Assail

,so I cradled my broken arm and ran as fast as I could using my shoulders. I could hear those dreadful footsteps slobbering behind me, tripping in hunger and desperation. The sound brought cold tears to my eyes. The insides of my cheeks famished and swelled from the constant, burning hyper-breathing.

I could not decipher which way to go, how to get away. So I just carried on, jarring myself against the thick parallel concrete walls that surrounded me. I prayed for relief.

I suddenly snagged on a creeping root and my entire body weight landed on my arm. With a terrible snack, and a pain that felt like someone had placed my arm on kerb and then jumped on it, came a horrifying, wet moan from just behind me. I scrambled to my feet and continued my agonising run. Every step I took stabbed me, and I could feel a juggle inside as my completely shattered bones shook from movement. I could hear those awful steps plummeting…

Closing in… Hot breath on my neck… I took the next left sprinting so hard that I sprung into the adjacent wall. This time my arm let out a falling-tree creak, but I didn’t have time to notice the blood that then started spitting. The impact surprised the thing and it hurtled forwards, being slapped by that long enclosure that kept us both trapped here. It gave me seconds.

But then it got faster.

I heaved everywhere, my life was just ache, my arm bleeding heavily through my white fleece. My legs fidgeted on each step I took. I was giving in. The thing had me. I was hopeless, my pace slowing, each turn and each shoulder against the wall knocking more from me than the last..

With pride, I snapped around, ready for a defeated dog fight. I was already dead.

But then it all glistened away in grey fog. The stone walls burning softly, their new state of matter drifting up slowly, in circles and bending lines. I watched, gently holding my broken arm as the sky formed into grey, and the walls came loose, and I could nearly see the shape of the maze I had bashed through now broke in suspension. Light as air it left me. With my broken arm I stretched, painfully, stained with blood on my clothes and my beaten hand that poked from the darkened sleeve, and felt the mist that rose from the wall beside me. It felt…slender on my damaged body. Healing almost, like deer tears roaming along the pain.

I turned to meet my chaser and found it lying in a massy mass. It was limp and fallen, just letting itself cloud. Its thick blackness eroded into grey too, it lightened as it flew.

The effervescence felt like home.

And then I realised, my devastated hand was dissipating too

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Secret

I have lived my life sick and bloated, full of secrets.

I have carried my bulging stomach, drooling a sloppy green substance from my wet lips.

I have swallowed – while stuffed to my throat – secrets as plenty as a full turkey, trying to bash down my already inside contents with the bones, to make further room for what is to come.

I have lived my life of secrecy, pain and misery alone, sad and untrusting.

And when I finally opened myself up to someone

I became their secret.

‘An Envelope Popped Through The Door’ Prompt

She hand-closed the door softly behind her, to keep it from falling to pieces. She let her strict ponytail loose. She took a well earned deep breath and her insides were treated with the taste of fresh-on-old mildew. “Home”, she whispered. She waltzed then through the dainty hallway, allowing her finger to trace along the many semi-circular hanging tears of wallpaper, like child-drawn waves. There remained only few doors in this framed rubble of a building, and none that separated the hallway from the kitchen. She descended from the pale beige glow of the hall into the skeleton light.

Everything in this home was devastated, but she kept it neat. Closed drawers, levelled and stacked books.. She was an organised woman, now that she had the freedom to be. What satisfied her about this place was her feeling of control. She would leave for weeks to come back and find everything as only a dustier form of its previous self. She felt powerful, finally safe in her own clay-stained hands. It was a rather new feeling of assurance, something she had not been familiar with most of her life. With no mother, she was hastily forced to be wed when she was still a girl.. to a man much stronger than her. And older, too.

But that was past her now. She gazed through the window above the sink, into an abyss of ash. For miles, there was nothing salvageable, and the rest was swept from an orange drift of wind, seemingly like a sandstorm, that hid the rest of the world. She was grateful for whichever bomb that had hit this place, leaving a piles of embers, and erratic poles dotted around. But she most loved that she could feel the mush of compressed ash as she walked.

On the sill. A dead spider. She gasped. It’s legs crooked in agony. She examined closer. It’s face was smushed, as if from weight. It reminded her of him, how he would kill everything in his house, break objects, leave things open and messy but never allow her to clean. Or to leave. She was to rot, as he trumped all over, just to see her squirm.

