Broken Hip

Someone turned off the moon. The sons of the universe glitter amidst the ether, though their light is too far away to sustain me and their ears too faint to hear my objections. On this night of the dead, not even the crickets rise to offer a song of comfort, nor the owl his waking hoot. No, for now blindness is my treasured companion, and silence, my cold-blooded yet dedicated lover. The trail ahead of me has vanished, and behind me lies a cliff of several hundred feet, a lone bat passing beneath its mighty stature and chipping an echo into the open abyss. The air here suffocates as a cord pulled tight around the neck.

It’s the claustrophobia, however, that crushes me between its beak, for there is no escape from here, no path to take, no step to be had, no comfort to be gained. All that here exists is me, and no one else. Yet I am more familiar with this scene than I care to admit. It is a cold-blooded real-time replay of a majority percentage of my past. I should host an award ceremony to cherish and congratulate all the faithful individuals who have contributed to its glorious existence, knowing that they can never undo the foundational truths and occurences, horrible as they may be, which have already been laid and built upon.

I had hoped to drown this part of me so that I never had to sit in this place again, but apparently there is no escaping the inevitable. It is here, and I am here, and we are dating eachother again against all of my wishes. I am a significantly-sized tree with far too many summers under my belt to expect a repair of any damage which was inflicted long ago, injuries that healed without being set properly or burns which pressed so deep that fixing them is impossible.

Hi, how are you? It’s been a long time since we’ve last talked. Oh, not long enough, that’s for sure. What was that? You would like to rule over my life again? Sure, here’s all the keys. Not like I can stop you, anyway!

Sure, let’s be friends again for a long time, just like last time. Let’s be besties. No. You can rule over it all, no questions asked. You did it like that last time, too, remember? No, I’m sure I don’t care! Why would I care that you want to murder my soul all over again? No one would care about that!

Let’s veer to the left for a moment.

Imagine being thrown into a garbage can over and over again, for years and years. Eventually, a person who continues to be tossed into the garbage begins to believe that perhaps he or she is supposed to belong there. Soon, you start to question why you are not there right now, why you even climbed out of it, since that’s where you belong in the first place. You forgot that you had ever belonged anywhere else. Then you start tossing your own self in without any outward stimuli being necessary, although at any one moment there are a thousand namable entities or reasons which were more more than willing to offer a reason.

Now imagine being ignored for years and years, over and over again, despite feeble efforts to change oneself among a sea of people who couldn’t have cared less about one stupid kid’s problems. Soon, a person begins to reason that his or her self, not others, is the real culprit behind the long, lonely walks on the beach and the dark, quiet, loveless nights of winter, most of which end in the complete loss of caring about one’s situation and the complete loss of the desire and perceived ability to change it. Imagine a situation which has been for many years hopeless, impotent and unyielding in the face of screams of rage, fits of sadness and bouts of unimaginable depression that lasted long into adulthood. Yes, that would probably result in an unfixable, long-term fuck-up in the system where the walls are weaker, the support beams compromised and the firewall can’t seem to update fast enough, where no amount of begging and pleading can fix the irreparably torn segment of soul and no amount of tears can stop the fit when it starts. But it still works sometimes, so maybe it’s not so bad?

Yeah, fuck you.

I believe in overcoming one’s past, but some things can never be fixed and last forever. So, let’s just keep on carrying the weight of the world and pretend it’s not there, since that is the most sensible thing to do.


Letter from an Ancient Tome pt.2

​If it’s not the polarity of your presence that cuts into my chest as a lightsaber to hanging meat in cold storage, it’s the phantom emptiness of your absence that tickles my soul with a sort of famine groan. 

I must at these times unmantle myself from this incapacitation, keep my soul from powering it up, for you are none the wiser if I suffer than if I am well, and I am the sole loser of this entire game.

Yet you are far more lost than I. Adrift in your own world, you frolic without care. The ground is littered with your childish drawings, colorful and creative, yet balled up and tossed away in just the same way as valueless objects are discarded into the trash by litter-conscious park goers. 
Yet yours must be even more worthless, for they are tossed about the way children toss their impulsive mess of toys and play objects and scatter them throughout the house according to the whims of their sea’s waves.

I hide what I hold in my hands from everyone. What I hold is coveted and sought after by nearly everyone the world over. Humans have murdered and killed to possess it, all without gaining anything. What I possess I hold as one of the few who will ever get to touch it–it is a stone from the heavens which can never be destroyed. It may be the most valuable thing in all the earth.

