I. Today I Learned

I bury all I am in my sins,

Faith in liquored-love.

Fairy bottles replay static memories.

Plenty of bruises, red rift scars,

Blood spurts

And limbs locked;

Punch drunk tempting her fate

Corroding cherry wraith

Goblet crush

Top her off!

Sure today I tell you how I feel.

Daisy fangs swirl a trillion;

At midnight we sat in the back seat of the

Silver mustang

Butterflies fluttering in circadian allure

Fresh foaming crystal brew wrestling my mangled tongue.

With You playing, windows open,

Honeycomb night air veiling

Tingling liquored-liver,

I stare at your phone

and

silver skylines end.

II. No names left to trust

So I develop my alter ego,

gold chain hanging

To my mosaic heart,

I stumble among extinct stars,

Trap cold character:

Ice Age.

Soon the round world fades,

Faces blur, gold lenses curve all

l o v e.

Jump my h o p e.

Tan cap like Yin

and

Yang.

Polo emblem my ensemble;

Her tan skin like drops of honey

Sky resembles my F e a r.

III. Sin Miedo Me Voy….

Heaven only knows what awaits

Sore shoulders and unfurling gates

Trade stress for two thousand hops

Crack calve muscles:

Tectonic shift.

Cortisol huffs cool in serotonin rush

Far off I see liquified azul twilight

Orange creamsicle dreams,

Splashes of tangerine

flutters.

Infectious spirals smile before

collapsing.

I felt nothing but

Crushing breathes,

Heart echoing in my cavernous chest

droplets forming

Calcified

d

e

p

t

h

s.

IV. It Began With the Sun

Laser rays and isolation

Just how I would spend

the end of

My sunflower youth

Before I set off to my adventure,

A life that could not be claimed by

My mother’s past

Only my feet marching to newfound

Fear.

I wore a silky white T-Shirt,

Daisy wore overalls and a gray long sleeve

Late summer sun blazed black leather seats,

Metal belt stung with magma jaws;

A day at the mall with friends,

That's all It was.

I was just coming back from Houston

Something about the city ate away at me,

My family felt like a parasitic reflection:

A dystopian image I could not rattle- so I

Marched off.

Nothing but plains blessed my surroundings,

Farmland said to be gold

Dead grass like evergreen forests

Orchards sprayed with white paint

Tar roads with chalk drawings leading

Up to

Twists and turns

Here I faded away from

The front seat conversations

Let my shy tendencies take hold

Gold lenses flaring with curiosity,

H o p e.

V. Tonight You Belong To Me

I saw a maniac on the car roof in

The mall garage parking lot slowly slipping,

Screaming, not afraid but excited,

Clenching stupidity and death with flailing arms.

I awoke from my silent stupor, shot

Joy from my anchored mind

Strolled shop after shop realizing what this could all be,

Freedom from laser rays and isolation:

A new happiness.

PROLOGUE

PLAZA MEXICO

The crowd had not yet been coaxed into frenzy, but the volume in

the largest bullring in Mexico was like a rising tide and the hum

pushed an electric buzz into the air throughout the arena.

The lancing third or the tercio de varas had begun. The bull

charged at the picador, the man atop a white and brown horse, as he

galloped by and tossed his lance into the creature’s back.

The sharp end pierced the thick hide, the bull bucked and let out

a huff of air and a moan. The man on horseback circled the bull, the

blood dripping down its side barely visible against the dark black

fur. The bull swung its head from side to side at its attacker and

then charged, its large horns grazing the peto, the protective

covering that shielded the horse from harm. The strike had been

purpose filled and if it had not been for the peto, the horse would

have been gored.

The matador stood at a safe distance continuing to watch the bull. Drawing from the animal’s movements which side the bull would favor, thus allowing him to approximate his own future attacks and defenses.

A second picador rushed in and planted a secondary lance into the

hump of muscle just beyond the bull’s neck. These stabs were not to

kill the beast, but their goal was to weaken the hard, dense muscle.

