“Frick!” I gasped allowed, clutching tight to my severed leg, barely recognisable underneath the layer of tattered skin, blood and frayed material. I held the rock high above my head with my free hand, ready for strike 2. As it came down, I heard the crunch of bone, tears trickled out of my eyes, though all I felt was triumph. I smiled joyously through the pain. As my knuckles turned whiter and whiter as they gripped my leg ever tighter. I did like the pain; my body just couldn’t help its natural reflexes.
A clatter came from the top of the street, at least a hundred meters, from where I was situated. I looked up and saw, emerging over the crest of the hill, a filth covered man dragging a sack. He stopped every few seconds to let out slow, wheezy breaths. Each one sounding like his last. As his silhouette became more defined, I could see the many cuts and bruises coating his body, almost like grotesque body paint. A few years ago, I would have offered to help, asked what had happened, even given him some of my few supplies, not now. Not when the world was in peril, everyone dead, or worse. A zombie apocalypse with no zombies. Now offering help was a death sentence, a sure way to an early grave.
I looked at the man, he couldn’t have been older than 50. He was clearly not in a good way, judging by his blood-stained shirt and pants. I looked at his sack. My stomach growled.
Finally, he was less than a meter away. It was time to see if this man would help or not. I groaned loudly, clutching my leg once more. He whipped his head around and stared.
“You dead?” He asked, taking a wary step back. I shook my head pathetically. He nodded and edged closer.
“Do you need help?” He asked. I had to stop myself rolling my eyes, what a stupid question.
“Yes” I croaked, moving my leg slightly and swearing as the pain hit me. The man still looked unsure.
“Please,” I begged. “I promise I’ve no weapons, and I sure as hell can’t attack you with this”, I gestured at my limp left leg. This seemed to relax the man. And he came to a crouching position beside me. His sack dumped on the ground next to him, a little out of my reach.
“What can I do?” He asked, “I’m no doctor, though I reckon you’d need one to fix that.” He glanced at my leg, shuddering slightly.
“Just have a look”, I begged. “I’m sure there are still shards of something stuck in it.” Nodding the man bent down, and slowly began to pull away the layers of torn skin, peering into the deep holes in the flesh, and cuts. He was concentrating so hard.
“I’m Angus by the way-.” He was cut short, as I stabbed the sharpened rock into the exposed part of his neck. Leaving a deep gash, running from his hairline down to the Thoracic section of his spine. Enough to stop him cold. He slumped forward straight on to my injured leg. The pain felt like electricity coursing through my veins, keeping me alive!
I shoved him off and he rolled pitifully on to the floor, dead as a door nail. I stood and snatched up the sack. I tipped it upside down, and the body of a dog fell with a thunk to the asphalt. Whether the dog had been the man’s companion, next meal or both didn’t really matter. I picked up the sharpened rock. Ready to feast.
To different types of meat tonight I thought. Very fancy!
Gandhi once said
That every night
And that every morning
He was reborn
Every night I pray
For an easy death
And every morning
I am spat back into
The rote municipalities
Of another long-gone day
Because unlike Gandhi
Something inside of me
Won’t stop screaming
i may be
an amateur poet,
a hopeful romantic,
a former singer,
a chronic quitter,
an awkward dancer,
a brunette undercover,
a disillusioned scholar,
a single star-crossed lover,
a sorry spendthrift,
a white elephant gift,
an ugly crier,
a backseat driver,
but I am not yours.
and for that, i am grateful.
Im running out of time. To write for you, to express for you. To create art in the shades of your breath and expression.
I am consistent nervousness; constantly unsure within my own footing.
I swallow against the rising bile like a tide in my stomach as I write, and write, and starve and lose all sensibility in trying to fill every gap with you, you, you.
And you? Oh, you do not recognize me I am sure. I am depraved. Monstrous.
My stomach aches, twists, knots when I am alone and solitary in the drowning feeling of raw emotion.
When I am awake, it’s dry and chapped like a beached animal on hot sand. It burns, and I cannot wet it. I cannot whet it.
I write, and write and write to stave you off like a disease, but it festers and I know it shall consume me.
