his intention all along – to literally trap someone within the confines of his painting, subjecting the poor victim to the cruelties of his imagination?
She watched in horror as the storm progressed, first raining cats and dogs and then flinging other animals to the ground. She saw sheep, cattle, moose, and hens falling from those seemingly normal clouds. The house she was hiding in was narrowly missed by a falling giraffe. Oh God, she thought, please don’t let this get any worse. Please protect me from the savages of this storm.
As if God had been waiting for her plea, the storm broke. The sky was still dark and threatening, but those clouds had disappeared from the gloomy sky. She looked out at the land and noticed the animals that had fallen during the storm had also disappeared – as if she had imagined the whole thing. The only evidence that it had happened at all was small reddish patches of slick, bright blood here and there among the weeds.
She stepped outside once again and wondered where to go. No longer willing to experience the otherworldly qualities of the painting, she started making her way back towards the river.
She ran up hills and through the valleys that appeared out of nowhere. It was almost as if the landscape was changing with each twist and turn – like some fevered imagination was influencing each bend and dip in the path she had found. She ran past trees that seemed to reach out and claw at her. She ran past the ruins of a building that had once been standing out in the middle of this insanity and had probably been destroyed in one of the freak storms.
She finally made it back to the river. Looking around, she tried to see if she could see out through the painting and into the gallery. It was useless. The effect was obviously one-sided.
Jumping into the bright silvery blue waters, she prayed that the effect could be reversed… that if she pushed up hard enough and long enough, she would find herself standing in the gallery. But fighting through those waters was so difficult – so horribly difficult. All she wanted to do was stand there and watch the gentle waves, hypnotized by their movements and the electric color.
She shook her head violently to snap out of her mood – to break the hold the water had on her. She swam under the water and came to rest on the river’s bottom. Pushing off with both feet as hard as she could, she kept swimming – pushing against the current and aiming for the spot where the river seemed to fade into nothingness. With one last prayer, she pushed again… and wound up standing in the exact same spot, looking back at the painting in fevered awe at how the river seemed to actually move with a life of its own.
Was it all a dream, she wondered? Had I actually been in the painting? She looked down and saw all the proof she’d needed… the shoes she was wearing were still damp from jumping into the surreal waters. Hastily, she walked away from the painting and out of the gallery.
She stood as if in a trance, watching as the river seemed to twist and turn… flowing through the painting and about to spill out onto the floor. Blinking did no good. The more she blinked, the more she could see that it wasn’t an illusion – that the river really was running towards her.
Carefully, she took a step closer, touching the canvas with her fingertips. The canvas felt cold and wet, as if it really were water instead of paint. Rubbing them on her pants leg to dry them off, she took another step towards the painting.
She reached towards the river, pushing her hand at the water. Instead of stopping, her hand went right through, as if breaking the surface of the water. She kept pushing and pushing until her arm was in the water up to the elbow. Looking around and seeing that no one else was looking, she continued pushing her hand through the painting until she had been swallowed by the river.
She looked around the countryside in the painting. The dark colors clashed even more brilliantly with the vibrant river and gave the landscape an ominous, threatening feeling. She looked up at the sky and saw dark storm clouds had gathered, promising pounding rain. Not seeing any shelter close at hand, she ran.
I have to find shelter, she thought, but where? There is none in this landscape anywhere. She kept running, running far past where the painting’s borders had been, running until her legs just wouldn’t carry her anymore. Spying an abandoned house a little ways off in the distance, she hurried to it. Opening the creaky door, she stepped inside just as the first wave of rain began pelting the earth.
The rain fell hard on the dilapidated old roof, sounding like rocks pelting a wooden plank. This isn’t an ordinary storm, she thought. There’s something wrong here.
She glanced out the window and immediately wished she hadn’t. Where it had once only been dark and ominous outside, the ground was now littered with color – color from the bodies of helpless dogs and cats that had fallen from the sky.
What kind of place is this, she wondered. What kind of place actually rains cats and dogs? She scratched her head, perplexed. Nothing was right in this harsh, alien landscape the artist had painted. Had this been his intention all along – to literally trap someone within the confines of his painting, subjecting the poor victim to the cruelties of his imagination?