Eventually the strength of the muscles would fade and it would give the bull a considerable struggle to hold his own head high. In the

end, it would be how the animal would die, as if it purposefully

offered the neck to the matador for the killing stroke.

The matador flashed his red cape and the eyes of the bull caught

the movement and lunged after it. The matador gracefully swept the

cape aside and spun his body avoiding contact for the third time

during the bout. And the crowd roared in unison: OLE!

After a few more feints of the cape and his deft maneuvers the

second stage of the battle began: tercio de banderillas.

Three banderillas began to gain the animal’s fury as they stuck and moved and dodged the bull’s attacks. Each attempting to stab two

of their sharp barbed sticks into the shoulder muscles. Again, this is

not to kill, but to slow the beast further.

The red cape fluttered from the breeze and hand movements of the

matador and the bull engaged him again. This time the matador twisted to the opposite direction, the one that was the animal’s stronger side. A true show of courage and pierced the bull with his own stick.

The crowd thundered in their approval.

The time had come for the final part of the duel between bull and

man: tercio de muerte. The third of death. This would be the final

stand for the bull. This would be where the matador lived to see a new day and the bull did not.

Victor Calavera, the matador, entered the ring alone for what

would be the final time of the day. He was hot and perspiring greatly

from the sun above and the exertion of the contest of superiority. The

crowd cheered and he could feel the rhythmic pulse in his feet, both

from the vibrations from the crowd surrounding him and from the hoof

beats of El Rebelde. He thought to himself; the bull had been aptly

named and had put on quite a show today, but as Victor could tell the

animal had grown tired. Now was almost his time to bask in the glory

once again. He still needed to run El Rebelde down perhaps a small

fraction more, but not too much. The crowd would not be pleased if he killed a near defenseless animal, he was to show his victory over a

worthy adversary.

Another charge came and he stabbed at El Rebelde with his wooden sword. This too was for show, to indicate his prowess and to

antagonize the bull further. Rebelde ran at him again, followed by a

second and third. Now, it was time he thought. He exchanged the wooden sword for the real one, the estoque de veridad and readied himself. He initiated Rebelde, almost forcing the bull to attack and the bull complied. Victor Calavera twisted with near effortlessness and struck true as he felt the blade slide into his opponent, knowing well from experience it had entered the heart.

El Rebelde had been bested and slumped to the dirt releasing his

final breath into the earth below.

The arena had come alive. The cheers so loud and blending

together that Victor could only register a distinct whistle here and

there. He bowed to the crowd and the roar intensified. He turned and

bowed again, and then the crowd became silent. He was confused. Had he not entertained them. He opened his eyes and gazed upon the crowd. But it was evident that all eyes were fixed on one thing, and it was not him. He turned slowly and what he saw threw his mind into discord. El Rebelde was standing again. But something was different in the animal this time. He looked fresh. He looked strong. He head was held high, and his fierce eyes were glaring directly at Victor.

Gathering himself quickly, he grabbed his cape and flaunted it

about. He began thinking, perhaps his kill stroke had been slightly

off. The bull continued to stare, and then walked closer to him as if

the mere thought of charging the farthest from El Rebelde’s mind.

Victor continued to feint with the cape, Rebelde’s focus still upon

only him, the cape an afterthought. The distance had been closed to

the point where he could almost taste Rebelde’s breath and smell the

blood in the air.

The bull charged, and tilted its head down and to the left in an attempt to stab him with his horns as it would bring his head up and

to the right. Victor spun left to avoid the collision, but something

changed. But then something remarkable occurred, El Rebelde faked his movements, if that were even possible, just when his head began moving to the right the bull shifted its footing and struck to the left. The horn tore through soft flesh and Victor felt the innards of his belly shift. The horn continued rip through tissue, disemboweling him.

He felt the ground rush up towards him. He was near to the point

of passing out but managed to look up and see the giant frame of the

black bull hovering over him. He heard screaming in the distance but

it seemed so far away. He could hear voices yelling at each other. It

was the picadors and banderillas. They were coming to his aid.