She cupped the spider, and dropped him into the sink and ran the tap. Brown water came and washed the spider down. Gone. Forever. She wiped the sill clean. Her brief moment of fear had been cleared. She was alone here, in control here, and safe here.

She began her ritual of cleaning. She had brought a purse full of Wypall wipes and a multitude of business-marketed cleaning sprays. She wiped the damaged counters of the kitchen, the frames with no doors, the old mahogany counter-piece in the hall, all along the bannister, up the stairs…

A noise. Right as she ascended the final step. As of a knock. On the door. Behind her. But there was nobody there. She could see through the frosted glass in the middle of the door. Nothing. She gave a plain smile. All but the sound of a footstep.

And so she carried on her cleaning upstairs, and she made everything in every room glean. Her last mission, was to batter the dust of the duvet in the only bedroom. And so she grabbed two corners of it, and slid it off the bed. And screamed.

On the bed. A stain. An ink stain. A lidless pen lay leaked. Permanent black. Her first thought was not to question its presence but to get rid of it. She went to rub at it with her wipe but the ink licked it. And stuck. She dropped it then, and backed away in horror. She had now realised. Someone had been here. Recently. They had stained the bed and killed a spider.

She ran. Down the stairs. Not safe anymore. But there. The frosted glass was no longer clear. 

A shadow. Something. With a top hat. Mad hair underneath. At the door.

“It’s not real…” Perhaps just a gathering of dark dust. It was quite probable. The wind could’ve placed it. She stood frozen on the second bottom stair for minutes, her heart rate slowly averaging as the something showed no form of life. It wasn’t real. She was not in danger, or in the presence of something else. She gave another plain smile. Just a trick of nature. She slumped down the last step.

An envelope popped through the door.

Hurricane

You promised you’d stay with me. Even after I’d approached the magician –

There was a man who was said to live in a house of raw unfurnished brick. He was rumoured to be a magician, with one of those eerie moustaches and a quick smirk that made your knees want to bend. He was also rumoured, but perhaps rumoured with a bit more circumstance, to be a pedophile. He was said to take the virginity of underage girls – though all was consented, and the girls who fell victim fell in love with him, so the police had trouble ever pinning the guy down. Given all the rumours about him, they couldn’t pluck one whisper up and say this is the truth anyway. The man was quite clever.

I went down to the man on a Spring day, my mouth flaming from the taste of Bourbon. You see, for some reason, the girls wanted to go to the man. It was like a shared unspoken wish for them. He was oddly attractive, and he had masterful hands.

One day my sister came home. She was fifteen, and liked to think she was older. I am the mishap of the family, and everyone else seems to have a level head, so I never worried about her visiting the man. She was small and brittle and pretty enough to fall in some high school love to keep her distracted until the age where she was wiser, or even to the age where the man would not touch her – they all had to be underage. All of them. But when my sister came home, she was shaky like a loose plank. It was just me and her in our little kitchen, and she sat down at the table, holding herself, and staring at the floor. Of course I knew. When she came to, which I waited for, she asked me for a drink. I was sixteen at the time, only a year older, but I was a drinker – as I said, I am the mishap. I took some of my fathers Jack Daniel’s and put a fair shot in the glass, and slapped it in front of her. With a rattling hand she drew it to her bottom lip and downed it, as tears flew like angels down her cheeks.

With a broken voice she asked my back; “What happens now?”

And I told her; “You’re older now. Now you have to fend for yourself.” And so I left the Jack Daniels out, for her to reach, and took the Bourbon and was on my way, as my little sister sat crumbling away her old skin.

The day was bright and it felt like Summer was peaking through the sky of Spring. I knocked on his door once. I wasn’t a virgin, I wasn’t a girl, but I knew he’d like me. The most popular delinquent, someone who was feared and respected, at his front door. He would know. And of course he knew. He knew who all the kids were in this town.

And he did take me in. And he held my hand as he lead me to the room. It was a tasty blue, the smell of soft baby powder scenting the light colour. The curtains were closed, the bed was made, and the decor was outstanding. Posters, drawers, a tiny marble clock with a loud tick.

I let this man inside my body, I let him do what it is he wanted, I let him feel in charge, and I let him smile as he did so. And then I took him captive.