She watched in horror as the storm progressed, first raining cats and dogs and then flinging other animals to the ground. She saw sheep, cattle, moose, and hens falling from those seemingly normal clouds. The house she was hiding in was narrowly missed by a falling giraffe. Oh God, she thought, please don’t let this get any worse. Please protect me from the savages of this storm.
As if God had been waiting for her plea, the storm broke. The sky was still dark and threatening, but those clouds had disappeared from the gloomy sky. She looked out at the land and noticed the animals that had fallen during the storm had also disappeared – as if she had imagined the whole thing. The only evidence that it had happened at all was small reddish patches of slick, bright blood here and there among the weeds.
She stepped outside once again and wondered where to go. No longer willing to experience the otherworldly qualities of the painting, she started making her way back towards the river.
She ran up hills and through the valleys that appeared out of nowhere. It was almost as if the landscape was changing with each twist and turn – like some fevered imagination was influencing each bend and dip in the path she had found. She ran past trees that seemed to reach out and claw at her. She ran past the ruins of a building that had once been standing out in the middle of this insanity and had probably been destroyed in one of the freak storms.
She finally made it back to the river. Looking around, she tried to see if she could see out through the painting and into the gallery. It was useless. The effect was obviously one-sided.
Jumping into the bright silvery blue waters, she prayed that the effect could be reversed… that if she pushed up hard enough and long enough, she would find herself standing in the gallery. But fighting through those waters was so difficult – so horribly difficult. All she wanted to do was stand there and watch the gentle waves, hypnotized by their movements and the electric color.
She shook her head violently to snap out of her mood – to break the hold the water had on her. She swam under the water and came to rest on the river’s bottom. Pushing off with both feet as hard as she could, she kept swimming – pushing against the current and aiming for the spot where the river seemed to fade into nothingness. With one last prayer, she pushed again… and wound up standing in the exact same spot, looking back at the painting in fevered awe at how the river seemed to actually move with a life of its own.
Was it all a dream, she wondered? Had I actually been in the painting? She looked down and saw all the proof she’d needed… the shoes she was wearing were still damp from jumping into the surreal waters. Hastily, she walked away from the painting and out of the gallery.
Playing With Fire - Internet Paper Mills
At two o’clock in the morning and a research paper on “The Rise and Fall of the Ottoman Empire” is due in a World History class at 8 a.m. Does the student stay up all night, frantically writing and hoping the professor doesn’t notice the last minute attempt or does the student give into temptation and download a perfectly good paper off the Internet to turn in as their own work? In this day and age of high tech gadgets and gizmos, more and more students are turning to the Internet to do their homework. Yet, with the increasing number of Internet paper mills springing up, webmasters are encouraging students to “play with fire” by providing the tools to cheat, not only their educators but also themselves.
The definition of “plagiarize,” according to Webster’s Ninth Collegiate Dictionary, is “to steal and pass off (the ideas and words of another) as one’s own.” (Webster’s) To download a paper off the Internet and pass it off as the student’s own is plagiarizing. Since every college and university has a code of ethical behavior similar to the University of Alaska Fairbanks’s Honor Code, plagiarism is a very risky proposition. The University’s Honor Code states in Section 2:
Students will not represent the work of others as their own. A student will attribute the source of information not original with himself or herself (direct quotes or paraphrases) in compositions, theses, and other reports. (UAF, pg. 22)
So why would a student risk breaking a code they are expected to live by while pursuing a college education?
The Internet paper mills appeal to students on many different levels. With the ease of finding the materials on a web site and the easy “cutting-and-pasting” functions of modern word processing programs, these sites make procrastination look like an attractive option. Most students resist doing the work when someone will do the work for them for free. Of course, many students do not view this as a bad thing either. One student, who would only identify himself by his first name, said, “It’s only cheating if you get caught.” (Young)
Desperate students do not consider the likelihood of their being caught plagiarizing from one of the websites. The odds of getting caught cheating are better than being dealt a pair of anything in a hand of poker. Most colleges and universities keep copes of very completed research paper from every department on file for at least a year. That way, if any professor suspects that a student may be plagiarizing, the papers are there for comparison.
