Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

Date line: I ferget!

Random motions in a typical dream, an ocean of violence in bloom,
The world seems magical, almost comical,
A realization that the minute you are a born, you’re a minute closer to death,
As a child, it scares you, to think of such things, to die,
Then someone,
Your heart
Your soul,
Dies,
The worse moment than your own death,
You continue on,
Why?
You will ask yourself,
It happens,
People around you,
Don’t understand,
How can you say such things,
It is great to be alive,
But is it?
Without a heart,
Without a soul?

You will find someone,
Maybe a few someone,
But that moment,
Will be the end of your world.

You will not see the beauty anymore,
The fear won’t be there either,
You will be ready for that moment of passing,
But Jesus for some reason,
Will keep you alive,
Mostly to fuck with you,
Jesus is good at that,
God is even better,
“See my power, my will, to keep you going,
Why? Cause I can!!
Haha!”

Don’t believe me,
Lose your heart,
Lose your soul,
Lose that reason you stay alive for,
Then you will discover,
The true meaning,
The true place that is Hell.

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Does the Earth hear the crying of our young, the old, our broken warriors marching through heated plains, to destination unknown?

Hope?

The word died many moons ago.

We stood at the hill, our eyes looking towards the sun, we did not see the promised lands, the milk or the honey, just a waste nobody wanted in the Upper Crust, till the gold and silver was found, then new promises to be broken….

We were promised good lands, to raise our lives but we received salted plains where nothing would grow. We grew hungry, our youth grew bitter, rage, we danced for the hope but Great Father took our dances as threats, sent in the soldiers, to murder us, to silence us, this was the way, we did not need to be told.

The moon and the sky tried to keep us safe, but even with the great medicine man, we were not enough, we danced and they came, afraid, raids, burning our homes to that salted earth.

Did their God only love the white man?

We were forced to speak their tongue, beaten if we did not obey. We were forced to love their God even though he seem not to care about us because we were not the right color.

Great father said we shall give you lands then proceeded to take them away as soon as value was found.

The white man came and took it all away.

We were not humans to them, dogs, to be beaten, sent on our way till something else was found, “Go to the next promised land!” Great Father said, “Do not dare dance as we know it is the Devil’s dance!”

We danced for our ancestors, they cried for us, prayed for us, but it did not matter, the living were trapped, marching to the next promised land.

There in the distance stood the bear, the coyote and the crow, each trying to save us, but they could not, their power ran out long ago.

The great bison was a memory, only a story, a legend to our children, who would be taken away from us, to be raised as the white father saw fit.

Our future was blight.

The fire dimmed.

Dreams did not come.

Where did the promised lands go?

Distance

Posted: October 12, 2022 in depression, fiction, Suicide
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A silent scream,
Madness inherited into that deep sleep they shall not wake,
We were nothing,
Slight fantasies as they,
The prophets,
Began to sacrifice the sacred cow,
The blood ran like a river to hell,
A memory adrift in a sea of misery,
We have cast the dice,
To land where they may,
Life,
A chance of great,
Hate,
Simple meal with a long dead saint,
A last eternal sleep,
There we shall ride,
Straight to the blade of suicide,
Where the mount shall bound,
To send us to Hell…

Here in the tall willows, away from the eyes, the mockingbirds dare lie, they whisper in tunes, a hi, a hi.

Cindy laid in the tall grass, holding her doll, wishing it was real or this whole life was a dream.

Her brother had been killed in a war, Vietnam, her mother had cried there in the kitchen.

Cindy tried not to cry as she ran out of the kitchen, the tears were beginning to fly.

It wasn’t fair.

He was only 19.

He had told her he would come home alive.

He promised.

He lied.

There he laid, in that box, a shell, a corpse.

Cindy didn’t want to go to his funeral.

But she did.

Mother needed her support.

She had told Cindy that as Cindy sat in the back seat of the car, heading to the funeral home.

A flag covered the casket as it sat there, waiting to be lowered into the grave.

Mother never spoke of it again.

Cindy would hear her late at night, crying, for many years.

“I’ll be okay!” she told Cindy as she prepared to leave for her college.

Cindy got a call from her town’s sheriff, her mother decided to join Cindy’s brother by overdosing on sleeping pills and alcohol.

Another head stone to wait.

Cindy didn’t cry.

She shook friends’ hands at the wake.

“She was a good woman, she was strong…”

Cindy hated it, standing there, pretending her mother was strong.

Cindy was the last of the tribe, didn’t want to be, her father died before she was three.

She shut down, closed up, lied, said she was okay, Mother was with God and Cindy’s brother, but she wasn’t fine.

Mother lied.

