I hear that daily siren,
beckoning,
pleading,
and prodding for me to join the rest.
My mind swirls as I fight off the infection.
I wander the city,
covered in filth,
terrified,
and alone.
They will not control me.
I hide behind a pile of garbage,
hoping not to be spotted,as the masses march toward their meeting place.
The garbage smell doesn't bother me,
since the entire planet is now a dumping ground.
I see a young woman doing the same as I across the courtyard,
but can't get to her in time to help.
The sirens grow louder,
so does their stomping.
They close in on her location and she panics.
She tries to run,
but they surround her and begin to chant.
The group lock arms and begin to sing.
The girl tries to cover her ears,
but the noise begins to seep in to her.
I cup my noise cancelling head phones safety fastened to my head.
I want to look away,
but like all the times before,
I can't help watching them take her.
She writhes in agony,
as the group closes in on her
singing,
smiling
and chanting their fables.
The group put their hands on her,
sprinkling drops of water upon her head.
I see it cleansing her independence,
slowly overtaking her.
Eventually she stops fighting,
and stands to join them.
The group rejoices,
continuing with their praise.
I discreetly follow them as they stomp toward the cathedral they dwell in.
The doors to the cathedral ruins fling open as their priests and prophets await in open arms another follower.
Damn.
Another one lost to contagious reckoning.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Friday, January 30, 2015
The Suicide Letter
Help me forget my life.
My weekends, consist mostly of getting high, watching bad movies, and binging on brownies.
Make me forget all the horrible, nasty thoughts, that crossed through my mind this week. All of the improper and socially unacceptable things I've said out loud in fits of anger and fatigue.
The nights seem longer then previous years as the bitter cold creeps back in to our lives to inhabit us once again and run a muck.
Last week I wrote my own suicide letter.
I had no intention of publishing it or carrying the deed out, but I was so grief struck, that I wanted to see if I had it in me.
I re-read it this week to get an idea of how horribly un-educational the entire thing was. To my surprise it was actually well written. It might actually be one of the best pieces of work I've created in a long time. Not because of its morbid content, but because it was written with empathy, drive and purpose. It covered all the finer points in my life, while managing to avoid self pity. If I were to read it from an outsiders perspective I would understand its purpose and feel no shame if they wrote the same.
Sometimes actions don't need justifications. There are few tragic circumstances that happen for reasons we later understand.
This is one of those moments.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Results
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't being selfish in this exact moment.
When he told me there was something wrong, my mind instantly flashed ten years to the future and I imagined my life without him.
Without friends, or family.
Whether I would make it on my own.
Whether the darkness would finally consume me and lead me down the inevitable dark path that has clouded me since youth.
All troubling thoughts, that shouldn't cross my mind until the diagnosis, but yet I worry.
I relax my face as the doctor enters the room, but know that the sweat from my palms will be my tell.
We receive a preliminary explanation of the tests and what the results could or could not mean.
The doctor drags it out as long as he can.
Warning signs go off in my head.
He clears his throat before telling us the results and it's as if time has stopped.
Everything is frozen.
I turn away from them and let out a shuttering whimper before turning back.
Time has unpaused.
I hear what he is saying but start to feel as if I'm falling from the top of a sky scraper.
He takes my hand, eyes glossy, but never one for the theatrics.
Suddenly I am lost, drowning in a thick syrupy pool of black.
When he told me there was something wrong, my mind instantly flashed ten years to the future and I imagined my life without him.
Without friends, or family.
Whether I would make it on my own.
Whether the darkness would finally consume me and lead me down the inevitable dark path that has clouded me since youth.
All troubling thoughts, that shouldn't cross my mind until the diagnosis, but yet I worry.
I relax my face as the doctor enters the room, but know that the sweat from my palms will be my tell.
We receive a preliminary explanation of the tests and what the results could or could not mean.
The doctor drags it out as long as he can.
Warning signs go off in my head.
He clears his throat before telling us the results and it's as if time has stopped.
Everything is frozen.
I turn away from them and let out a shuttering whimper before turning back.
Time has unpaused.
I hear what he is saying but start to feel as if I'm falling from the top of a sky scraper.
He takes my hand, eyes glossy, but never one for the theatrics.
Suddenly I am lost, drowning in a thick syrupy pool of black.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
The Ornament
Peter Pueblo awoke from his irritating bedside alarm.
He lied staring at the ceiling, while his wife pleasantly snored next to him.
What followed was the usual routine:
A freezing 6:00 A.M. walk around the block, so the dog could do its business.
A scalding hot shower to warm his frozen bones.
A quick dry shave.
Moisturizer.
Blow dry.
Style.
Get dressed.
Morning paper, and midnight black coffee.
Corn Pops.
Feed the remaining milk in the cereal bowl to the dog.