Also, if students have been in a class for any length of time, the professor already knows their writing styles. “There are several red flags that can expose a plagiarized paper,” says Dr. Pitkin, English professor at Utah State University, “especially if I already have a sample of the student’s writing.” (Houshmand)
Another way a professor can “catch someone in the act” is simply by logging on to some of the same websites the students use and performing an Internet search using a group of words of a key phrase taken from the paper.
Another downside of using a downloaded paper is that the student is selling his or her own abilities short. “The whole purpose of higher education,” according to Pat Terrell, vice president of Utah State’s Student Services, “is learning where to look to obtain research and access information. A student that is plagiarizing someone else’s work is not getting their money’s worth out of their education.” (Houshmand) Nothing could be truer. When students do not complete their own work, they are deprived of developing their abilities to analyze information, judge source credibility, express their thoughts and feelings clearly, properly quote sources, and cite information. Since these skills are required in any successful career a student may choose after college, one who plagiarizes loses the most valuable skill preparation of a college career.
The consequences for turning in a paper that’s been downloaded off the Internet can be quite severe. While the instructor has complete authority to decide the ultimate fate of a student who has turned in someone else’s work, every college and university has set up guidelines to assist the instructor. At the University of Alaska Fairbanks, the Honor Code clearly states the following:
Violations of the Honor Code will result in a failing grade for the assignment, and, ordinarily, for the course in which the violation occurred. Moreover, violations of the Honor Code may result in suspension or expulsion. (UAF, pg. 22)
Beyond collegiate consequences for plagiarizing, the buying and selling of term papers is actually illegal in 18 states. Students could be prosecuted and either jailed or fined for the simple act of downloading a paper. Considered as a case of fraud, the Federal government could become involved as fraud is a federal offense.
Failing grades, suspension, expulsion, prison time… are any of these consequences worth the extra time students actually burn by turning in a paper they have downloaded from the Internet? While turning in an online paper when a deadline seems to be flying by may be extremely tempting, the consequences for such a crime are too high. By trying to bypass the research and writing stages of an assignment, downloading a term paper from the Internet is simply “playing with fire” that could ruin students’ future chances for career success.
The definition of “plagiarize,” according to Webster’s Ninth Collegiate Dictionary, is “to steal and pass off (the ideas and words of another) as one’s own.” (Webster’s) To download a paper off the Internet and pass it off as the student’s own is plagiarizing. Since every college and university has a code of ethical behavior similar to the University of Alaska Fairbanks’s Honor Code, plagiarism is a very risky proposition. The University’s Honor Code states in Section 2:
Students will not represent the work of others as their own. A student will attribute the source of information not original with himself or herself (direct quotes or paraphrases) in compositions, theses, and other reports. (UAF, pg. 22)
So why would a student risk breaking a code they are expected to live by while pursuing a college education?
The Internet paper mills appeal to students on many different levels. With the ease of finding the materials on a web site and the easy “cutting-and-pasting” functions of modern word processing programs, these sites make procrastination look like an attractive option. Most students resist doing the work when someone will do the work for them for free. Of course, many students do not view this as a bad thing either. One student, who would only identify himself by his first name, said, “It’s only cheating if you get caught.” (Young)
Desperate students do not consider the likelihood of their being caught plagiarizing from one of the websites. The odds of getting caught cheating are better than being dealt a pair of anything in a hand of poker. Most colleges and universities keep copes of very completed research paper from every department on file for at least a year. That way, if any professor suspects that a student may be plagiarizing, the papers are there for comparison.
Also, if students have been in a class for any length of time, the professor already knows their writing styles. “There are several red flags that can expose a plagiarized paper,” says Dr. Pitkin, English professor at Utah State University, “especially if I already have a sample of the student’s writing.” (Houshmand)
Another way a professor can “catch someone in the act” is simply by logging on to some of the same websites the students use and performing an Internet search using a group of words of a key phrase taken from the paper.
