Nothing Left to Mutilate

The clouds slowly dissipate, clearing the night sky, revealing the full moon, shining brilliantly upon the darkened Earth. The beauty of this is not lost on me, despite the reason which brought out this night in the first place. The cravings hit me again today. No matter how much I try and resist, the urge always wins, always forces me to pursue the one thing which satisfies this dark craving. Flesh.

Like the predator I have become, I wait silently in the shadows of an alleyway. A cigarrette rests in my mouth, gleaming bright red in the shadow, diminishing with every drag I take. The nicotine helps calm my nerves; it takes my mind off the voice in the back of my head, begging me to return to my apartment, before I commit the inevitable sin, and further damn my soul.

Footsteps. Finally, the moment draws nigh. My spine tenses up; every muscle tightens in preparation for the upcoming struggle. Drawing one last puff on the cigarrette, one hand flicks it away, while the other tightens its grip on the razor blade in my jeans' pocket. I hold my breath as the clicking of heels on the pavement near me. I see her pass by my alley, oblivious of my presence. In the few seconds she is in my line of sight, I quickly note every detail of her physical appearance. Young, perhaps twenty-three; short, black hair; slim frame; blue jeans and a floral shirt.

I silently creep out of the shadows of the alley, following her as quietly as possible. Thankfully, she had her earphones in; her iPod was on full-blast. Lady Gaga silenced what little sound my heels made as I pursued her. As I walk behind her, her scent draws to me; her bubblegum scented perfume strikes me as delicious. My mouth waters in anticipation of the taste of her flesh; the grip on my razor tightens. I feel it bite against my skin, feel blood tricled down my palm.

I am now near enough to attack her. Perhaps some sixth sense alerted her to her impending doom, for she stopped suddenly, but much too late. Before she had the chance to turn around, my hand clasped itself tightly against her mouth, stifling her fearful screams. Her hands flailed and vainly beat against me. She struggled violently, desperate to flee. How tedious. One thing I simply cannot tolerate is when my food tries to get away. With one swift, efficient slash, the razor cuts deep into her throat. Her blood spurts out of the wound, and splashes upon the sidewalk. She staggers a few paces, gagging and gurgling, before she falls to her hands and knees. She draws in a few more gurgling breaths, and then falls face-first upon the pavement.

The hunger inside me is almost painful now, and I immediately set upon her fresh, still warm corpse. My teeth tear into her her, slicing through skin and muscle and tissue. Her flesh is so tender, so delicious, so divine. I eat voraciously, tearing off chunks of meat, swallowing each piece of her whole. I turn her onto her back, pluck out each of her eyes, and savor the taste and texture of the jelly.

Her bones are picked clean by the time I get my fill. For now, my hunger, my cravings, have been sated. When I must give in again to the urges, I do not know. I gather her skeleton into my arms and toss it into the dumpster of the alleyway. I never bother to clean up the blood, as no one in the city knows what to make of it, and they remain apathetic.

As I begin my walk home, something catches my eye. A large number of "Missing Person" posters adorn the walls of the building next to me.

Monsters and Stuff

Electronic music blasted throughout the club, digging deep into everyone's brain, infecting them with a need to dance. Scantily clad women twisted their bodies in time to the music in the pulsating lights. Men happily watched them, and the lucky ones even got to grind against their bodies. Weed, cigarrettes, booze, sweat, and sex permeated the atmosphere, an intoxicating aroma. Everyone enjoyed themselves, blissfully unaware of the monster which stalked the club.

He sat at the bar, calmly sipping his beer, surveying the crowd. Anyone paying attention to him would have seen a tall, young, reasonably attractive man with green eyes, short, black hair, wearing a black leather jacket over a tight white shirt, loose jeans, and black Converse. None would have noticed the hideous monster which lurked in his mind. None would have guessed that he searched for more than a good lay tonight.

He clapped his eyes on a tall, pale blonde. Short skirt, black haltertop, and tall, black boots indicated she was on the hunt. She had no idea that the man swaggering over to her was also on a hunt of his own. Their eyes met; he flashed a charming smile. She smiled back. He cast the bait, and she bit. They both knew the rest, the chit-chat, the sly joke, the close dancing, was all merely a formality at this point. The only real dilemma was figuring out to whose home they would go.

Their tongues were already in each other's mouths as they left the club. In his car, his hand immediately went down her skirt; hers returned the favor. They both sighed and moaned for the duration of the ride. They hurried into his apartment, falling onto his bed and onto each other.

"Hang on; I gotta do something in the other room," he gasped between kisses. He went to the kitchen, just as he had countless times before. He thought of how she would scream if she could see the blood which invisibly stained the bed, walls, and floor of his bedroom. He smiled to himself, knowing he would hear screams soon, regardless of what she knew. He oped the drawer, pulling out a long, shining butcher's knife. He slid the blade against the tip of his index finger. This blade he kept sharp, just for nights like this, and it immediately drew blood as it bit into his flesh. The pain and sight of his own blood aroused him; his excitement almost reached the level it does when he first cuts into his victims. The excitement which makes his pants wet and satisfies him much more than sex does.