And here I am, stupid man that I am, waiting to offer you a piece of it, and there you are, stupid girl, not even understanding that such a thing exists or that you live in an emotional refuse landfill and possess not the tiniest, least significant object of value.

You want the world? I cannot bewitch you with the wealth of the world as many others can, for I have not silver or gold, but I would give it to you in my own way–my portion of assets the world or God has granted to me. Perhaps it will be enough for you. 

Perhaps you can gain what is coveted by all instead of spending your life searching for what will never satisfy and what can never be arrived upon, and what, once found, gains you nothing in the end of all things, since the dreams and idealisms of youth are indescribable vanities and produce nothing but disappointment and hopelessness.

There are other dreams and other idealisms, however, which possess the quality of eternity, and they, as the best of all art, do not fade or lose their luster through the ages. Indeed, they are ageless and unshakeable; they prove the existence of an enlightenment granted to humanity as if by another universe–one that scoffs at the limits of our own–entirely.

Perhaps I spit into the wind; perhaps my last tree curses me for my idealistic stupidity, counting the days until our inevitable death. For if we fail, if I fail, we will die. We could not possibly continue to exist with beating hearts, but only in a cold casket and a heap of ashes. 
But the invaluable stone is not activated through what is tangible and believable. It comes alive only at the beckoning of dreams, at the whims of a power able to transform from the earth what ought never to have been possible. It hopes in only what is absurd, inconceivable, unachievable. It never gives up, as if it were a law of the universe simply obeying itself.

I am but obeying a law of the universe, and I can no more halt it than I could halt the waterfall from following gravity or the cosmic radiation from bursting out of a hypernova. If I fail, I die, for there is no in-between, no netherworld where even the slightest compromise is possible.

Will you ever accrue the sagacity of this light, or will you walk invariably in the darkness and cause me to do the same, to my own expiration? I suppose we shall see.

​Letter from an Ancient Tome pt.1

It is my desire to sniff you out from whatever hole you hide in and lure you out into the open. Your destruction is the only thing on my mind.

The daydream of my soul: a wide field, quiet as a pine tree, with a single oak, old as Abraham, set in its eye like a diamond in an ornate silver ring. You sit beneath that sleeping treant, and to surround you is a fresh autumn afternoon laid to rest in the casket of night. Soft and cool whispers of the earth tickle the leaves above you and fondle your long, dark brown hair as the moon sneaks out from between two low-hanging clouds.

It is in that place that I appear without warning, my weapon drawn and your end assured. A glimpse of recognition tears across your grimace, the fear of shock not able to give way to the next logical emotion, trust, because of the swiftness of my movements. Yes, you would move to trust me and not fear me because you do not know me. You do not have any idea who I am or what I do. You don’t know who I am in the least.

You are not fortunate enough to have the time to feel or contemplate your misplaced trust; you do not have time to scream at my attack; you do not have the time to feel regret for not being able to stop it, or anger for my betrayal, or curiosity as to who I really am.

I unleash an overhead swing, a single stroke aimed at the top of your unguarded and reposed face, your porcelain-like smooth skin and brown marble eyes echoing the beauty of the forest gods in every way, including the subtle glow that is eternity’s kiss of promise.

The next moment, I feel the resistance of your brain matter and skull against my sword’s sharpened edge, the trembling of my wrists as I try and fail to wretch the sword free from your lifeless, glaring head, the hot, sticky blood climbing down the double-edged blade and narrow hilt and dropping into my arms.

Do you know who I am now?

Yet, in reality, we have passed the fall, and the heart of winter’s careless cackle screams its approach on the morrow’s horizon. Yet, in reality, there you are, careless as ever, longing for the winter to return, not knowing what that means to anyone else around you–especially me, of all people. 

Yes, you long for the winter, and you spare not the faintest embers of kindling to the poor of soul and spirit. You have killed the rest of my forest so that there is but one tree remaining, and surely this year you shall destroy that last one, and then I, spirit of the forest, shall be no more, all for the sake of this wood you must burn. And of this burning warmth of fire that you create for your own satisfaction, you offer me not the most insubstantial portion with which to warm but the soles of my feet.

Therefore, am I not the bigger fool for allowing you, selfish human, to cut down my woof without retribution, even without the tiniest rebuke?