Another downside of using a downloaded paper is that the student is selling his or her own abilities short. “The whole purpose of higher education,” according to Pat Terrell, vice president of Utah State’s Student Services, “is learning where to look to obtain research and access information. A student that is plagiarizing someone else’s work is not getting their money’s worth out of their education.” (Houshmand) Nothing could be truer. When students do not complete their own work, they are deprived of developing their abilities to analyze information, judge source credibility, express their thoughts and feelings clearly, properly quote sources, and cite information. Since these skills are required in any successful career a student may choose after college, one who plagiarizes loses the most valuable skill preparation of a college career.
The consequences for turning in a paper that’s been downloaded off the Internet can be quite severe. While the instructor has complete authority to decide the ultimate fate of a student who has turned in someone else’s work, every college and university has set up guidelines to assist the instructor. At the University of Alaska Fairbanks, the Honor Code clearly states the following:
Violations of the Honor Code will result in a failing grade for the assignment, and, ordinarily, for the course in which the violation occurred. Moreover, violations of the Honor Code may result in suspension or expulsion. (UAF, pg. 22)
Beyond collegiate consequences for plagiarizing, the buying and selling of term papers is actually illegal in 18 states. Students could be prosecuted and either jailed or fined for the simple act of downloading a paper. Considered as a case of fraud, the Federal government could become involved as fraud is a federal offense.
Failing grades, suspension, expulsion, prison time… are any of these consequences worth the extra time students actually burn by turning in a paper they have downloaded from the Internet? While turning in an online paper when a deadline seems to be flying by may be extremely tempting, the consequences for such a crime are too high. By trying to bypass the research and writing stages of an assignment, downloading a term paper from the Internet is simply “playing with fire” that could ruin students’ future chances for career success.
Music
A harmonious voice of creation
An echo of the invisible world
An outburst of the soul
A moral law which gives
Soul to the universe;
Wings to the mind;
Flight to the imagination;
Charm and gaiety to
Life and everything.
The art which is most apt to
Give way to tears and memory.
That which washes away from the soul
The dust of everyday life.
It speaks what cannot be expressed,
Soothes the mind, yielding to rest;
Heals the heart, making it whole again;
Flows from heaven to the soul.
It causes us to dance -
For laughter and tears;
Hopes and dreams;
Fears and madness;
Love and lust.
Music.
To stop the flow of music would be akin
To the stopping of time itself –
Incredible.
Inconceivable.
Music is enough for a lifetime,
But one lifetime is not enough for
Music.
An echo of the invisible world
An outburst of the soul
A moral law which gives
Soul to the universe;
Wings to the mind;
Flight to the imagination;
Charm and gaiety to
Life and everything.
The art which is most apt to
Give way to tears and memory.
That which washes away from the soul
The dust of everyday life.
It speaks what cannot be expressed,
Soothes the mind, yielding to rest;
Heals the heart, making it whole again;
Flows from heaven to the soul.
It causes us to dance -
For laughter and tears;
Hopes and dreams;
Fears and madness;
Love and lust.
Music.
To stop the flow of music would be akin
To the stopping of time itself –
Incredible.
Inconceivable.
Music is enough for a lifetime,
But one lifetime is not enough for
Music.
Murdered
The woods are never solitary
They are full of whispering,
Beckoning,
Unfriendly life.
At the scent of a flower or
One glimpse of a path of moonlight
Lying fair upon a darkened trail,
The barriers crumble and fall.
Through the long corridors
The ghosts of the past walk -
Unfettered –
Hindered only by
Broken promises,
Dead hopes, and
Dream dust.
You said I killed you –
Haunt me, then!
The murdered do
Haunt their murderers,
I believe.
I know that ghosts have
Wandered on earth.
Be with me always –
Take any form –
Drive me mad!
Only do not leave me
In this abyss,
Where I cannot find you.
They are full of whispering,
Beckoning,
Unfriendly life.
At the scent of a flower or
One glimpse of a path of moonlight
Lying fair upon a darkened trail,
The barriers crumble and fall.
Through the long corridors
The ghosts of the past walk -
Unfettered –
Hindered only by
Broken promises,
Dead hopes, and
Dream dust.