Every word is another injection when I should be withdrawing. But I cannot withdraw from you. Not until my--
The absence of memory is a scary thing. If you can't remember something, it’s impossible to move on with your life. Perhaps it’s something as simple as forgetting that song you heard, or where you put your sunglasses, or maybe even your own name. No matter what it is, forgetfulness will push you to insanity, and keep pushing and pushing, spiraling you deeper and deeper into the chasm of despair, until it is the only thing that remains. You cannot kill forgetfulness, because it does not exist. It is not an object, it is not a concept, it is the exact ABSENCE of everything. Even if you remember something, it is only because forgetfulness is letting you think that you won. Lulling you into a false sense of security before it finally swoops into your life, and destroys you from the inside out before you can even blink. And the last thing you will ever remember is that you forgot.
“The last thing you will ever remember is that you forgot. Huh. That’s a pretty good line. I had one more thing I wanted to write down to finish the story but I must have forgo-”
The writer of this story has been taken over by forgetfulness, and has vanished from existence. He has been destroyed, faded, perished, forgotten…
My favorite love story (repost)
“Grandma,” little Laurie said, scrambling onto her grandmother’s lap in the rocking chair, "tell me how you and grandpa met. Please.”
“I’d love to, darling. Let’s see,” she closed her eyes, rocking gently and holding little Laurie.
“Well, I was working in an office back then, and one day one of my co-workers said that there was some gorgeous guy down in this place called Sweet Imports. You should see him, she said. Drop dead gorgeous, said another.”
“What did you do, Grandma?”
“Well, the next day, I went there. It was a kind of café.”
“What’s a café, Grandma?”
“It’s a place where you can buy foods like sandwiches and salads, muffins and cakes and things like that. And coffee, of course. Café means coffee in French.”
“Do you speak French, Grandma?”
“Yes, darling,” she laughed.
“What happened next, Grandma?”
“Well, as soon as I opened the door, it was as if no one else were there but Grandpa and me. He looked at me and we smiled at each other as if we’d been waiting for that moment all our lives.”
“Did you say hello?”
“No sweetheart; actually, I just bought a muffin.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, I left and my heart was pounding.”
“Why, did you run from the coffee?”
“No, sweetheart, I didn’t run from the café.” She looked into little Laurie’s face. “Think about this: when you get really excited or happy about something, does your heart seem to beat a little faster?"
Little Laurie scrunched her face and thought. Then it lit up with understanding. “Yes, Grandma! I get it. It’s like when we’re going on a trip or coming to your house, or like when we got the new puppy!” Then she frowned. “But I jump up and down a lot too, Grandma.”
Grandma laughed as did you from the other room. “Well, I was jumping up and down on the inside, honey,” she smiled, hugging little Laurie close to her. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, smiling at the memory she was sharing.
Although you were in the next room, the warm timbre of her voice caressed your skin, enveloping you in the memory, touching your heart. You closed your eyes, and remembered…
You had looked up and though you didn’t know, her knees quivered. You saw a familiar face though you had never seen her before and felt your heart leap. She looked into your eyes, big and brown, framed by long thick lashes, and smiled. You looked into her eyes and returned the smile, shy and sincere. Your face, open and innocent.
You didn’t speak. She walked to the back of the line and watched you work. Another took her order. She paid and left. You watched her from beneath those lovely, longed for lashes until only the echo of her heels remained.
Later that same day, she returned. The bell above the door tingled. You felt her before the door opened. Your skin felt like electricity ran through your veins, alive with her gaze upon it. You looked up, your eyes met; she smiled, not as innocent as you, a little nervous, a little wary, already in love. You smiled and your heart was in your eyes.
“May I help you?” you asked with a lovely accent she could not place.
“Um, a strawberry, yogurt shake, please.”
“Right away,” you replied.
She watched your every movement. You felt her gaze burning your skin. You flushed. Your hand trembled ever so slightly when you handed her the shake.
“Two-fifty. You can pay the cashier.”
You shared another smile. She left.
For a week, no day was complete unless she came in twice a day: muffin in the morning, shake at noon. Finally, you decided five minutes was not enough. You wanted to know this woman. The woman behind the smile.
