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Jun. 22nd, 2012

Might extend this into a longer SS about alternative medicine.

Thomas removes his cotton shirt and the burlap sack that serves as his pants. He looks at the ground around him and finds three large white stones. He arranges them into a stack and places his clothes on them. Now naked, he walks to the center of the stream and lies on his back. Imagine him there- poor, young Thomas- naked. His warm body rests on cold dark stones, and the thin trickle of water flows around him. He brings his left thigh up and across his body, as if he is stretching before a baseball game. He takes a deep breath.

His eyes trace the movement of something large and black across the sky. Suddenly, he screams.

                “Help me, Jesus! Help me, Jesus! Please, help me, Jesus!”

He stops screaming. He listens to the echo of the words, and he feels disappointed when they fade away into the surrounding forest. He hugs his bent knee and releases an infantile whimper.

Thirty seconds pass and Thomas releases his leg. He folds his arms across his hairy chest, resting his palms on the cryptodome just beneath the collar bone. He imagines his nails growing long as his flesh decays and falls into the river bed beside him. In this mental time lapse the forest around Thomas changes as well. Trees fall, new ones grow. Three hundred years later a rock slide buries the area and his skeleton is crushed into a fine powder. The powder catches the wind and Thomas tries to fathom the crippling disappointment that someday he will be nothing but powder, completely insubstantial and without the ability to offer nutrition to other creatures.

There is a noise in the brush to his left. Thomas turns his head. A black bear has approached the bank of the river. Its head hangs low. Thomas looks at its claws, its thick legs, and its teeth. Thomas drops his hands and cups them around his genitals.

“I am weak” he says.

A feeling of nausea overcomes him. He turns on his side and vomits, bucket loads. There is blood in the vomit. Thomas feels better. His stomach has been purified.

His mother had once told him that sometimes people go to sleep and don’t wake up. Earlier in the day he had seen a newspaper headline, he had just recently learned to read. It took him an hour, but he thinks it said: “Four Young Boys Dead in Car Accident in Doken.” Above the headline was a picture of a man carrying the limp body of a child, on the child’s feet were dirty socks. Thomas noticed this because the boy wasn’t wearing any shoes. He had been told to never leave the house without his shoes. At the man’s feet was another child. This child had his legs splayed and was sleeping.

“I am not like these boys” thinks Thomas. On the 4th of July they let him set of a few black snakes out in the driveway. He held the flame to them and watched as they coiled up and turned into fine grey powder and released a smell like bleach.

Thomas imagines a black snake slithering through him now. He sees a homunculus of his own body- cartoon like and exaggerated, laying supine, but with a real serpent- a slick black cobra rubbing its body all over him. It leaves oily streaks on whatever part of his insides that it touches. It is making its way to his heart, and begins to bite and spit at everything around it.

A voice comes to Thomas. The trees and the water and the animals, the entire world speaks to him in a gentle, fluttering tone. It sounds like a wind chime, with a genderless voice speaking from behind it.

“Wake up child. Let the sun shine on your face. You are no idiot. Accept your medicine.”

The rocks beneath Thomas begin to warm. They feel like giant fingers playing with his back, pinching and pulling. Thomas laughs.

“Stop. Stop that.”

It is a cold tickle, if there is such a thing. It bites into him, not like a snake but like a playful puppy. Biting and releasing and teasing. Thomas imagines the homunculus again. This time the snake too is a cartoon, and it is shivering. It is freezing, along with the rest of Thomas’ insides.

“If I die,” thinks Thomas, “Then you die, too.”

He finds comfort in these final words. The forest breaths a reassuring yes in its twinkling and jingling voice, and Thomas finally falls asleep.

Jun. 17th, 2012

A brief poem exploring the different spaces of a familiar object

Dust and dried snot
Old cotton
A wine stain
Down the side
Crumbs, coins and fur
Beneath the cushions
Oil and humidity
Absorbed into the fabric
It smells like popcorn
And tastes salty
A man
On top
On top of the man

Her Bold Message

“Angry, unemployed idol hands

with heads full of Marxist lies.”

Who will tell us the truth?

Mama Grizzly will tell

First Question:

How can hands have eyes?

"Stay ever vigilant

In holding tight your brothers and sisters"

Feet to the fire

Apr. 16th, 2012

As usual, an intro paragraph devolves into a verbose, fan-boy review.

Clive Barker is a writer who identifies himself as writing in the French tradition of  le fantastique, a literary sub-genre that combines horror, science-fiction, and fantasy. This unique species of literature allows writers not only the opportunity to access tropes familiar to the fantastic, such as alternative realms and the use of magic, but also to transgress many of the gayer elements of fantasy with visceral depictions of violence, queer sexuality, and fundamentally evil protagonists. Barker’s 1986 novel, The Hellbound Heart, uses familiar elements of mythology and modern fantasy, but thematically transcends traditional fantasy tales in the discourse it creates regarding the relationship between sex, violence, and true love. Part Marquis deSade and part Dunsany, The Hellbound Heart is a story of desire and suffering. Barker jettisons the idea of a noble protagonist through who’s eyes we will see the good and true, and instead focuses his narrative on the love affair between Frank and his brooding sister-in-law Julia. Julia discovers that Frank has been transported to an alternate realm of eternal torture by a group of demonic sado-masochistic creatures known as cenobites; their collective group is named the Order of the Gash. Although not canonically recognized, The Hellbound Heart is relevant for the commanding role it played in the formation of 21st century fantasy. Post-modern fantasy writers, such as China Mieville and George R.R. Martin, are indebted to Barker for the sense of realism he established as being essential to contemporary fantasy.  Barker firmly painted red the interstitial ground between late 70s high fantasy and late 20th century, early 21st urban fantasy. The Hellbound Heart features characters that are not enlightened and rejuvenated by their trip across the threshold, but rather terrified and, quite literally, scarred. Unlike Lovecraft, Barker revels in letting the bogeyman out of the closet… and watching it tear the scared, little child to pieces.

Apr. 15th, 2012

First Entry

I made this account so I can have a place to post some of my creative work. Feel free to comment, criticize, and say whatever you want. My first post is about a popular character from a very popular SF franchise. More work to come:

Mi'lak shei'ka bubbles
overflowing lactic daddies

key to complimentary dinner
Gravity as other
keep down native menu
under scarred helmets
Asthmatic poet-king
wheezing destiny to assembly
...he's no good to
you dead
But the champion remembers:
joy is never found

in the sum of bounty, but
based in taxiderm
Eternal Rictus 
the frozen limbo

He’s only good to
Me half-dead