You said I killed you –
Haunt me, then!
The murdered do
Haunt their murderers,
I believe.
I know that ghosts have
Wandered on earth.
Be with me always –
Take any form –
Drive me mad!
Only do not leave me
In this abyss,
Where I cannot find you.
Mortality in the Key of E
A man who know he will not die is
A young man.
Kept young by the knowledge that
Death shall have no dominion,
Nothing’s as hard as
Watching that die.
Who knows
The pain of death better –
He who gasps his final breath or
We who must breathe
The foul air of
His decomposition?
Who bears the greater burden –
The cold bones of
The dead man in his coffin or
The spine of
The pallbearer carrying his load?
No one knows this burden better than
We who have seen so many pass.
If we’re going to die,
We should make it count for
Something –
Make a stand.
A young man.
Kept young by the knowledge that
Death shall have no dominion,
Nothing’s as hard as
Watching that die.
Who knows
The pain of death better –
He who gasps his final breath or
We who must breathe
The foul air of
His decomposition?
Who bears the greater burden –
The cold bones of
The dead man in his coffin or
The spine of
The pallbearer carrying his load?
No one knows this burden better than
We who have seen so many pass.
If we’re going to die,
We should make it count for
Something –
Make a stand.
Mortal Coil
There is madness in the world,
Fueled by hatred, by guilt,
By pain, despair, and fear.
There is talk that this life is but
One of many in a cycle of lives.
Should immortality be our
Common bond?
Do we return to the mortal coil,
Unfettered by our sins?
Or burdened by them?
And if your time has truly come,
Understand that with
The beauty of this life,
There does come pain and despair.
No one is immune.
Guilt is for the weak.
To harbor it is to
Deny yourself freedom and
To be a captive –
A slave.
Fueled by hatred, by guilt,
By pain, despair, and fear.
There is talk that this life is but
One of many in a cycle of lives.
Should immortality be our
Common bond?
Do we return to the mortal coil,
Unfettered by our sins?
Or burdened by them?
And if your time has truly come,
Understand that with
The beauty of this life,
There does come pain and despair.
No one is immune.
Guilt is for the weak.
To harbor it is to
Deny yourself freedom and
To be a captive –
A slave.
Midnight's Passioned Plea
His voice was
Silken whispers
In the small hours of the night and
Rolled over me like
A warm lip of ocean –
Pleasurable, caressing.
His lips were velvet;
His tongue a quick wetness.
His breath was hot and sweet
As he whispered into my ear,
“Your pulse I taste like
Cherries on my tongue.
You have taken
My small gift
And polished it ‘til it shone –
Yet your own great gifts
You throw away.
I ran away from your love, and
Now I run towards it so
Let me be covered in your
Silken chains.
Tie me down and
Let me drown in your
Sweet flesh.”
Silken whispers
In the small hours of the night and
Rolled over me like
A warm lip of ocean –
Pleasurable, caressing.
His lips were velvet;
His tongue a quick wetness.
His breath was hot and sweet
As he whispered into my ear,
“Your pulse I taste like
Cherries on my tongue.
You have taken
My small gift
And polished it ‘til it shone –
Yet your own great gifts
You throw away.
I ran away from your love, and
Now I run towards it so
Let me be covered in your
Silken chains.
Tie me down and
Let me drown in your
Sweet flesh.”
Man
What a piece of work –
How noble in reason,
How infinite in faculty.
In form,
How expressive and admirable.
In action,
How like an angel.
In apprehension,
How like a god.
In the beauty of the world
As the paragon of animals.
In mortal delights,
A quintessence of dust.
How noble in reason,
How infinite in faculty.
In form,
How expressive and admirable.
In action,
How like an angel.
In apprehension,
How like a god.
In the beauty of the world
As the paragon of animals.
In mortal delights,
A quintessence of dust.
Love?
How it toys with us.
Makes utter fools of us –
Flogs, whips, and spanks us.
Listen to the voices of the unloved
As they surge and retreat
Into the black of night.