Teeth brush.
Mouthwash.
A dab of aftershave.
Scarf.
Coat.
Hat.
Gloves.
Get the car to come to a grumbling start.
Brush the fresh snow from the car.
Scrape at the windshield for any remaining ice, until the muscles in your arms throb.
Carefully drive to work.
Scan your badge for the parking structure.
Follow the masses through the revolving doors to work.
Remove the cold weather armor.
Settle in to your cubical.
Mindlessly data enter.
Lunch.
More data entry.
Bundle up.
Sit in traffic.
Arrive home.
Take the dog out for a walk.
Shovel the driveway and sidewalk.
Carelessly wave to the neighbors.
Fight with the wife.
Eat her shitty dinner she prepared.
Watch the evening news and whatever Lifetime show she has on.
Take the dog out one more time.
Some light reading before bed.
Attempt at sex.
Denial.
Lights out.
Seven hours of sleep.
Morning alarm.
Peter stared at the ceiling as he had every morning.
Sirens peaked his interest.
He bundled up and fastened the dog in its harness.
A few blocks out of his usual dog walking path, he noticed a commotion.
Peter lead the dog toward the noise, as neighbors stood outside their houses, watching the fire department hosing down a dilapidated house. The smell of fire and embers tickled his throat as he approached.
An ambulance screeched away from the house.
Peter felt bad, but knew there was nothing he could do. He led the dog back on course and rounded back to his house.
He resumed his daily routine, until he returned home from work.
His interest was once again peaked at the commotion he witnessed in the morning.
He led the dog toward the burnt down building and noticed a pile of burnt belongings stacked near the curb with the trash. Among them a fried Christmas tree with broken and melted ornaments still on the tree.
A glimmer within the tree caught his eye. While the dog did its business on the piles of garbage, Peter moved some of the crisp branches and found an untouched silver ornament in perfect condition.
Peter perused the neighborhood, before removing it and sliding it in his pocket.
Upon leaving the scene, he noticed the silhouette of an old woman peaking out behind her shade.
He waved to her, but she slowly stepped away from the window.
Peter returned home, removed the ornament from his pocket and buried it near the middle of his Christmas tree, to avoid any suspicious questions from the wife.
That night, while eating another terrible meal, the wife began to cough. It was a slow cough that inevitably turned into a hard one.
It appeared that she was choking. Peter tried giving her some sort of Heimlich, but whatever was lodged in her throat wasn't budging.
She dropped to the floor writhing in agony, as he tried slapping the back of her neck.
Her face became blue.
Peter called 911 for any assistance.
The operator gave him stern instructions on how to properly do the Heimlich.
Three hard jolts to the abdomen, a bone was spit out leaving the wife gasping for air.
She passed out.
Peter anxiously awaited for medical help.
The ambulance came and the medical team did the best they could do to revive her.
She was taken to the hospital for an overnight.
Peter waited by her side, but she was oxygenated and put out with meds, to rest.
He feel asleep next to her side and was awoken by heavy breathing.
Standing over him and his wife was a hospital patient with horrible burn scars and bandages wrapped around their head.
Peter couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but the patient grabbed hold of his wrist and crackled out a whisper "you have to get rid of it."
Afraid, Peter pulled back his wrist, but the patient wouldn't leave him alone.
Again, the patient crackled "get it out!"
Peter hit the panic button by his wife's side and protected her from their hellish visitor.
Nurses arrived, escorting the patient out, who began violently kicking and screaming.
Peter was afraid.
A nurse had explained that the patient was delirious from medications due to the wounds being fresh.
He had more of a reason to want to stay next to his wife's side, but the hospital staff had told him he needed to leave until the next visiting hours.
Reluctantly, Peter agreed, kissing his wife good bye.
He returned home to a dark house.
In the living room, the dog was aggressively growling.
Peter flipped a light on and found the dog standing in front of the Christmas tree.
Peter called for the dog, but it continued barking at the tree.
Peter reached for the dogs collar and in turn was snapped at.
He tried again and the dog went berserk, attacking him.
Peter was pinned to the ground, as the dog chomped down on his arm and shook it.
Blood trickled on the carpet as Peter tried overpowering the animal, but it didn't let up.
He reached for anything he could to fight the dog off, but the tree was the closest thing.
He pulled at a branch to topple it on top of the dog and get loose.
A few ornaments crashed over the dogs head and on Peter, but didn't loosen its grip.
With Peters other free hand, he punched the dog in the head and pushed it off of him.
The dog lunged at him, but he ripped a glass ornament from off the tress and flung it at the dog.
Again, he struck the dog with a new ornament, until the silver ornament was the only one left.
He reached for it and struck the dog.
As it collided with the pet, the house lights sparked and blew out.