Still, rather I perish as my particular brand of fool than live on while being yours. There is yet a tiny, insignificant twinkle of hope which from time to time surfaces like a mullet in a river, jumping above the water for no other purpose than nature’s sudden demand. 
Perhaps this reason is the only reason in existence why you still breathe, live, and otherwise inhabit the space of my forest, which you have cut down for your own personal gain and at great cost to me, labeling yourself as a dissident against my people and against nearly everything I am, yet owning it and doing whatever you please with it as if it actually were all your own.

A Golden Chain of Promise or rather a Hangman’s Noose?

You got me sippin’ on something
I can’t compare to nothing
I’ve ever known, I’m hoping
That after this fever I’ll survive
I know I’m acting a bit crazy
Strung out, a little bit hazy
Hand over heart, I’m praying
That I’m gonna make it out alive

The bed’s getting cold and you’re not here
The future that we hold is so unclear
But I’m not alive until you call
And I’ll bet the odds against it all
Save your advice ’cause I won’t hear
You might be right but I don’t care
There’s a million reasons why I should give you up
But the heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants

You got me scattered in pieces
Shining like stars and screaming
Lighting me up like Venus
But then you disappear and make me wait
And every second’s like torture
Hell over trip, no more so
Finding a way to let go
Baby, baby, no I can’t escape

The bed’s getting cold and you’re not here
The future that we hold is so unclear
But I’m not alive until you call
And I’ll bet the odds against it all
Save your advice ’cause I won’t hear
You might be right but I don’t care
There’s a million reasons why I should give you up
But the heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants

This is a modern fairy tale
No happy endings
No wind in our sails
But I can’t imagine a life without
Breathless moments
Breaking me down, down, down, down

The bed’s getting cold and you’re not here
The future that we hold is so unclear
But I’m not alive until you call
And I’ll bet the odds against it all
Save your advice ’cause I won’t hear
You might be right but I don’t care
There’s a million reasons why I should give you up
But the heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants
The heart wants what it wants

The heart wants what it wants, baby
It wants what it wants, baby
It wants what it wants
It wants what it wants

The heart wants what it wants, baby
It wants what it wants

Red Eyes


She had red eyes, but not like the clear eyes commercial. They weren’t red and itchy, but they were a solid, glowing red that popped out of the dark the way a fox’s eyes might when they gleamed against the moon’s clear-night grin. Nothing but those eyes could be seen in the midnight’s barren snow hills. Sometimes when the moon would shine through the clouds, I could see also the outline of her crouched body, the robes of her black cult which hid the slender body of a girl barely deemed an adult.

Oh, how time flies. Yes, I think God sees even the magma burning with its desire–release from the tomb of the earth’s skin.
Today was not that day, or perhaps today was so much that day that it flew way over my head. Whatever the case, today was the day of the guardian; look, but don’t touch. See, but don’t expect to be seen in return. Expect all that you do, every sacrifice that you make, to be invisible to the person you are giving it all for, even if its the one thing that saves their life and kills yours.

I closed my eyes and focused the way they taught us at the academy; I could hear the wind blasting bits of snow over every cubic foot of space within a mile. I could hear the angels singing in the choirs of heaven–or perhaps that was the night birds whittling their native tunes out of the air. Then, I could hear the panting of the girl with red eyes climbing a snow hill. Her breath sounded hot and deep, like a sprinter’s. Navigating snow was difficult work on the legs and core, and so was hill climbing and hiking.

I pulled my bow from around my neck and drew an arrow from a quiver at my waist. Black feathers adorned the back of the arrow, giving light to the black hawk emblem carved into the wooden handle of the bow and stretching to its tips. I notched the arrow and looked closer. The cold wind burned my eyes and sucked the last of the warmth of my nose. I could barely see before I started squinting, but thanks to academy training, I managed to make out the images before me.

Behind the cultist girl, snow flew up as if from a little explosion. In the wind and chaos of night, I doubted she heard anything. She didn’t turn around to look, and she wouldn’t have seen anything if she did. When the creature popped up, I pulled back the bow. About forty meters and southwest of my perch, I took aim and released the arrow. It flew straight, curved just a little and burried itself in the neck of the grump. The grump dropped back down into its hole, and the girl was none the wiser.