He stood at the doorway, staring at her, grinning; he held the knife behind his back. He failed to notice that, while his smile made every other girl at this point uneasy, she simply returned it. He also failed to notice that her grin was every bit as sinister as his.

"What are you waiting for? Get over here; I can't wait to sink my teeth into you," her voice carried with as much a hungry as seductive tone. He continued to grin as he slowly brought the knife to his side, visible now. Her eyes darted towards if for just a moment, and focused again upon him, as if the movement caught her attention more than the blade itself. She continued to smile. His own smile faltered, and turned into a look of worry. Something was very obviously wrong.

"Like I said, I can't wait to sink my teeth into you, if you'll pardon my lousy pun," her voice now was hoarse, raspy, and preternaturally low. She opened wide her mouth, revealing all her teeth, which rapidly grew and sharpened. He dropped his knife. He wanted to run, to scream, but fear and shock gripped into him, digging their hooks into him, holding him frozen and mute. She growled, a guttural, animalistic sound, and leapt at him. Her jaws clamped onto his windpipe; her teeth tore through his flesh. She jerked her head viciously to the side, ripping out his throat. She gulped down that chunk of meat as he fell to his knees, gurgling and choking, hands clasped onto the remnants of his neck as it spurted blood. He looked up at her. She smiled, blood staining her lips and chin, and then dove onto his face, crunching through his cheekbones and skull, swallowing whole each chunk she tore from him, until nothing remainde of his head. She then removed his shirt, ripped open his stomach and chest, cracking open his ribs, and ate her fill of all his organs.

She finished quickly, walking away smiling, leaving behind a picked-through carcass.

Inevitable

Light shines through a window, illuminating a dusty and tacky room; it reflects off of a picture frame and into an old man's eyes. The man stares glumly at the picture, an old black and white. In it, are a young man and woman; the man wears a tuxedo, while the woman has on a wedding dress. the young couple beam the the long-gone photographer. The old man feels as if his younger smile is mocking him, as if the youth he had been is laughing at him. He sighed and reminisced about the beautiful woman beside him in the picture. She remained beautiful all her life, even just before her death a few years prior. She and he had had an amazing fifty years together, but all of those memories served only to torture him after her passing.

He looked now to the other pictures on the shelf. A picture of his son, then a teenager, caught his wandering gaze. His son posed in a baseball uniform, smiling in the restless manner of a youth who would rather be elsewhere. The old man hardly saw his son after he left for college fifteen years ago. Their relationship had been strained ever since the boy was a young teen. He had not visited since the death of his mother.

The old man cried now, memories of his wife and of fights with his son overwhelming him. He regretted pushing his son away. His thoughts turned now to the decrepit body age gave him. As a young man, he wrestled, ran, played sports; he could do anything. Now, the most exercise his creaking joints got throughout the day came from just shuffling about his house, and even this grew slowly impossible. He considered a power chair, but his pride refused. His mind, once sharp, seemed now to lose information as soon as it entered. He never needed glasses until a few years ago.

He snarled, rose slowly, knees creaking and popping, shuffled to the shelf, and one at a time, hurled at the wall the frames and mocking images of youth and happiness. Each shattered, a sound slightly comforting to the man whose thoughts focused only on what life stole from him. He felt lonely, inadequate; an old, burdensome, hermit miser.

His angry grimace fell now into a blank, almost catatonic countenance. He knew how to solve his misery. It would only happen soon, anyways. He shuffled into his garage, grabbed a length of rope, and after coming back into the living room, stood upon a chair. His old hands fumbled for a time, before finally anchoring an end to the ceiling fan. After a few tugs to ensure the anchor's solidity, he tied the other end around his neck. He felt no fear; confidence in the inevitability of his demise, brought on by the ravages of time, stole long ago any fear of death. He jumped from the chair. His old, frail neck bones snapped easily when the drop ended a split second later.

His door knowb turned now, and the son pushed through. The son decided to visit his father, and brought with him his eight year old granddaughter.

Back Against the Wall

The officer stood at the window, staring morbidly at the wreckage outside. The rubble of the City Hall building still smoldered from the explosion and fire which brought it down. No one, fortunately, got hurt from the fire; all of the workers and officials had ample time to escape. The officer turned now his attention to the young, scrawny man cuffed to the chair in the middle of the room. His face, battered, bruised, covered in cuts and scrapes and filth, smired at the officer. He had stood outside the building as it burned. He had thrown the Molotov cocktails; he had waited outside, attacking with his bare hands the people as they escaped. He had punched, kicked, bit, and scratched at everyone he could, until the took him down, ganging up on him and beating him. He had fought until a good blow finally knocked him out. Now, here he sat, waiting for interrogation, a fire in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. The officer stared disbelievingly at this scrawny kid, looked down, and shook his head.