Hushed whispers uttered in
Empty rooms and lonely beds,
The hunger of love unattained,
Rushing through our fingers,
Unstoppable,
Fleeting,
Gone.
And yet…
When we touch this love
It burns us with its bright flame;
It punishes.
It consumes.
And yet…
We must have it.
It rules us –
Uses,
Abuses,
Misuses.
And yet…
Why do we always
Crawl back for more?
Makes utter fools of us –
Flogs, whips, and spanks us.
Listen to the voices of the unloved
As they surge and retreat
Into the black of night.
Hushed whispers uttered in
Empty rooms and lonely beds,
The hunger of love unattained,
Rushing through our fingers,
Unstoppable,
Fleeting,
Gone.
And yet…
When we touch this love
It burns us with its bright flame;
It punishes.
It consumes.
And yet…
We must have it.
It rules us –
Uses,
Abuses,
Misuses.
And yet…
Why do we always
Crawl back for more?
Innocently Evil
The cruelest evil?
Not some wretched entity,
Manifested in cloven hooves and
A leering goat’s head.
The child and its soft cries –
The sound of all that
Should be cherished and protected.
The child’s innocence and
Purity
Knows no bounds.
Neither does its cruelty when
Evil comes upon its soul.
Not some wretched entity,
Manifested in cloven hooves and
A leering goat’s head.
The child and its soft cries –
The sound of all that
Should be cherished and protected.
The child’s innocence and
Purity
Knows no bounds.
Neither does its cruelty when
Evil comes upon its soul.
Immortal Prison
One short sleep past –
We awake eternally, and
Death shall be no more.
Death, thou shalt die!
Ah, but there is a
Price to be paid.
Love may be tasted yet
Never savored.
In the darkest moments,
We may envy mortality.
Guilt is a poison.
A vampyre lives in
A constant state of
Desire and disgust.
His very nature often
Revolts him, but
He doesn’t have the will
To deny the basest urge –
To deny his indulgences.
There’s the killing, but
There’s also the pleasure;
The sensuality;
The lust;
The sheer ecstasy of it all.
No one can know
His isolation;
No one feels so profoundly
His absence of faith.
No one can know that
Delirious drowning feeling of
Plunging into
A crimson saline ocean.
Yet no one will also know
The shame so staggering as to
Bow the shoulders of
The mightiest emperor.
We awake eternally, and
Death shall be no more.
Death, thou shalt die!
Ah, but there is a
Price to be paid.
Love may be tasted yet
Never savored.
In the darkest moments,
We may envy mortality.
Guilt is a poison.
A vampyre lives in
A constant state of
Desire and disgust.
His very nature often
Revolts him, but
He doesn’t have the will
To deny the basest urge –
To deny his indulgences.
There’s the killing, but
There’s also the pleasure;
The sensuality;
The lust;
The sheer ecstasy of it all.
No one can know
His isolation;
No one feels so profoundly
His absence of faith.
No one can know that
Delirious drowning feeling of
Plunging into
A crimson saline ocean.
Yet no one will also know
The shame so staggering as to
Bow the shoulders of
The mightiest emperor.
If There Is A God...
Tonight...
We mourn the loss of
A dear friend,
One moment so full of life;
The next lying
Shattered and broken –
Irretrievable.
Beyond reach,
Beyond hope.
We ask ourselves,
“If there is a God,
How can this happen?”
Better to ask,
“If there is a God,
Must it be sane?”
We mourn the loss of
A dear friend,
One moment so full of life;
The next lying
Shattered and broken –
Irretrievable.
Beyond reach,
Beyond hope.
We ask ourselves,
“If there is a God,
How can this happen?”
Better to ask,
“If there is a God,
Must it be sane?”
Hellish Alchemy
Love exists,
Rages within.
A silent scream of
Endless pain.
Hellish alchemy indeed.
Love is
Without equal.
Not death -
Not hell itself,
But a precious flower
Long withered and gone.
There's a price to be paid.
Love may be tasted but
Never savored.
Rages within.
A silent scream of
Endless pain.
Hellish alchemy indeed.
Love is
Without equal.