I wondered what the girl would have said or done if I had not killed the grump. Maybe say I let the thing creep up behind her with its centipede body and get close enough to take a swipe with its knife. Then say I shoot it in the back right as it makes its strike, throwing it off balance and negating its attack but forcing it to fall into the girl. Then, she turns to see the creature following her, and she sees the arrow in its back.

She knows her life has been saved, though the creature is not dead yet. Another arrow hits the creature in the head, ending its movements and staining the pure white snow with brown murky blood. Now, all doubt is removed. Someone else is here in these lonely woods, not just her. That someone just saved her life–although for what reason, she couldn’t have the slightest clue. Then, she sees the twinkle of a shadow on a hill not too far away, just enough for her to ask herself, did I really just see that?

Then she starts looking, afraid to turn her back on her mysterious, freaky stalker who still won’t reveal himself fully.

I don’t blame her; I’d be afraid too. But it’s not like I have a choice in the matter, and its not like she had a choice, either. For her it was, let the stalker save my life and reveal himself, or, let the grump kill me because I didn’t know I was walking into a field of grumps and my devoted-to-death stalker, whom I didn’t even know I had, didn’t want to reveal himself.

But, the whole point of being a stalker was to observe and assist. No, that’s not all that I wanted. That’s not what drove me to do what I did. That’s just what I had to do to keep her safe. You don’t get to pick who you love; you just get to decide if you’re going to do what it takes to keep them safe, what keeps them fed, what keeps them alive.

So, don’t judge me. It could be said that I’m one of the best creepy stalkers on the planet, but you don’t know everything behind why I trudge through seventy miles of snow to make sure a cult girl makes it to the finish of her adulthood trial without being eaten alive by any one of a thousand prairy monsters. You don’t know why, you don’t understand it, and your brain could never understand it if I tried to tell you about it, so shut up and accept it. That’s what I had to do.

Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what all the creepy stalkers say. Only, I’m not trying to kidnap anyone or take nude pics to post on the internet or commit some other act of personal ethical weirdness or crime. I’m here to play the guardian angel.

I sighed thinking about it. If I am a guardian angel, I must have lost all my powers when I fell from heaven. Actually, I’m not sure I can even call myself a guardian angel because I am such a sorry excuse of an angel. And, I’m not really an angel in the first place, so, let’s drop the “angel” and just say “guardian.” That’s a lot better than “stalker,” at any rate.

Sorry. I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

But really though, for the longest time, that’s all I thought I’d ever be–a stalker. I had no reason to believe otherwise. Or, maybe I did, but the reason didn’t seem strong enough to be able to stand on with two legs. But then, one day, as I was minding my own business, her eyes turned red. Itchy, blood red. Like something even the Clear Eyes guy coulnd’t cure. From then on, I couldn’t mind my own business anymore. The fire in my heart rekindled without my permission.

That stupid, goddamned fire was the one thing that kept me running around in this snow. I hate the snow and the bitter cold, but for her? This is nothing. But let me tell you what is something. Having to hold back the sun’s burning brilliance in this heart of mine–the kind on bent knee and postrate, grovelling at the feet of the universe to let it be released; the oceans of the earth swollen in its womb and churning to be birthed across the face of the deep; the pitiless journey of Adam throughout the earth and all created things while he searched for the one missing part of the universe which, unfairly so, hadn’t even yet been created.

See? I told you that you couldn’t understand–you judgmental little prick. Your heart is hard and you cannot heart the voice of God, or of the earth or of anything else talking to you other than your ego. Go on–ask God to bow at your feet one more time.

Sigh. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t judge me. Go and heal your lepers and raise your dead; I’m going to be here in the cold, holding back the swirling universe inside of me and hoping I don’t get cut to pieces by the spinning tornado of swords slashing at the inside of my heart, at the nuclear detonation held back by nothing more than a paperthin wall of force many years in the making and turbulent with ripples compromised by years of pain and struggle.
I grip my chest and wonder that it won’t be long before something breaks–in me, or perhaps outside of me; probably both. I’m more than due for another breakdown. But, those damned red eyes of hers…they’re so…mesmurizing.