"Why?" he asked. "What was the point of this?" The young man barked a hard, exaggerated laugh.

"The point? There was no point"

"There must have been!" The officer yelled, now inches away from the kid. Rather than flinching, as was expected, the kid glared; the fire in his eyes now was more like an inferno, and the officer knew that if the kid weren't cuffed, he'd have leapt at the much larger, much stronger officer.

"Why does everything need a point?" the kid retorted. "There's no point in anything. I've read so much political theory; I've participated in so many protests. I've even finally voted. So have millions of people throughout history; billions, even. We all try to fix things to make them better; nothing ever works. Nothing will ever change"

"Then why," the officer sighed, exasperated already, "Why go through with this? Surely, you were seeking to make some sort of change. You must have been trying to do something! Why else would a clearly bright young man like yourself be willing to cause so much damage and throw away his life, if he didn't expect to gain something from it, to change something by it?" Again, the barking laughter.

"You're not getting it," the kid whispered.

"Getting what?" the officer stood close to the kid, straining to hear.

"Anything!" the kid roared in the officer's ear, laughing at his startlement. "There's no point! In anything! No matter what, nothing will ever change! The only thing we can do is give you Hell until we're killed or arrested!" Before the confused officer could inquire what he meant by "we", an explosion knocked him onto the floor, also knocking over the kid's chair. The brick wall behind them crumbled and burned. Two kids rushed in through the rubble, smoke, and flames; they were no bigger than the kid cuffed to the chair, but they still rushed the officer, who despite his disorientation, quickly knocked out both of the punks. He grabbed the captive kid now, shook him, screamed in his face. The kid winced a little as flecks of spittle flew into his eyes, but otherwise laughed.

"What the fuck is going on?! What have you done?!" the officer shouted.

"Look behind you," the kid chuckled, "and you'll see". The officer let him go and looked through the gaping hole that was once a wall. Buildings burned, cars crashed into things or exploded, and people ran around screaming while another group of people pursued them, throwing rocks and beating the civilians. Still another group followed the attackers; police, wielding batons and mace, clashed with the group of belligerent young men and women. The officer watched in shock as his buddies were beat down and forced to retreat by a bunch of gym flunkies.

"They're all fighting for the same thing: the sake of fighting," the kid explained to the officer. "They know that they can cuss, spit, throw bottles, and break as much glass as they like, but none of it will ever change nothing. Just like me, they just want to fuck shit up. Just like me, they'll get their asses kicked eventually," he grinned, "but they're still gonna fuck shit up."

"The revolution has begun"

The End

Fame and Fortune

A small scraping noise of metal on metal as the plug is shoved into the Strat.  A familiar, satisfying popping of the amp’s tubes as it turns on, the hum which accompanies it.  Calloused fingertips twist the knobs into the appropriate settings, setting which were discovered years ago to have the best tone, the right sound.  That was the most difficult experience of learning to play.  Getting just the right tone turned out to be absolutely essential to playing; a bad tone completely fucked up everything.  That was years ago.  I got it now.  The guitar is a part of me.  I have something to say; the guitar says it for me.  I got something to say now.  The chord is struck; the first words of the message, my message, are written.

                A small syringe, filled with a brown liquid, sits in my hand.  Calloused fingers tap it; the bubbles inside dissipate.  The tip of the needle hovers above scarred flesh, searching for a vein much as a wasp searches for a place to sting.  A small, sharp bite as it penetrates.  The plunger is depressed; the brown liquid rushes into my bloodstream.  Calm and euphoria wash over me in waves.  The world slowly fades.  Getting in touch with myself, my feelings, and the world drains me; I hate being alert and aware of it all.  I said what I needed to say; all that was left was to actually record it, and grin and bear it while the producer and record execs rape my words, my message, turn it into something marketable, something they can profit from.  It sickens me.  I’m helpless to it.  Now, I am numb.  A perfect counterbalance to my earlier awakeness.  The yin needs its yang.  All; well.

Girl of My Dreams

The smell of the salt in the wind entices my nose as I stare out over the water.  The sun is high in the sky, bright, powerful, and hot.  The water, near the shore, is a light green; further away, it changes to a deep blue.  It’s quite a sight, but what really has my attention is a blonde girl sitting on the shore’s edge.  The wind ruffles her hair, upon which the sun shines brilliantly. She turns to look at me, and her eyes startle me, though I’ve seen them countless times before; that blue, a pigment I’ve never seen in anything natural or man-made, shocks me everytime with its utter beauty.

                “Whatcha lookin’ at, muffin?” she asks.  Her voice is raised above its normal pitch; the effect is it makes me adore her even more.