Everyone dies.

She sat in the lonely quiet home, sitting on the floor, playing with that same doll, wishing she was real.

Was this life?

Just to lie, “I’m okay, don’t worry about me!”?

Cindy went to bed, to dream of a better time.

1684,
Number on the door,
Wine,
Drunk like water,
To drive that madness away,
Angry young men,
Waiting for the end,
A somber moment,
Oh drifting softly by,
To see,
That sea,
Oh hairy lies,
To feel alive,
In cosmic lights,
Drifting through angels,
Alive,
Oh beauty,
Oh father,
Oh mother,
Dying
On the vine,
A herald,
To hear,
A final sigh,
Angry young fucks,
Crying in the night,
Blasphemy,
In midnight hour,
To revel,
In made up words,
Of life,
Lies,
And simple things!

Somewhere outside of a bottle of a tequila, a monkey decided to grow wings and become a fairy of mass portions.

Little Rock was dying, Tulsa was next, America was a scene, somewhere outside reality, as I sat there, after taking a few edibles of various strength.

“Is this death?” Mary shouted from the top of the tower, leaning towards the right.

I shrugged as the world span out of control into the sun, seconds at a time.

It would seem the world would end in 30 billion years or a month, matters on how fast it could spin, fleeing, into that fiery ball of enraged senators.

Henry Parker, the man behind the illusion of reality, was sitting here too. His hands grasped the bottle of tequila like it was a religious experience.

“I saw Jesus back there!” Mary said as she settled back in the back seat of the car. She was high or so said her agent as he put her into the car.

Vegas, land of the unholy wild chief iguanas was boiling in its own skin.

“Beer!” Mary roared as she fled into the casino.

We never saw her again.

In a few years, I would be dead, a memory in some data bank, possibly even erased, to make room for those still alive.

The sky was gray; overcast, as I walked the two miles from my house to the beach, the wind hitting my face hard.

“Lyle?” a voice crept from my memories; July 12th, two years, maybe three years ago, I was seventeen, Aunt Tilda was dying; I couldn’t see her then, there at the hospital.

My mother was dying too, both of cancer. I tried to see them but I couldn’t, I was sick, the flu, I think, my father let me peek at them through the window of their rooms. Both laughed and waved.

I waved back.

When I die, I hope there is someone there to wave at me; a small glimmer of hope before the end.

I wrote a letter to mother; father gave it to her, please come home, I will make Chester pudding for you and father.

She never came home; died on the 20th of July.

Aunt Tilda on the 21st.

I sat there on the beach.

I did not think about death as the waves crashed to the shore.

I thought about life.

It was a good day.

We flew,
To touch the sky,
To go where no one could touch us,
To bring us down,
To fly,
To sing,
Upon gilded wings,
We flew,
To find ourselves,
Among the clouds,
We saw,
The Heaven’s angels,
Singing to us,
As our wings brought us,
To that bliss,
Among the clouds,
So high above,
To softly drift,
Our life was ours,
To do as we wished,
To fly,
Dear ones,
To fly.

Mock bums, living life, in the eyes of social media stars,
Look towards the world; bright eyes dulled by reality,
Hard life, out there,
Going up,
Into made up names,
Swimming through broken lanterns,
I see impurity,
Beneath the sacred Church,
Called television,
Mother doesn’t know,
She doesn’t care,
She been dead a long time ago,
Cars honking,
God is on the street,
Pretending,
He is one of us,
Near the King of Neon,
Flashing threats,
Stop,
Roll,
The streets are dying,
Old hotels burning to the ground,
A toothless hag,
Her name is France.

Joey is dying,
Half past three,
Free,
Thrown in the garbage can,
Crawling out from our warm sacks,
Everyone is dying,
Minute by minute,
Hour to days,
Good night sweet night,
See you tomorrow!

INTRODUCTION:

The world did not see him as a human being; just a cog in a huge grinding wheel, nothing more, if he broke down, he’d be replaced, not even a mention on the grave stone.

I’m not an author, a writer, just some guy clacking at the keyboard, just some guy clacking at the keyboard trying to get the words out of my mind before they disappear like smoke on the wind.

CHAPTER ONE: TNT LOVE

Mr. John Patterson died as any man would die after having his love scorned by the woman he dreamed he’d spend his life with; he strapped sticks of dynamite to his chest and blew himself up a block from the brothel where his “True love” worked in.

Mary Soren, not her real name, heard and felt the explosion and thought the city of Butte, Montana was being attacked by the Germans.

She found out later, her suitor, who tried to persuade her to move back east with him, had blown himself up at her rejection.

She felt sad for a moment but continued “working” the night through.