Peter backed away from the animal, expecting another attack, but there was no commotion or noise.
He shuffled to the kitchen, removing a large flashlight from a cabinet and a knife from the wood block.
He returned to the scene of the crime and scanned the living room. The dog was no where to be found.
A crunch under his feet, startled him.
He shined the light on a broken ornament under his shoe.
Next to it lied the silver ornament he used to strike the dog.
Peter scooped it into his hand.
At that moment, the lights flickered back on.
Expecting the beast to attack he turned every which way, but the dog was no where in site.
Peter searched every nook and cranny of the house, but could not locate the dog.
He decided to bandage his wound and clean up the mess.
He discarded all the broken ornaments into the garbage and threw in the silver one.
Peter put the trash on the street corner and returned to the house.
He cracked a beer and put the Christmas tree back up right.
There in the middle of the tree hung the silver ornament he had just threw out.
Perplexed, he removed it and discarded it into the trash.
When he returned to the living room, he noticed it hanging in the same spot.
Swigging another drink, he returned to the trash can, searching for the one he just threw out, but it was no where to be found.
He returned to the tree, removed the ornament and walked it out to the trash sitting on the front curb.
Back inside, he returned to the tree, noticing the same silver ornament hanging in its rightful spot.
He removed it and stomped on the delicate ornament, but it didn't break.
Peter raided his tool box and cracked a hammer against the plastic ornament, but it left no damage.
He tried a power drill, then a power saw, running it over with the car and burying it in the snow, but none could destroy it.
After a long and exhausting trial, Peter gave up and curbed the entire tree.
He drowned his sorrows with half a bottle of jack and passed out.
When he awoke, his lungs were on fire, along with the rest of the room.
He sprung from his bed and tried escaping the enclosed fire, but was trapped.
The ceiling had collapsed and pinned him down.
The flames rose higher, whipping and whirling at him, as if they were alive.
They engulfed his body, burning him up until he could no longer scream.
Later that night, a group of firemen removed his body and mounted it on a stretcher.
One firemen caught site of the glimmering ornament hanging on the curbed tree.
He removed it and showed it to the others.
When they returned to the station, the ornament was mounted on a small fake tree mounted in the kitchen.
He lied staring at the ceiling, while his wife pleasantly snored next to him.
What followed was the usual routine:
A freezing 6:00 A.M. walk around the block, so the dog could do its business.
A scalding hot shower to warm his frozen bones.
A quick dry shave.
Moisturizer.
Blow dry.
Style.
Get dressed.
Morning paper, and midnight black coffee.
Corn Pops.
Feed the remaining milk in the cereal bowl to the dog.
Teeth brush.
Mouthwash.
A dab of aftershave.
Scarf.
Coat.
Hat.
Gloves.
Get the car to come to a grumbling start.
Brush the fresh snow from the car.
Scrape at the windshield for any remaining ice, until the muscles in your arms throb.
Carefully drive to work.
Scan your badge for the parking structure.
Follow the masses through the revolving doors to work.
Remove the cold weather armor.
Settle in to your cubical.
Mindlessly data enter.
Lunch.
More data entry.
Bundle up.
Sit in traffic.
Arrive home.
Take the dog out for a walk.
Shovel the driveway and sidewalk.
Carelessly wave to the neighbors.
Fight with the wife.
Eat her shitty dinner she prepared.
Watch the evening news and whatever Lifetime show she has on.
Take the dog out one more time.
Some light reading before bed.
Attempt at sex.
Denial.
Lights out.
Seven hours of sleep.
Morning alarm.
Peter stared at the ceiling as he had every morning.
Sirens peaked his interest.
He bundled up and fastened the dog in its harness.
A few blocks out of his usual dog walking path, he noticed a commotion.
Peter lead the dog toward the noise, as neighbors stood outside their houses, watching the fire department hosing down a dilapidated house. The smell of fire and embers tickled his throat as he approached.
An ambulance screeched away from the house.
Peter felt bad, but knew there was nothing he could do. He led the dog back on course and rounded back to his house.
He resumed his daily routine, until he returned home from work.
His interest was once again peaked at the commotion he witnessed in the morning.
He led the dog toward the burnt down building and noticed a pile of burnt belongings stacked near the curb with the trash. Among them a fried Christmas tree with broken and melted ornaments still on the tree.
A glimmer within the tree caught his eye. While the dog did its business on the piles of garbage, Peter moved some of the crisp branches and found an untouched silver ornament in perfect condition.
Peter perused the neighborhood, before removing it and sliding it in his pocket.
Upon leaving the scene, he noticed the silhouette of an old woman peaking out behind her shade.
He waved to her, but she slowly stepped away from the window.
Peter returned home, removed the ornament from his pocket and buried it near the middle of his Christmas tree, to avoid any suspicious questions from the wife.