It was then that he looked into the bull’s eyes, and saw something. Something that was there, and perhaps something that shouldn’t be. The eyes. They were dead eyes, as if deep inside they held, nothing. He seemed to be watching him. Watching him die. Victor had never envisioned the tables turning like this.

The bull reared up and brought the full weight of its body upon

him, crushing his chest cavity. His bones snapped like twings under

the assault.

The audience in the arena had never seen ferociousness like this. The previous frenzy had turned into hysteria as the bull continued to

trample the matador into the ground. The display didn’t stop even as the picadors and the banderillas attempted to draw his focus, El

Rebelde's attention on Victor Calavera was unfaltering. The matador’s screams had long since stopped and finally so did El Rebelde. The black beast stood unmoving in the dust cloud that had formed around him and the decimated body of Victor Calavera. Behind the brown cloudthe hollow mask of El Rebelde glared at the crowd and then as if passing through the eye of a storm; all was quiet and the bull dropped dead, for the second time that day.

This is from my current work in progress. Hopefully I can finish and publish this novel in the upcoming future.

The sky shone vibrating across the meadows, molten solid, from the fermenting, the rotting of the plants, the silent shrieks of the land fills the air, ever suppressed by the nauseating, choking, overflowing presence of light. The rays, like mercenaries of their home, in a mad suicide attempt to pile their bodies so high so thick, so intense, as incense, that no cry, tears or sobs may escape their invisible tyranny over the land. Suffocating, peeling their very beings off their core so as to be able to take it home, yet leaves it both, on the ground, like a used towel in a brothel, their truth but a scalped, skinned soft shell lying on the ground which itself is but burnt skin, ever drying, fading, like a dementia patient, experiencing the gradual decomposition of their own mind and conscience. And the core, lifeless, less significant, and alive than a stone, by itself nothing, only an integral part of something, but alone, abandoned, only potential, unrealized, never fading, always nothing, a whole world cries. A world of cries, never to be heard, so as not to be, the sun, always, ever forward it rains.

From my cave I watch, as life strangles life, into death, it embracing life into the lifeless as life itself never would, how strange it is, life’s love of itself, it’s continuation and propagation, this is cruelty in its essence, not just towards others, but towards oneself. The sun sets, now, all those in pain, may find respite, calmness in the dark, all the dead, may calmly feed the sickly pleasures of the scavengers of the night, but finally, lifelessly, painlessly, a state life never allowed them, a luxury, life does not permit.

Consumed by thought in the entrance of my cave, I noticed not, a living curse approaching, beautiful to the eye, on others, I scream in the silent calmness of the night a beastly curse, of terror, of myself, of the moon. Insipid rays, illuminated for a moment, my body, myself, leave me alone. In terror I jump back and start running through the caverns of my cave, like a wild beast, the moonlight invading ever further into the caverns, I bleed, I hurt, I am beaten by the chandeliers of stone hanging from the ceiling, yet whose light I can tolerate on myself, I run on and on, only to be finally somewhere the rays won’t ever catch me. I, in my confidence, like I did not just act like a beast of the woods, not that I would say I am not that, yet I would prefer, hmmm of the caves perhaps, in my faked confidence which I fake to myself to keep finally from the wretched fact that it touched me, the violence of the sky, take my steps slow and upright as never before. But fall on the ground and start vomiting, the light, it touched me, there is no me, I do not exist, It, with its touch poisoned me, cursed me to exist. No, I will disappear again, it won’t take long, I’m sure.

The urge to vomit, the disgust of being, not the reality of the outside, but me being a part of it, the outside bothers not until it tries, ties pervasively, perversely. Digs into the flesh and soul, with the confidence of a god, so nature does to nature only itself, itself.