Not death -
Not hell itself,
But a precious flower
Long withered and gone.
There's a price to be paid.
Love may be tasted but
Never savored.
Guilt
Tired yet of
This incessant guilt?
Hasn’t it swayed your back and
Stooped your shoulders to
The point of throwing it off?
Insisting upon taking
Responsibility for the
Actions and emotions of
Those around you
When those emotions –
And those alone –
Are truly responsible.
This guilt itself is a necessity –
Needed so we have control over
Our reasons, our morals.
Needed to give us
An experienced decision.
This incessant guilt?
Hasn’t it swayed your back and
Stooped your shoulders to
The point of throwing it off?
Insisting upon taking
Responsibility for the
Actions and emotions of
Those around you
When those emotions –
And those alone –
Are truly responsible.
This guilt itself is a necessity –
Needed so we have control over
Our reasons, our morals.
Needed to give us
An experienced decision.
Ghosts
A hallucination of some famous regret.
Mistakes in our past we’ve made.
These come not from beyond the pale
But rise up from our gravest doubts –
Doubts about ourselves and
The very world we live in.
Each ill conceived notion we have,
Each ill considered thing we’ve done is
A ghost which haunts us for eternity –
If we let it.
Regret.
Regret is for the foolish;
The weak;
The tormented.
Kill it
Before it bleeds you.
Mistakes in our past we’ve made.
These come not from beyond the pale
But rise up from our gravest doubts –
Doubts about ourselves and
The very world we live in.
Each ill conceived notion we have,
Each ill considered thing we’ve done is
A ghost which haunts us for eternity –
If we let it.
Regret.
Regret is for the foolish;
The weak;
The tormented.
Kill it
Before it bleeds you.
Family
What makes
A family?
A home?
What do those things
Make of us?
What molds us into
The shapes that
Horrify
Us when we look in
The mirror?
What makes us
Monsters
To others?
To ourselves?
Biology?
Environment?
Society?
Our own perverse wills?
All of the above?
This is a multiple choice exercise.
Think hard before you answer.
Choose as if your life depended on it.
A family?
A home?
What do those things
Make of us?
What molds us into
The shapes that
Horrify
Us when we look in
The mirror?
What makes us
Monsters
To others?
To ourselves?
Biology?
Environment?
Society?
Our own perverse wills?
All of the above?
This is a multiple choice exercise.
Think hard before you answer.
Choose as if your life depended on it.
Falling
Do you dream of
Falling?
Spinning down into
The darkness
From a great height…
Limbs failing,
Heart pounding,
Knowing that you're going to
Hit the ground at
Any second –
But then you awaken?
You never do seem to
Strike the ground.
it would seem a wise man shouldn't
Fear a dream of falling, but
A dream of dying –
An instant of
Fatal,
Phantom
Gravity.
Falling?
Spinning down into
The darkness
From a great height…
Limbs failing,
Heart pounding,
Knowing that you're going to
Hit the ground at
Any second –
But then you awaken?
You never do seem to
Strike the ground.
it would seem a wise man shouldn't
Fear a dream of falling, but
A dream of dying –
An instant of
Fatal,
Phantom
Gravity.
Excess
Nature will not tolerate
Excesses –
As in the case of those who take
More than their fair share.
When you have too much,
There will always be
Someone wanting to take it
Away from you.
This will be dealt with accordingly.
Maybe you should ask yourself –
Has your blood bounty been
A blessing or a curse?
Excesses –
As in the case of those who take
More than their fair share.
When you have too much,
There will always be
Someone wanting to take it
Away from you.
This will be dealt with accordingly.
Maybe you should ask yourself –
Has your blood bounty been
A blessing or a curse?
Desires
They say no two people are alike.
Never is that more true than when
It comes to the deepest, darkest part
Of our very souls -
Our desires.
Some cherish what
Others abhor.
One man’s precious cargo is
Another man’s poison.
Some prize what
Others revile.
Prize what you will;
Prize what you can;
Always remember –
Even he who dies with
The most prizes…
Still dies.
Never is that more true than when
It comes to the deepest, darkest part
Of our very souls -
Our desires.