                “Well, I’m trying to enjoy the scenery,” I sit down next to her, smiling, “but this gorgeous girl makes everything else look bland” She blushes and coos, giggling as I wrap my arms around her.  I pull her close and kiss her slowly, softly.  My heart increases its pace, as it does each time she and I kiss; her lips are like jumper-cables, jolting me to life each time they meet mine.  Never before have I felt anything like this.  No other girl has ever had me so pathetically cheesy.

                I wake up, and almost immediately begin to cry.  These dreams taunt me relentlessly every night.  The girl I’ve not seen in months; she moved to New York.  We talk constantly on the phone, but though her voice makes me so very happy, it’s not what I need from her.  I need to see her; nothing in the world compares to her beauty.  I need to hold her; that warm, firm, loving embrace of hers makes me melt, makes time stand still.  I need to kiss her; I haven’t felt alive since our lips last brushed.

                I stare at my phone, willing her to call me, praying she wakes up, too, and misses me.  After a few minutes, I check the calendar on my phone.  She’ll be here in less than two weeks.  I’m too pessimistic to find any joy in that; instead, I groan about how long two weeks are when you need something.  I sigh, turn over, and steel myself for more tormenting dreams as I fall back asleep.  I feel like fucking Tantalus.

                We sit on my couch, she and I, taking a breather from making out, and trying to figure out something else to do.  I grin goofily, stand up, and plug in my guitar.  She stays on the couch, looking up at me with those twinkling blue eyes, and giggles.  I motion for her to join me, my grin even goofier.

                “What are you doing?” she asks warily, but still giggles as she takes her place next to me.  I start playing.

                “Any way you want it!” I shout, my voice cracking and way off-key as I strum a quick G.  She knows what’s expected of her, and cracks up, shaking her head vigorously.  I try the puppy-eyes; she’s still adamant.  I then just keep strumming the same chord and caterwauling, the amp distortedly wailing along with me.  Finally, my obnoxious cacophony gets to her.

                “Okay!” she shouts, laughing hard.  I get ready to play as she takes a deep breath.  Her mouth opens, and releases a raucous buzzing noise.

                I jolt awake, groan at my alarm clock, smack “snooze”, and try to fall back asleep.  A knock on my door keeps me up.  I sleepily walk over to it, grumbling and cursing the whole way.  I open the door, and there she is, smiling wide, wearing her cute Darth Vader shirt and shorts.  She looks gorgeous, adorable, beautiful.

                “Fuck you,” I mutter at the beaming apparition, whose smile is now a bewildered frown, and I slam my door.  I curse about my stupid dreams as I walk back to my dream-couch.

                “Muffin!” she calls behind me through the door.  Will I ever wake from this dream?  She keeps calling, growing more agitated.

                “All fucking right! I’ll play along!” I scream.  When I open the door, her hand shoots out and smacks my face.  It stings.  Wait, it stings?!

                “Omigoshimsorryithoughtiwasdreamingand…!” Her hand stifles my mouth, muffling my frantic and rushed apology.

                “Stupid muffin” she smiles, lifts her hand from my mouth, and kisses me softly.

Pretty Vacant

                The teacher struts back and forth in front of a classroom full of teenagers, all dressed alike, all with the same, neat hairstyles.  He stops suddenly.

                “Recite ‘Macbeth’, Act 1, Scene 2, line 45!” he commands in a harsh, gruff, drill instructor voice.  Immediately every student recites the line, no mistakes made.  One seat is empty.  The teacher eyes it suspiciously; Jonathan hasn’t been in school for a while.  The punishment for truancy, or any behavior belligerent to the norm, is death; any interruption in society is not tolerated.  Vestiges of sympathy, an emotion society long ago deemed unnecessary, and thus stamped out, began to grip him; he quickly shakes it off and gets back to teaching.

                “Old Man and the Sea!” he shouts.  “Page 34, second paragraph, third sentence!”  Again, everyone infallibly recites it, but they are interrupted as the classroom door bursts open.  In rushes a young man with long hair, a dirty tee-shirt, torn jeans, and battered Converse; he makes a shocking contrast to the well-groomed, uniformed pupils.  All eyes are on him; everyone expects a bullet to shatter sshis skull any moment.  “Difference is delinquence; individualism is delinquence”  they were taught from a young age.  “Individualism and difference hinder society; they will not be tolerated”.

                Immediately, robotically, the teacher rushes to the gun in his desk, as he awas trained to do.  The young man whips his hand in a flash, and in the next moment, the teacher’s hand is impaled by a long, silver blade.  The young man whips his hand again, and another blade pins the screaming and bleeding teacher to the wall behind him.  The young man now yells out, enraged.