“Every person has their own personal language–and it seems that God will speak to them in that language, if they have the will to listen.” -Ninjafrk77

Boredom, the Doorway

I, bored, so bored, search for the light of creativity in the aisles of man’s mental labor. Finding nothing to satisfy, I realize that I must make my own; for I am—and inside of me is—the very world of beautiful lights that I seek to walk through, that can satisfy the pant of the soul and the echo of the stomach’s reproof; they are those hallways of fables and legends which are ancient as Noah’s arc yet that have not been granted the downstream flow of the blockade. Once the floodgate is reeled upwards, then, without fail, the river will empty its mouth into the realm of the living, that land which is so thirsty for the things which no eye has seen and no ear has heard, which are locked in boxes and forced into silence until the heart of the owner of each key deems it wise and necessary to unlock and release it into the world.

If the world is boring, I will create a world that is not. I will make it one worth crushing by the hand of evil and then saving by the will of one fault-filled crew of heathens who, although differing in ideas and customs and languages, find the strength of their feeble hands much stronger in unison; it will be those who require the slaying of the seekers of destruction and the salvation of a world or universe far too weak and stupid to save itself.

For though they all be thieves and murderers, if they possess the intellect and the presence of mind, how much offense heaps upon their brow as they consider that, many eons later, it would be said that they were not able to “save the day” because they were too lazy or, worse, because they were incapable of victory in the first place? No, it would be said that they succeeded so well that only their laziness allowed the evil to rise in the first place, and even if they failed in the attempt, no one would call them weak or incompetent because on their museum gravestones it would be written, “the best bad asses of their millennium.”

Druidess of Judea VI

A little growl blew out the side of his mouth, followed by a grimace. He gasped. “I fear to convey to you,” he said with deep pants, “that my thread of magic leads me not to the Well of Souls, as I had expected.”

“If not for the Well of Souls,” she said, “then what for? There is nothing else in the whole countryside worth having.”

He grinned, but he bowed to one knee as if his leg had buckled beneath him. “If I had tasted your blood and had died outright, I could conclude that the Well of Souls was my destiny, for that is where my spirit would have gone, still following the thread of magic. But the thread of magic prevents my death even after having drunk of the most dangerous, snake-coveted poison in all the continent. The reason is that the thing the thread of magic brought me to was you.”

“What business do we have with one another, holy mage?” she said, wings twitching. Her face twisted up with all the confusion bearing down on her mind. “I am a druidess of demon blood. Let us part paths at once so as to spare one another painful deaths.”

“Really, Abigail,” he said, coughing with bronchioles full of mucus, “don’t tell me you didn’t see this possibility coming. Are you actually that stupid? This is all going to suck if you really are that stupid.” His eyes now had bloody veins that rippled through his pupils on either side and bled into his eyelids and nose. He looked up, but the effort caused tremors in his neck and trembling hands that struggled to push himself to his feet from atop his knee.

“I don’t understand what you want. I gave you a drop of my blood, and you broke my chain. And then you ate it—you idiot. But can you not estimate the freedom poured into my cup? I have been fettered to this plot of land since birth; now I possess the freedom to walk the earth unimpeded.”

“Far be it from me, Abigail, to issue edict to what you ought to do with your life. But if you had any inclination—and I’m not presuming that you do—toward accomplishing any goal in any aspect of life with your new freedom, I would suggest to you—and I don’t presume that you are inclined to gravitate toward this possibility—that lack of friends with experience, loyalty and a general knowledge of the near-infinite world outside your humble valley might be the limiting factor of your reach in life.

“Therefore, I surmise—and I don’t concede that you would necessarily surmise the same—that it would evince prudence for you to take any hand of friendship which might be offered to you, wherein that friendship might prove to possess experience, loyalty and general knowledge, and not necessarily in that order. If a person, hypothetically speaking, were to offer you such a dear possession of amicability, what answer would you, hypothetically speaking, give to said person?”

“Are you going to die?”

“No,” he said, “I’m not going to die. Are you deaf? Did I not just say that?”

“If you’re not going to die, then I’m leaving.”

“Shit,” he said. “Don’t forget what they said about Icarus.”

“Who cares?” she said, then she took to the sky as a dragon’s child free from its egg and desiring more than food or water to beat at empty air and claim the royal sky for herself.


The magic thread woke him from his half-dead, half-drunken state. The ebony shadow of a dragon’s wing shaded him from the fading red light of the blood moon. She was taking off, leaving, making her escape from the Judean hills with the haste of a stampede of goats with a mountain lion in tow.

“All right, you bitch,” he said. He wiped the blood bead that ran down his mouth, then scrubbed the slobber from the other side. “We’ll see who has the last fabled laugh. I am no mage of the order of the holy magus for nothing.”