I sq uee zed his jaw // tightly, I thr /ew him arou//nd the ro om. I ////smashed//// his head off th e drawers he so c aref ully clea//ned. I r/i/p/p/e/d the {curtains o f f their hook, I s mas./hed the window. I to/re the du-vet into sha-/-mbles, I k.icke,d the do,or o f f it’s hin/ges, I b//rok//e his no./.se and I b//rok//e his h-and..s. I to)(ok a piece of g.l/a.s/s and dr_ew his blood  //// from him and wr;o:te ‘RAPIST’ on his fore#head. I shaved his moustache. I cut his lip in half. Then I stopped.

I took a look at the devastation I had caused, as if a hurricane had left this place for rubble, and then I left.

And I told you. You promised you’d stay with me. And my friends celebrated me that night. They threw a huge party, and so many of the underage girls came and cried because that man had been destroyed, but so had a part of their life, and my friends assured me that I had done the right thing, and that night I had been crowned King of the town, and from that day on I was remembered as the boy who destroyed the magician, and me and my friends were respected even more, and we were called ‘The last of the hometown heroes.’ And we kept to that reputation. We fought every nightmare of our town. But we were so young. And the damage we inflicted took it’s toll on us. Such a burden to bear.

My friends and I decided we couldn’t keep it up anymore. We would devote our lives to our town, but our lives were dissipating, and so the younger folk, those who we inspired, would do our jobs. We had one last night, together.

I hated you. I needed to keep you away from me. We kept it all secret. We took LSD and hallucinated our day away.

I could see chemicals explode like fireworks on my skin. Me and my friends we all came together that night – in a romantic way – we connected in the only way we hadn’t connected yet. And I found myself heart-broken.

And I took it out on them. In the climax of it all I sank beneath them, and from under I raised  apocalyptic hell – I brought up our lives all together and i to/re it into tassels. My friends, my family, were r/i/p/p/e/d from the inside out. And then I stopped.

I took a look at the devastation I had caused, a personal devastation, my family, brothers and sisters, crying, screaming with hoarse voices. I shook their lives and everything they stood for and it lay in wreckage.

I had gone into that place, with the mindset that this was our last day as a family, and I had been correct. After the words I had spit, with such venom, all of our steel bonds melted from the acid, and we parted our ways. Our youth and all we did in the Summer and the Spring and the Autumn will never diminish, and in that way I suppose we will always be together.

And you found me. I don’t know how long you parked in that stiff spot, but as soon as I descended from the hooded room, you jumped from the car like you were the one on LSD and pulled me into you. You reminded me of your promise, and then you sheltered my face and put me in the passenger seat and drove off, away from the disdain. I could feel the gentle glow of harmony leak into tears of jagged discord all around me. My hands felt electric as lightning, my voice thunder.

You drove for hours. You needed to get me out of here. Madness was inescapable there. By midnight the rover ran out of gas and we stopped on some road-cliff in the dark. It’s a dangerous place to be stuck, right at a turn, with no lights to show you’re present.

You panicked. I waited in the car. You made a fool of the moon, and kicked the rocks, and I knew you were the last thing I needed to fix. You were the last ember of that town I needed to add substance to. So with a final breath, I went to the trunk of the car and took out the crow-bar you kept back there. Your arms were suddenly all over me, telling me to ‘snap out of it’ and not to let ‘it’ ‘overrule me’. But I knew what I was doing. I violently smashed your car windows, I stabbed at the tyres, as you screamed hysterically at me, begging me to stop. I got on top of the the car and let it r/i/p all over. When I was done, I dismounted from the car, and I went over to where you knelt defeated. And I took your face in my hand, and I softly kissed you.

“Hurricane.”

And then I walked off as it started to rain, wandered into a different town, and prepared myself for the connection I would have with it. And even though, my heart turned backwards and pulled against me like the tide, I wouldn’t stop.

A Personal View On Death

Death to me, is quite beautiful.

Death is tying a ribbon into a bow and labelling the package ‘Completion.’ It is finally being able to look back on a life and understand the meaning of that life, the question that has boggled philosophers, some of the best thinkers, since life began. Death is an epiphany. It’s noticing the beauty, the impact, the brilliance of someone.

With death comes a treasuring, and albeit a sum of regret too, but we cling on to what we remember of a life only once it’s gone. Death is keeping those memories and always feeling some sort of emotion because of them. Happiness, anger, desperation… In its own dark way, Death will remind you of what’s most important in life, in the most obvious way it can – through expression. Emotion. Elements of life.