                “Do you people even understand what you’ve been taught!” he shouts.  “Not one of you has made one thought on your own since you were three!  There is no innovation, no art, no music, no progress, because you’re all robots!  You’ve accepted the norm; you’ve conformed, and now where’s your identity?  You recall facts, but do you understand them? Can you do anything independent of the state, of the police, of the fucking kid next to you! Can’t any of you see that you’re not people until you can actually think!”  he throws books, pens, bookbags, and continues to yell and growl, just vocalizing now, unable to find the right words in his rage.  The classroom stares silently.  They turn forward and pick up their recitations where they left off.  The young man stares disbelievingly.

                “Can you tell me what the point of the ‘Old Man and the Sea’ is?” he asks disgustedly.  A summary is recited in unison, the same summary as always, word for word.

                “No!” he screams.  What’s the point!  The purpose!  What was Hemingway trying to say?  Your interpretations, not a fucking summary!”  Silence again, for a moment, and the class recites the summary again.  The young man now falls to his kneew, pleading for the class to become capable of individual thought.  The recitation drowns his sobbing.  He quietly takes his seat now, the empty seat with a  placard reading “Jonathan”.  His last-ditch effort at saving humanity failed.  No amount of anarchy would save society; no matter how many pamphlets he illegally distributed, no matter how many government propaganda stations he destroyed, no matter how many officers, teachers, and soldiers he fought during his absence from school, Jonathan realized he couldn’t change anything.

                He pulls out another knife and begins carving into his desk.  Without hesitation, he plunges the blade into his chest, falling over onto the floor.  The teacher unpinned himself.

                “Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1, line 3!” he commands, not missing a beat. While the class recited, Jane, who sat behind Jonathan, carefully peeks at the writing he carved.  The month he was gone from school was the same month in which she began reading an underground pamphlet, entitled simply “A”.  She was scared to speak out while Jonathan raged, but she wanted to tell him that she thought Hemingway meant to communicate that life was pointless in the end, and that the only thing one could do was enjoy the journey.

                Jane reads Jonathan’s last words over and over.  There were lyrics to a song; she had to keep from humming, for music of any sort was forbidden.  The bell rings, and the entire class methodically rises, gathers their stuff, and leaves.  The teacher leaves as well; he had a report to file, and an undertaker to contact.  Jane quickly, carefully, reenters the empty room.  She pulls the knife from Jonathan’s chest, wipes off the blood, and quickly hides it. She takes one last look at the lyrics before she darts out.

               

                We’re so pretty,

                Oh, so pretty…vacant!

                     -Sex Pistols

The Adventures of Little Ellen and Mary-Beth

Little Ellen and Mary-Beth strolled along the sidewalk, as they always did after school.  They stood side by side as they pushed their strollers along. Each stroller held a baby doll. Little Ellen had a pink doll; Mary-Beth had a yellow doll. Every day after school, Little Ellen and Mary-Beth pushed their baby dolls around the block in their quiet, idyllic suburb. But you don’t give a damn about that, right? I know, I know, I know you’re reading this and thining, “When do these little girls get horribly raped and murdered?” I know you’re waiting for the blood and guts. No one can write simply a cute little story about eight-year-old girls. No, there simply must be death and destruction. You’re all sick fucking pessimists, but that’s neither here nor there.

Anyways, Little Ellen suddenly stopped. Oh, fuck yeah! I can just you jizzing your pants with the anticipation of some vicious beast mauling little Ellen. That’s not at all what happens. Little Ellen suddenly stopped and loudly proclaimed, “My pink dolly is better than your yellow one!”                 “Nuh-uh!” Mary-Beth cried. She crossed her arms immediately and huffed. Oh, shit! She’s gonna fuck that bitch up, nigga! Yes, because that’s totally fucking logical. That is entirely the realistic reaction of an eight-year-old girl, to fuck a bitch up. God damn, I can’t write this story! Everytime I try to continue this innocuous child’s tale, your voices scream in my mind, demand me to cause violent atrocities to poor Little Ellen and Mary-Beth.  Fuck it, I’ll sell-out to your will, just so I can finish their tale.                                                            And then, Soviet Russia fired a nuclear missile at America, incinerating all inhabitants.

The End.

She

My nose is covered in blackheads
    My face, pockmarked with craters, looks like the moon
And she still thinks I'm cute.

My hair is shaggy, unkempt
    Dirty blonde, impossible to comb, permanent bad hair day
And she still thinks it's pretty.

My arms are scrawny
    Mantits, a fat stomach, T-Rex mode legs
And she still says I'm attractive

I have very few hobbies
    One of which is just dicking around online
And she still thinks I'm interesting

I screw up every joke I tell
   I think puns are truly hilarious
And she still thinks I'm funny

My fingers are clumsy on the fretboard
   My songs are simple melodies, simple chords
And she still loves to hear them

My stories are too short, too weird
    Poems I write, like this one, are terrible
And she still loves reading every word

Half my stories and poems are about her
    She inspired most of my songs
And I still can't show her enough how much I love her.