Out of frustration, I start walking slowly yet submerged in thought. It will only take a minute, I will fade away again, everything, only is as not alright, as it used to be before. In a stormy sea of calmness, without a moments notice I fall, I could not see a thing in the darkness of the caverns, which only seems to darken. I might die I thought in that second, right before I submerged in something other than my thoughts, suffocation. Could I simply drown in this place? Evermore comforting than any place in my mind, the silence, only intensified by the distant sounds of the underwater tunnels. The water seems brighter now, almost like a ghost, irradiated by a silver light, I open my eyes to the horrific realization that the moonlight somehow seems to reach into the cave. I look up to the ceiling, the chandeliers of stone, now, instead of water droplets dripping from them, something ethereal seems to be flowing from, through them, as blood from the wounds. A silverine liquid, shining moonlight, and shone it did, all over the cave, infecting each and every part, each and every single thing was its domain now. I submerge and scream underwater come up for oxygen, unbothered, like nature is to us, like our galaxy to our sun, and our sun to us, indifferent, incapable of its consideration even. I most certainly, insufferably, am. A cloud gathers in the cave, a silver cloud turning into a vicious smile of a round face. The face of the moon that is, smiling, like a bear with its prey, even as alive, a certainty of possession, this is what a prey animal sees right about the time of its death. I wanted to drown, not drown in myself, in water and not in a demon of the cosmos. So great as to be completely empty, I am, most certainly, trapped. Resignation, to float to bask in it as a game, its lights, simply because you must now. To drown in a sea of nothingness, in a strange cave, in a strange way, consumed purely from the inside. Despite all else, now, happily laughing at it all, it will never keep me locked away in this prison, of myself. Soon enough, all will have mattered not for me. Clearly, my role will be that of a terrorist of the mind, the cynical, actor. It seems all the rivers, are simply here to be dark in their reflection, always at night, so that maybe, one accursed day, someone drowns therein for no one to see. The moon like lava, flows cold into the cave, in its frosty light of madness, there is no place for calmness. Desolation, the defining feeling of being so conscious, of being so alive, all to the highest degree, not as a choice, but as a must. As an outside being forcing you into this state, all appears even though on the inside, it is not an act, a non-act, of being, being outside, the outside as you, as you experience it. Fragmented, I fall to a corner, horrified by my innards, and horrified, of my awareness of it, with almost loving, dying eyes, a stare at the moon inside the cloud, in its disgusting nakedness all around me, flowing ever onwards, inwards, now permeating me, as the real me, as the me outside of me. Horror of being spare me, calmness and death comfort me. Not even the thought of nothingness gives me peace now, even these old, conquered concepts, slayed enemies, identity, form and thought all collapse in on themselves, everything of me illuminated by awareness to the point of making them invisible, revealed as nothing to be illuminated. I flow, with what, I care not, my body never resting, my mind never ceasing, to scream in pain out of an unlocatable, all-encompassing pain and discomfort. They screech so distantly from the other side of a tunnel filled with heavy gases, alive, before though formation, all of it lived directly without narrative, without cure, so distantly, hauntingly claustrophobic, this pain, a prison inside of which my castle stands. Or a hole rather, a cave perhaps, how ironic, a microcosm of mimicry, or rather the truth, the essence of life can never be escaped. Drowning, how ridiculous, by now I have drowned a million deaths, yet here I am, ever feeling, ever fleeting, ever in pain, forever may be. Now half dead, floating dazed, in the sewers of this cave and my mind, drifting ever away, into a nothing as a most radical being, formed but formless, mouldable yet always the same, a drift in my own winds, in my own clouds, now the pain is gone, I open my eyes, and see, all around, I am bleeding out, the ceiling a starry night beyond comprehension, in which the moon floats dark, in its place. As my blood, spreads around, always calmly, in the darkest nights, yet now, on the face of the water, a reflection of the sky, in its dark and light all the same, around me, a flower of blood, the stars shine red, and radiate the rot. The beauty of rotting, the only true growth, the world a reflection, a giver of shades. The shade of this existence, nothing, but a shade it is as well. To act out your death, as an actor to yourself, a banalization of death, as well as life, yet inevitable, like all else. I notice I start sinking, in my blood, a carnivorous, blood thirsty flower of beauty, through my blood, and in its reflection, the labyrinthian maze of mirrors, the self, itself is but a grotesque, radiating its light in incomprehensible ways that seem impossible to even conceptualize, my previous dread left perhaps, only in fear of its master’s arrival. This, being, as a state seems to take pain only to see if it can carve a new one into you, deeper, with a better knife, meat is but, all, that signifies its disappearance, corrosion or corruption. In the garden of nature, which it created in its vast madness, reside the most peculiar of cemeteries, some of which almost seem to create death, only so that it may suffocate another one. Infinite graveyards, expanding, always by their very nature, from their old stones, new ones are created, from their own dead new life, forever to be hunted in a new existence, on the eternal hunting grounds, the gardens of nature, peel themselves to the core, so as to satisfy, and entertain their mad ruler.