That night, while eating another terrible meal, the wife began to cough. It was a slow cough that inevitably turned into a hard one.
It appeared that she was choking. Peter tried giving her some sort of Heimlich, but whatever was lodged in her throat wasn't budging.
She dropped to the floor writhing in agony, as he tried slapping the back of her neck.
Her face became blue.
Peter called 911 for any assistance.
The operator gave him stern instructions on how to properly do the Heimlich.
Three hard jolts to the abdomen, a bone was spit out leaving the wife gasping for air.
She passed out.
Peter anxiously awaited for medical help.
The ambulance came and the medical team did the best they could do to revive her.
She was taken to the hospital for an overnight.
Peter waited by her side, but she was oxygenated and put out with meds, to rest.
He feel asleep next to her side and was awoken by heavy breathing.
Standing over him and his wife was a hospital patient with horrible burn scars and bandages wrapped around their head.
Peter couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but the patient grabbed hold of his wrist and crackled out a whisper "you have to get rid of it."
Afraid, Peter pulled back his wrist, but the patient wouldn't leave him alone.
Again, the patient crackled "get it out!"
Peter hit the panic button by his wife's side and protected her from their hellish visitor.
Nurses arrived, escorting the patient out, who began violently kicking and screaming.
Peter was afraid.
A nurse had explained that the patient was delirious from medications due to the wounds being fresh.
He had more of a reason to want to stay next to his wife's side, but the hospital staff had told him he needed to leave until the next visiting hours.
Reluctantly, Peter agreed, kissing his wife good bye.
He returned home to a dark house.
In the living room, the dog was aggressively growling.
Peter flipped a light on and found the dog standing in front of the Christmas tree.
Peter called for the dog, but it continued barking at the tree.
Peter reached for the dogs collar and in turn was snapped at.
He tried again and the dog went berserk, attacking him.
Peter was pinned to the ground, as the dog chomped down on his arm and shook it.
Blood trickled on the carpet as Peter tried overpowering the animal, but it didn't let up.
He reached for anything he could to fight the dog off, but the tree was the closest thing.
He pulled at a branch to topple it on top of the dog and get loose.
A few ornaments crashed over the dogs head and on Peter, but didn't loosen its grip.
With Peters other free hand, he punched the dog in the head and pushed it off of him.
The dog lunged at him, but he ripped a glass ornament from off the tress and flung it at the dog.
Again, he struck the dog with a new ornament, until the silver ornament was the only one left.
He reached for it and struck the dog.
As it collided with the pet, the house lights sparked and blew out.
Peter backed away from the animal, expecting another attack, but there was no commotion or noise.
He shuffled to the kitchen, removing a large flashlight from a cabinet and a knife from the wood block.
He returned to the scene of the crime and scanned the living room. The dog was no where to be found.
A crunch under his feet, startled him.
He shined the light on a broken ornament under his shoe.
Next to it lied the silver ornament he used to strike the dog.
Peter scooped it into his hand.
At that moment, the lights flickered back on.
Expecting the beast to attack he turned every which way, but the dog was no where in site.
Peter searched every nook and cranny of the house, but could not locate the dog.
He decided to bandage his wound and clean up the mess.
He discarded all the broken ornaments into the garbage and threw in the silver one.
Peter put the trash on the street corner and returned to the house.
He cracked a beer and put the Christmas tree back up right.
There in the middle of the tree hung the silver ornament he had just threw out.
Perplexed, he removed it and discarded it into the trash.
When he returned to the living room, he noticed it hanging in the same spot.
Swigging another drink, he returned to the trash can, searching for the one he just threw out, but it was no where to be found.
He returned to the tree, removed the ornament and walked it out to the trash sitting on the front curb.
Back inside, he returned to the tree, noticing the same silver ornament hanging in its rightful spot.
He removed it and stomped on the delicate ornament, but it didn't break.
Peter raided his tool box and cracked a hammer against the plastic ornament, but it left no damage.
He tried a power drill, then a power saw, running it over with the car and burying it in the snow, but none could destroy it.
After a long and exhausting trial, Peter gave up and curbed the entire tree.
He drowned his sorrows with half a bottle of jack and passed out.
When he awoke, his lungs were on fire, along with the rest of the room.
He sprung from his bed and tried escaping the enclosed fire, but was trapped.
The ceiling had collapsed and pinned him down.
The flames rose higher, whipping and whirling at him, as if they were alive.
They engulfed his body, burning him up until he could no longer scream.
Later that night, a group of firemen removed his body and mounted it on a stretcher.
One firemen caught site of the glimmering ornament hanging on the curbed tree.
He removed it and showed it to the others.
When they returned to the station, the ornament was mounted on a small fake tree mounted in the kitchen.
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