Chemicals

Caffeine and nicotine
Driving me, fueling
My creative engines
And my ambitions
I pursue, but
Only half-heartedly,
Unless I'm giving myself cancer
Or clogging my arteries
With cigarettes and soda, respectively
Guess I'm not meant to be
Sober, clean, and free
Of chemicals, because I'm weak.
To stay calm, I need weed.
To stay up, coffee.
To stay sane, nicotine.
I get so anxious when I'm sober
Or when my high is over.
But I never told her,
My personality is addictive.
I'm scared I'll be a junky and vindictive
And manipulative
To get money to feed a habit
I feel I need
To keep going and to succeed.
These drugs I use to get these ideas out of my head,
Help my art, but I know I'll wind up dead.
For the sake of these ideas in my head,
I willfully, slowly make myself dead.

If the Law Says It's Okay, It's Okay

Let's smoke some K-2
What will it hurt? Shit's legal!
What a waste of 10 bucks
It doesn't do shit; here, smoke the rest later

Who's calling me at one in the morning?
Heather? Why is she calling?
What's wrong, Whoa, calm down!
You feel like your heart's about to explode?

Why is this happening?
I thought K-2 was okay; shit's legal!
I'm sorry I spent those 10 dollars
And gave that shit to you

The poison hotline says
You need to go the hospital
And if you don't call your parents
I'm calling 9-1-1

Who cares if they know,
And who cares about the bill?
You're dying, Heather!
You need to get help!

No sleep for me tonight
So no class in the morning
You'll go to jail for harmless pot
But the legal shit will kill you.

Cool as a Cucumber

Trying to be cool as a cucumber,
Winding up as lame as that line
"Girl, you're like the point of a pen, you're so fine"
I wink and act like I'm hot
From her reactions, it's clear that I'm not
So, like the dork I am, I continue
"Girl, don't run away, I miss you!"
Chasing this girl like a stalker
When I'm just trying to talk her
Into giving me a chance,
And going with me to the 8th grade dance.

Chasing the Dragon

The syringe fell from her hand and clattered upon the floor. Finally, the release she had searched so desperately for was found. She sighed, head tilted back, eyes fluttering. She once again entered that wonderful state between awake and slumber. No matter how hard she fought this need, she always sought this feeling out. She tried to face the world without heroin; she simply could not bare it. When she shot up, the life she lived, and all of its trials and pains, faded into the background. The bills that needed paying, the dead-end job she worked, the dingy efficiency apartment in which she lived; all of these torments, these stresses, these problems, they all became nothing more than background noise. At least for a few hours, she gets to escape it all. Heroin became her only solace in her world.
She began to sweat; her skin paled. Her breathing grew ever shallow. She convulsed as her awareness, her vision and consciousness of the world faded. She finally passed out, smiling a little from the numb feeling. Her breath came out ragged and shallow. Her skin, drenched in sweat, was still cold somehow. She ceased breathing. Her heart pulsed no more.
In a cradle in the corner of her apartment, a baby girl cried out for milk.

Such an Artist

I’m such an artist

You wouldn’t understand

I’m so much deeper

Than the average man

I’m such an artist

I’m mysterious, and stuff

I take deep pictures

Like this black and white of my butt

I’m such an artist

War and stuff is bad

Consumerism and conformity

Make me all sad :’(

I’m such an artist

…Dude, you got some pot?

Lemme get some, bro!

I don’t need a lot!

I’m such an artist

*tokes deep from bowl*

…Uh, what was I saying?

Fuck it, time for Doritos.

Truly Living

                After hours of sweating and hiking, after adding new, painful callouses to her already rough feet, she finally emerged from the woods, into the clearing.  She sighed, joyful and weary; she came just in time for the sun to shine perfectly on the flowers, making their reds, greens, blues, yellows, and purples stand out at their most brilliant.  She dropped her backpack; the grass, so soft, cushioned its fall to the point that it scarcely “thumped”. She flopped down immediately next to it, sighing again and smiling. Tired as she was, she still found the strength to roll around in the soft grass, among the seeming millions of flowers. The hike through the woods never was too bad; she always saw plenty of wildlife, and some critters even started coming up to her, albeit warily. They grew used to the weekly visits of the benevolent stranger, who always carried snacks.

                 But it was this clearing that made the weekly hike worth it. The heat, the sweat, the dirt, the pain in her feet never mattered whenever she came upon this clearing. It was this clearing which made the rest of the week bearable.  She always thanked Mother Nature for providing this escape from the drudges of life in the city.  She pitied her office co-workers, forever trapped in their cubicles, in their cars, in their cramped apartments. She sometimes wished she could share her wonderful world with that other one, but she knew the sanctity of the clearing would only be ruined by a bunch of slobs, and that eventually, some greedy man, seeing green, would pave it over and replace it with something the world needs much less of.