The smoke and haze hang

heavily

in the sky,

opaque enough

to hide

the tears

forming in my eyes.

Your mouth moved,

words

spilling

carelessly,

pouring

from

your

lips

as you

shattered

my world

so casually.

Ears burning

with the pain

of aching goodbye,

I could only watch

as you turned

in the misty morning,

and all I saw

was your

back

as you

walked

away.

So

it is

fine

that the smoke and haze hang

heavily

today,

like the lingering debris

from the collapse

and razing

of a once happy home.

It seems

as if the air

sometimes

knows

when comfort is needed,

even if the blanket

is made of

pollution

and broken dreams.

She swims in the depths of star-filled darkness.

Deep in the comforts of her calmness.

Floating through skies of limitless cosmos,

her consciousness found solace.

She watches the stars sparkle as they ripple below the waves.

Refracting in unison,

her movements are displayed.

Not a dream but a memory.

Her home is heavenly.

In the corporate world, where vast fortunes are made, stories of deceit and charade can unfurl. How they evade their taxes, employ slush funds, with cunning and guile, and skimp on payments to workers, leaving them fixed in a bind.

The wealthy few, with pockets so deep, one would expect another to know when you are occupying more resources than you need. As they bask in luxury, poor workers' pockets run dry all too quickly. That they would choose to deny others while they lie, cheat, and steal, makes me wonder if it's all about maintaining their social status and power while the majority of others weep?

Can't the narrative be rewritten? Can we break free from this mold? It would be great if we were no longer confined by their dishonesty, unfair attitude and corruption, and better yet if the corporate world embrace justice, love and integrity - those better values that don't masquerade in deceit but in sincerity operate and serve.

Neha had always been told to stay until the last moment of every exam, to scrutinize every line until it bled in her vision. She had been taught to triple-check, then quadruple-check, then check again. She had been taught to squeeze her mind like a lemon, to drench the paper with the last powers of its acidic truth-serum logic. Above all, she had been taught to waste not even one second on false confidence. Although, with her former strategies, confidence was inevitable.

Not so now.

The ink is swimming on the page in front of her, and she has a terrible wrenching knot in her stomach. She lifts her head.

The proctor is far below her, rifling through papers in front of him as if he has lost an exam.

Suddenly Neha has an idea. Keeping her eyes on the proctor, she turns slightly in her chair, takes her exam, and drops down on all fours.

Heart racing, she looks around.

Fortunately, she is in the back, high up and nearly invisible, if it weren’t for the proctor and his dark eyes already having identified her. No matter.

On all fours, she creeps along the row. There is no way the proctor can see her: the man whom she has never seen before, the man who looks stunningly like her.

She reaches the end of her row. She takes a breath. The door is just to her left and up two steps.

The lectern is far below her, but the sounds of paper shuffling have suddenly stopped.

She freezes. It's too late: she can’t risk it, not now.

Suddenly, a buzzer goes off and she hears someone clear his throat.

“Time is up. Turn in your papers.”

His accent is like hers.

She abhors him; abhors him for succeeding in this world that she is clearly failing in, abhors him for his smug superiority, abhors him even for his very presence.