“I would like to see you,” you said Thursday afternoon.
“I see you every day,” she replied, surprised, scared, excited. Scared.
“No, you misunderstand. I am working. I would like to sit. Talk. You know? Know you better.” You were nervous now. Had you misinterpreted her eyes, her smile? Your English wasn’t very good, but you had thought some things needed no translation.
“We’ll see,” she said, smiling and almost running from the store.
The next day, she came in and smiled but ran out without saying a word. The weekend was long. You played videogames with your brother and watched the clock, counting the minutes until you could go to work on Monday. You even cleaned the bathroom – shared by four men who didn’t like to clean - to make the time go more quickly. Sunday afternoon you went to a flea market and bought a pocketbook handmade in Turkey, your home.
Sunday night you drank an entire bottle of vodka and chain smoked two packs of cigarettes to calm your nerves. Your friends laughed at your drunken tears but also tried to boost your courage.
Monday morning finally arrived and when she came in you said, “Don’t go. I have something for you.” You came from behind the counter and handed her the pocketbook.
“Oh my! Thank you so much!” She hugged you and you almost fainted. Your knees quivered. “What time do you finish work?” she asked.
“Well, if you don’t mind waiting until 5:00, would you like to have dinner tonight?”
Silence. Did you understand correctly? Did she just invite you to dinner?
“Yes” you spluttered, afraid she’d take it back. Afraid.
She smiled. “Good. I’ll meet you by the fountain at 5:00 o’clock.”
“5:00 o’clock,” you repeated.
She took you to a health food restaurant. The food was horrible. No meat and you didn’t recognize anything on your plate. Then, you didn’t have enough money to pay so she had to pay. You gave her every penny in your pocket except what you needed for the subway. You thought, what an idiot, she’ll never go out with me again. Then, she took your hand as you walked to the train station and your heart soared at the same moment that you began to tremble and then worry about your sweaty hands.
That was Monday. Every day that week she came in, smiled, bought her muffin or shake and left. But the smiles were a little brighter. The eyes spoke a little more clearly. No translation necessary. All of a sudden it was Friday.
“Would you like to spend the day with me tomorrow?” you asked. “We could walk around the city and then I will take you to nice restaurant for dinner?”
“That would be lovely. What time would you like to meet?”
“Noon? By the fountain?”
It’s Saturday and you are banging your head on the subway door. You have been sitting in the middle of no where for an hour. No moving. They make announcements but you don’t understand. You just think, she will leave. She will think I’m not coming and she will leave. She will hate me. First, I couldn’t buy dinner, now this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And you bang your head to the rhythm of your thoughts.
One-fifteen. You are running through the station. You take the steps two at a time. You are sweating, praying, panting. You can’t breathe, but you run. Hoping. You run through the lobby and push through the revolving doors and stop. You see her by the fountain, reading a book. She looks up, smiles and waves. In that moment you think, that is the woman I am going to marry. And you do.
“Grandma, where are you going?”
“To give Grandpa a kiss.”
Laurie giggled. “Why Grandma?
“Every time I tell that story, I remember how much I love him.”
“And I you,” you say coming through the doorway and pulling her into your arms.
“Ooooo! Grandpa, Grandma! Mommy! Grandma and Grandpa are smooching again!”
In the beginning, I was naïve— too eager to preserve life, too blinded by saving the world, and for centuries I did, but a sanctuary exposes one major flaw, overabundance. Humans multiplied. Cities Overcrowded. Agitation sprouted hate. Hellbent on destroying themselves the planet became their battleground— a war-torn dumpster, forcing many creatures into extinction. I couldn’t save them all. A species that once reveled in enlightenment and face-to-face connection now measures success by “likes” on smartphones— their thumbs replacing mouths.
Humans are pestilent, a malignancy sucking life from its host. I cannot sit by anymore.
I must destroy the disease.
Missed A Day
It seems that my new habit of writing daily made a sudden tragic end,
However, not by purpose or of lack of wanting but by being overwhelmed of moving across to a new country,
I need to get back on the rails now that I am in Scotland,
The sights and goings on is so different it is like being a child again learning how to ride a bike time to walk up the hill grab the handles and give it a try,