                She looked around at all the splendor.  The clearing, in reality, was just a tiny blot of color amidst a sea of green trees. She felt safe, a peaceful land in the middle of an ocean. At the same time, her insignificance, and the insignificance of the clearing, awed her; it seemed to her that the rest of the forest, the rest of Nature, waited hungrily to swallow her up, to consume the different colors, to devour the upstart clearing with its uniform trees.

                She plucked a flower, apologized to it for causing it such pain, sniffed, and placed it in her long, blonde hair.  She lay back down in the grass, smiled softly, and drifted to sleep, her serene smile still adorning her face.

                She awoke slowly at night time, underneath a starry, moonlit sky.  She yawned, stretched, and felt elation from seeing the stars.  The city lights killed all the stars in their section of sky, so the magnificence of all those millions of twinkling lights never was lost on her.  She rummaged quickly in her backpack for her trail mix and water.  The insects, frogs, and various other noises of the night provided a beautiful symphony as she munched a few handfuls of nuts, raisins, granola, and M&Ms.  Dinner and music, under a beautiful night sky; what most people only see in movies, she experienced weekly, in real life.

                The cool night air caressed her skin; it slowly, sensually washed over her, seduced her.  She never could resist the advances of Mother Nature, nor Her temptations; she peeled off her clothing, dropped to the ground the last of civilization’s brands.  The feeling of total freedom swelled within her breast, and made her giddy.  Laughing, she danced gleefully around the sleeping clearing.  She merrily bathed in the starlight; the night sky blanketed her, clothed her more fully, more securely than any polyester rag ever could.  To the music of the night, she danced, the night air her partner.  She reveled in the sensuous chills the air’s cool embrace gave her.  She danced and sang with the nocturnal creatures.  The chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, and the buzzing of cicadas provided the perfect accompaniment for her sweet, melodic voice.  She danced until the tortured muscles in her calves, thighs, abdomen begged her to stop, and she fell down, immediately fast asleep.  Her mind, her soul, unfettered by her tired body, continued to dance in her dreams, among the flowers, the stars, and the beat of her perfect world.

Everything Went Better Than Expected

His fingers positioned themselves rigidly at the keys, obedient soldiers at the ready, waiting for their incompetent commander to give the order to attack. The light of the black screen glared at him, daring him to make a move. It seemed very Clint Eastwood; instead of seeing the words he needed to fill the screen, he only saw Dirty Harry inquiring about luck. His editor's voice agitated him, though she called nine hours ago.

"Jack, we've been waiting two months for your follow-up, and you've had nothing; if you don't have anything by next month, we're dropping you" Click. Just one sentence, and she hung up. One sentence, but he couldn't get Sheena's wretched voice out of his head; her voice, like rusty nails scraping along a pane of glass, always irritated him. Her words, though, got to him worse than her voice; just like that, he saw and felt his world crashing in on him. One month? how could he possibly follow up a bestseller within a month? His career as a writer teetered on the verge of collapse, and he only just begun.

He felt now the sweat that ran down his forehead while he thought about Sheena's ultimatum, and his inability to write. The walls were steadily closing in on him. Writer's block hit him at the peak of his success, and now, two months later, it still held his fingers from typing, still restrained his mind from creating.

He could remember a story he read about Kurt Vonnegut. When Kurt was a writer for a sports magazine, he was assigned to write a story of a horse at a race jumping over a fence. Kurt had stared for hours at a blank piece of paper in his typewriter, before finally writing, "The horse jumped over the fucking fence" Jack laughed loudly at his desk, his cackles bouncing across the walls of the spacious apartment he may no longer be able to afford. Inspiration took him suddenly, hit him in the gut, completely knocked writer's block the fuck out. Kurt Vonnegut, the man who inspired to Jck to become a writer, now inspired him again to write what he felt, he knew, would be his next hit, possibly his magnum opus.

Jack lunged forward violently and attacked his keyboard, battering the keys with the rapid strokes of a madman. His stiff back cracked in protest of the sudden movement, but he ignored the pain and possible dislocation of vertebrae; after this book sells, he'll get the best, most expensive chiropractor in the Western Hemisphere. His fingers flew violently over the keys, churning out word after word, as if they were inmates released from prison and let loose at the Playboy Mansion. His mind, first completely devoid of any creativity, now overloaded him with words and ideas. He felt as if his skull was simply bursting with literary gold; the next great American novel was practically spilling from his ears.

He typed without any pause, except to fulfill basic bodily functions such as the need to geat, urinate, and smoke pot (you know, for inspiration). For three days, he sat at his desk and simply typed. His cell buzzed every now and then, but it went totally ignored. The doorbell rang, but its chime fell on the deaf ears of a man in the middle of creating his masterpiece. He worked feverishly until finally, he got to the end. He stared in wonderment at his once blank screen, now filled with words whcih will change people's lives; more importantly, Jack knew those words will make him a very, very rich man. He already could envision the party he would soon throw, could already see the piles of cocaine which would litter his apartment, the beautiful women roaming around topless, and all the coolest people pretending to be his friend so they could snort the coke and fuck the women. He saw no point in even reading over his work; he knew in his soul that each and every word written was a diamond, fresh from some desolate mine in Somalia. With the swagger of a man already mentally spending his millions, alreay accepting numerous literary awards, he picked up his cell and called Sheena, that raspy bitch of an editor.