Some cherish what
Others abhor.
One man’s precious cargo is
Another man’s poison.
Some prize what
Others revile.
Prize what you will;
Prize what you can;
Always remember –
Even he who dies with
The most prizes…
Still dies.
Deathly Contemplations
How dark can your existence be
When compared to an eternal void?
What do you see from
Where you stand?
A bright light at the
End of the tunnel?
Is it possibly
A ray of hope?
A glimmer of something better?
Or will it burn you like
The rising sun?
Are you hearing the trumpeting of
St. Peter’s angels?
Or the screams of
Memnoch’s tortured souls?
You will never know the answer until
After the deed is done.
Is your faith really that strong?
When compared to an eternal void?
What do you see from
Where you stand?
A bright light at the
End of the tunnel?
Is it possibly
A ray of hope?
A glimmer of something better?
Or will it burn you like
The rising sun?
Are you hearing the trumpeting of
St. Peter’s angels?
Or the screams of
Memnoch’s tortured souls?
You will never know the answer until
After the deed is done.
Is your faith really that strong?
Broken Toys
Do you mourn an end
That came too soon?
A love that might have been?
We are haunted by
Potentiality
Long after
The broken pieces of
Our pretty, untouched toys
Are swept away.
It was all so illusory.
Illusion remains.
Illusion is such an empty cup.
“Might have been” is
A notion that can grow
To fill your whole world.
Pretending can become
A way of life if we let it.
We convince ourselves that
Everything would be different,
Everything would be all right –
If only we had our toy back.
Some of us do survive our losses.
Some of us prefer to
get even and go on,
Though we're never quite the same.
Loss can be a growth experience.
But lives change,
Lives are twisted, and
All over a broken toy.
That came too soon?
A love that might have been?
We are haunted by
Potentiality
Long after
The broken pieces of
Our pretty, untouched toys
Are swept away.
It was all so illusory.
Illusion remains.
Illusion is such an empty cup.
“Might have been” is
A notion that can grow
To fill your whole world.
Pretending can become
A way of life if we let it.
We convince ourselves that
Everything would be different,
Everything would be all right –
If only we had our toy back.
Some of us do survive our losses.
Some of us prefer to
get even and go on,
Though we're never quite the same.
Loss can be a growth experience.
But lives change,
Lives are twisted, and
All over a broken toy.
Bella Lunita
Dark midnight skies,
Almost fever bright –
The full moon hung on
The skeletal dead branches like
A froth of early blossoms.
That icy hand protectively caresses
An endless midnight ocean and
Somehow manages to burn.
Illuminating the wispy clouds
Hanging in the black like
The scruffy webs of black widows -
Lacking beautiful symmetry but with
Their own arcane design.
They say the full moon
Distorts our perceptions,
Clouds our judgment…
Makes fools of us all.
The moonbeams blind us to
The truth.
How do you feel about the moon –
About how it translates
The light of the sun?
Do you believe in magic?
Almost fever bright –
The full moon hung on
The skeletal dead branches like
A froth of early blossoms.
That icy hand protectively caresses
An endless midnight ocean and
Somehow manages to burn.
Illuminating the wispy clouds
Hanging in the black like
The scruffy webs of black widows -
Lacking beautiful symmetry but with
Their own arcane design.
They say the full moon
Distorts our perceptions,
Clouds our judgment…
Makes fools of us all.
The moonbeams blind us to
The truth.
How do you feel about the moon –
About how it translates
The light of the sun?
Do you believe in magic?
Creativity running slower than molasses in... well, in January
Everything is so sluggish this morning. As I sit here, looking at the frost building up on everything outside because of these frigid temperatures, all I can do is think about crawling back into bed and snuggling down under my covers. Creativity and writing definitely are NOT at the top of my list of things to do right now.At times like this, I don't sit there with some writing prompt to try and clear away the writer's block. I turn to things like this and just start writing. Anything that comes into my head shows up on the page... and as long as I can get some word on paper or printed on the screen, the writer's block seems to clear on its own.
I guess it's like when the trainer at the gym tells you to keep working through the pain of a workout, eh?
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