Death is endless love, perhaps frustrating in some circumstances, but endless nonetheless. When we lose someone we love, when their life is complete, our love for them becomes immortal, because life can no longer touch that love, it cannot ruin that love, there will be no fights to tear that love. That love is crystallised and therefore unbreakable.

With death comes a terrible feeling that one won’t experience until they’ve fallen victim to Death’s grip. A pain, a sick feeling that was always there, like cancer, just waiting to be exploited. Mourning, grief… Emotions that cause sickness, sickness of hearts, sickness of souls, emotions that will make make you puke up the backbone of your reality and leave you staring at the mess on the floor. Death gives birth to the second part of life, and much like in the first part of life, we are born kicking and screaming and scared and stupid, but we grow. We age. Death prepares us for how cruel both it and Life can be, and will be, and you will see a different world, a world where you will not take ease for granted…But a world where you will appreciate the softness of snow, the flexibility of young glass, the changing colour of the sky.

Dillon #2

His skin is cold to touch. Colder than The Grey. His teeth are icicles. His tongue is vanilla ice-cream. His favourite colours are white and blue but he pretends they are red and black. When kissing his lips it feels like eating snow. His breath is always foggy. His blood has frozen, so he moves with stiff legs and turns slowly. He gleams with brilliance and cleanliness. He is immaculate and pure and those of wicked and wretched sin, those like me, are hurt to look upon his white statue. The light cuts the black of our eyes like a needle.

Nothing penetrates his glacier exterior. The pools of emotions inside him are never rippled. They are steady and lonely and never overflow and they are a young blue atop and embowled by a flawless white.

He deflects weapons and blocks punches. He is a white barrier. He is physically unbreakable. He doesn’t crack. He glows – a strict, skinny, skeleton glow that radiates from his skin. He is intimate with his surroundings and can surge them with confidence to withstand the wildest of winds and strongest of storms.

When he walks through empty corridors he glides his finger along the wall emitting little flakes from the contact that melt to a tear of water before they reach the ground.

I think he lives like he’s made of glass. Perhaps porcelain. A cold porcelain vase that doesn’t home flowers and acts as just an eye pleaser, a decoration on a marble mantlepiece. And so, he feels cold and worthless and looked at but not looked in, not studied, just passed, his existence fragile and unmendable once it shatters into fragments; picked up with delicate hands and let fall again. And again. And again. 

We could combine, little Dillon. You and I, the frost and the fog could attach and produce a new world. An illusionist and a shapeshifter. Who’s who?

Galaxy Goo

I could crack you open and galaxy goo would slime through the fissures, thick and dark purple and full of little stars.

You don’t even know that.

You have no idea what’s inside of you. What you’re made of. I guess that’s because you can’t see your eyes. Unless you look through mirror. But you and I both know, mirrors only reflect colours. Cosmic magic gets lost in translation.

I have seen your eyes. The first time I met with them, my lonely mind took their picture and replayed them to me – over and over. It connected us in that infinite land of dream and magic and imagination, where we will breathe and fly and implode even after this world has let us go.

You’re heavy. You carry yourself around and you tire yourself out.

Gravity despises you. You’re too hard to hold down. Gravity told Love to break you, so you chained canon balls around your ankles and kept yourself grounded.

That was bad.

You see, dreaming is flying, flying is rising above,out of reach from Shadow, the snappy-stick wetness that moves at night. We sleep to escape it. That’s why we sleep at night.

But you don’t sleep. Do you?

No. You shiver and stare at the stars and wonder.

Oh. Galaxy Goo! That’s us up there! Far from the ground claimed by malice!

I feared for your safety.

But you were safe.

When I turned and found myself deep within Grey depth and not alone, I found you! Oh, wicked truth! Beyond imagination! You are of Grey as I am, as she is! And I pondered just HOW A being of the Grey could survive the darkness without dreaming! Without sleep!

And so I realised,

At night as we leapt to Earths beloved universe and hid in a galaxy, you turned into your galaxy. The darkness couldn’t collect you because you collected yourself.

And so, you could survive the night. And, the night became your dream. And, you lived amongst devils and demons and were immune to their wickedness.

And then came the Grey…