Chairs scrape against tile, bodies rise, and sighs emanate from various places around the big room, an orchestra of surrender.

Neha scrunches further toward the front of her row, where the wood paneling is hiding her from view.

He can’t have seen.

Yet still, there is a pause.

“Are there any tests still out there?”

His voice has an edge to it now.

Neha clutches at her backpack, a last-ditch attempt to make things right. She could just get up now, say she dropped her pencil and ‘sorry here’s my test’.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays absolutely still.

She can almost feel the proctor’s frown.

“And there were no other students in here?”

Neha hears the sound of fabric rustling, students looking around as if to find who the culprit is, glad that for the moment it is not them.

Neha takes another breath. She could still get up. She could.

But her heart is pounding and her hands are rooted to the carpeted floor.

She can’t. She just can’t.

----Novel Excerpt---

I check my watch. 9:36. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago. Shit. He's probably being tailed.

I should probably explain. I won't though. It's much too complicated, and I wouldn't even know where to start. I'm not one of those sappy "here's my life story" types. If there's anything life's taught me, I'm aware you couldn't give a shit about me.

He's our client. I don't know his name, and I have no desire to find out. We've been switching areas to avoid suspicion because I can't deal with cops on my ass. He must be good too. He never drops any hints. So I'm sitting in a shithole Denny's way earlier than I'd want to be. Like who meets at 9? But he always pays up.

He's not clean. Almost everyone is a mess. Twitching eyes, constantly licking their lips. Those are the signs the true addicts have given up on hiding. He calls too often to be a cop. If he did would've been brought to the Sugar Distributer Penitentiary.

King Kandy is known for his generosity. Except to normies. If he knew I was selling off my special acid trip licorice I would be dead. I know, so cliche. Yeah.

My name is Raymond Licorice. Never did forgive Ma for that one. Of course. The bad guy, getting poor innocent souls hooked on sugar.

Come on. I live in a cave. I'm not exactly rolling in dough here.

The client sits down. As always, clad in long brown trench coat, double rows of black buttons gleam like diamonds. A mask obscures his face, a hood covers his hair. Good grief, he looks like a third-grader's idea of a secret agent. He comes with a briefcase. Grey, cheap. Good. We both know it must be untraceable. He's just some rich asshole hooked on the taffy. Oh well.

"One pack RedVines, 15 grams of the black swirls" He says.

Of course I am more than supplied. A whole pack of RedVines? For a normie that could knock him out for a week. I wonder if he suspects where I get the merchandise. I wonder if he knows that I am the Lord of Licorice himself. I doubt he even knows about Candyland.

"1800" I price

He looks equally nonchalant

"1400"

He drives a hard bargain. It costs me about 10 bucks but whatever he'll fall for.

Surprised? What else would I be dealing in? Gumdrops? King Kandy changed our currency after the Gumdrop Revolution III. Whoever he can fuck over he will. Especially his dear uncle Raymond and his Gran.

"1600 take it or leave it" I reply

He nods and passes over the briefcase.

I open it. Gotta check. I watch his expression. Then I notice. He's moving halfway through him. It's like his lower body is fighting with his top half. Addicts do strange things, but this shouldn't be possible for anyone but... Gloppy.

Fuck. I'm getting busted.

And by Gloppy? He wouldn't be able to find his Chocolate Swamp and he's attached to it. (Or maybe it's him?)(Honestly, I don't care enough to ask)

"Alright fine Gloppy. You caught me." I mutter, hoping to gain the brown blobs' mercy.

"What's gloppy?" asks Gloppy, in a strangely high nervous voice that doesn't resemble Gloppy's deep, mascotish, dumb chortle.

"Take off the coat!" I yell

Slowly he takes it off. What the fuck is happening? It's two kids , no older than 10, sitting on top of eachother. He- or should I say they, shrugs guiltily.

Fuck this. And that, dear reader, is why I no longer go to Dennys.

(Hey thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at doing an actual short story. It may get continued, it may not. )