"Jack! I've been trying to call you the past few days..."

"Shut up and listen" Jack interrupted. He could feel her glaring at his command; Sheena wasn't the kind of woman whom you told what to do. "I finished it"

"But," Sheena said slowly after a short, confused pause, "you said you didn't have anything...at all..."

"I'll be by tomorrow at two" Jack replied and hung up, not wanting to talk any longer; he also wanted to mess with Sheena, make her expect a a load of crap, so her mind would be even more blown when she reads over the next million-dollar book for her company. He checked the ink and paper in his printer; just enough to print. He hit "print", leaned back, and smiled at the satisfying sound of his fortune being made.

He awoke the next day at two-thirty. Already late, he yawned, stretched, and slowly checked his cell. Fourteen calls and voicemails, and thirty-two texts. He felt Sheena's anxiety, the anxiety of anyone in business potentially losing money. The knowledge that he made her worry, made her freakout, brought a big, dumb grin to his face. Nothing he loved more than making suits squirm; what's the point in any creative career if you can't find joy in fucking with business-types? Jack knew Sheena's sour mood would dissipate the second she took a gander at his million dollar book. So, why not take his time getting there?

After a hot shower, leisurely wank, cereal, and a couple of joints, Jack finally put on his shoes, picked up his manuscript, and left. Rather than take his car, he decided today to walk. It was such a nice day out: the sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, and dammit, he deserved to enjoy life now, seeing as he soon would be laying around his apartmen in a drunken, coked-up stupor, with possibly an STI festering on his genitals. Then there was the rehab stint which would have to happen, the inevitable relapse...he couldn't stop fantasizing about his future rockstar lifestyle.

Finally, he arrived at the outside of his publisher's building. He made his way towards the elevator, stopped, examined his stomach, and decided to get some exercise by taking the stairs. After climbing the six flights to Sheena's office, he stopped for a quick breather, checking his watch. "4:17" the glowing face read. This information made Jack laugh, mostly because he was stoned, but also because he knew Sheena was paused. He stepped into her office.

"Jack!" Sheena screamed, inches from his face, spittle flying as she vocally released two hours and seventeen minutes of pent-up rage. "What the fuck is wrong with you, showing up so fucking late, stoned as Hell, what are you doing, why are you such an immature prick, and why are you wearing that stupid fucking grin!" Her voice, already usually raspy, now made Jack wince as it tore through his eardrums. He just smiled, sat behind her desk, and plopped the manuscript on the desk. Sheena dashed for it, greedy hands eagerly snatching up what she hoped would be a best-seller. Jack continued beaming as she hastily read through it.

At first, Sheena's eagerness filled Jack with an even bigger sense of having written something important. However, within a few pages, Sheena slowed down, her countenance fell, and Jack felt his stomach drop to his feet. She slowly handed the manuscript back to him.

"What's the matter?" he rushed the words, wanting an answer immediately. She simply motioned for him to read it, and so he did for the first time.

"Listen," the story began, "Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time" Jack stared disbelievingly at what his own two hands had written. He kept reading, hoping it was just a fluke, but it wasn't. He hadn't written a story influenced by Kurt Vonnegut, but instead had simply copied "Slaughterhouse Five" word for word. After the shock of this realization wore off, he fell to his knees, blubbering, snot and tears running down his face. Sheena stared at him in both disgust and confusion. She slowly patted his back, not entirely sure of what to do; she never was able to understand other people's emotions, and never knew what to do in these situations.

"Um, there-there" she said slowly. "It's not that bad"

"Not that bad!" Jack sobbed and blew his nose, which disgusted Sheena even further. "My 'masterpiece' is blatant copyright infringement!"

"Oh, relax!" Sheena thumped his nose, which bewildered him, and shut him up. "People do this all the time in this business! 'Slaughterhouse Five' was a big hit, so we'll just reword your manuscript and pretend it's original! We'll all be rich, still! Problem solved!"

"Really?" Jack looked up at her, red-eyed, snot still running. "Will I really be able to have a big cocaine party in celebration?" his voice quivered with hope.

"Kid, you got a lot to learn about this business of selling 'art'" Sheena fake-smiled at him. "You're gonna be able to afford all the coke you can snort!" Jack grinned now, ecstatic that what he and all his hippy friends said about publishers being greedy fucks who don't care at all about art was true. Sheena took back the manuscript, and Jack skipped merrily out of the office. Everything went better than expected.