Torn in Flames

The flame is lit, and the candle burns a bright yellow. This is to be the last entry in this chapter of my life. There is nothing else left for me to say; but to end it this way. I rip a page from the journal. The torn edges jag along, scattering the script so it becomes unreadable. Just like my life, I muse. Fuck him, goddamnit. Stupid sonbitch. Always treating me like a child. Who was he to talk?

Short black hair and tired grey-blue eyes are all I can remember of him now. Inhale deep, exhale and ritually place the paper over the flame, cleansing me of his torment. I want to be free, to begin anew. Where to begin? When will it all end?

The flame catches the torn edge, shrivelturns releasing the pains in my chest from real to memories later locked away. So many memories tied to him. The ring, the love, moving away from it all to escape. Always a new beginning, never a happy ending. Relationships never end well, some do; but were they really a relationship to begin with?

The Bag

The trees bloomed on 23rd street. The air hung thick with the smell of flowers, coffee and burning wood from fireplaces. The sun was not out, hiding between clouds. It was a beautiful foggy day, the perfect beginnings of an artist hike. Slung over my shoulder I had my kit.

My kit is a backpack filled with things I consider useful. Pens and blank books for authoring stories and making notes; books for inspiration and reading; my tarot deck for that surprise read or two; and my portable music player. I drag all this stuff into my bag every time I set out for my hikes. Today, with spring emerging from the snow, I added my camera in the bag. I was hoping to get a few good shots of the city.

Shattered Letters

A song in the background sings, I only have eyes for you. “Burt, you called out ‘Kelli’ last night while we made love. Chirped her name softly as if you didn’t realize it. Does what I say pique your interest? Escapades have a way of turning on you, especially when you cheat. Feeling nervous? Getting caught has to feel like a real nightmare; did you really think that you could keep playing this game and walk away with two prizes instead of one? Has the moment and the color of her mane slip your memory? I promise I’ll remind you about that and every little lie you told me. Just you wait, before tonight is over I’ll remind you about all your little promises.

A Thin Line, Between

The stillness of the full moon enshrouds the world in a supernatural glow. On nights such as this, when the moon is full, time twists unexpected and impossible. Out of their homes they come, trickling into the nightclub. The Friday night masquerade. Some of them wear leather jackets, black and drab, with torn clothes and boots. Others dress in technicoloured costumes bought from second-hand thrift stores, their hair done up in bizarre, abstract horrorshow styles. Like high school cliques, they know what to expect and all share the same desires as to what overtures the night will tease them with. With the same emotionless, expressionless stare reflecting from one face to another they dance to the beat of an almost headsplitting rhythm and noise.

Midnight Snack

One night while Jason Jenkins peacefully slept, a monster came. It was definitely midnight around his neighborhood and everyone was asleep. His neighbor’s dog was the first awaken, alerted by the stench. The little hound barked and barked at the monster, thinking it was a human intruder, but suddenly yelped after the big red eye peered down close at him. The monster was hungry and spared the dog’s life on account that the little dog was too little of a morsel to satisfy his appetite. Traveling around the world can do that to a being.

He strolled down the street. Most of the houses were one or two stories tall. It was a newer development, so most of the trees were still yearlings and not yet as high as the first story houses. Some of the houses looked the same with their uniform design and uniform colors. They were all made of wood. The monster sniffed the air. Then he turned and found what he was looking for.

Making Tea

You’re thirsty, so you decide to go into the kitchen. There is no juice in the refrigerator and no concentrate in the freezer. Standing there, holding the fridge door open, you glance sideways at the faucet. Tap water could satisfy your thirst but you shudder at the thought of drinking the poison solution. Besides you’re thirsty for something tasty.

Sitting on top of the stove rests a water jug. It is made of chrome metal and isn’t used for watering flowers. It’s not a pot, so you can’t cook pasta in it. The spout at the end of its long arm has a whistle hole, so steam can escape. And it has a lid. Inside your mind a solution for your thirst brews.

The Lottery Ticket

Every Tuesday and Thursdays Sheryl took care of the elderly Richardson couple. The blonde would bathe them, cook their meals, and cleaned their townhouse. She enjoyed their company. Every Monday night, however, Mr. Richardson bought a lottery ticket.

Sheryl never believed in the lottery. She thought it was a waste of money. But he did it just the same, like clockwork, every Monday night.

The Lillend

The lines constructing the floor move to and fro while the hands on the clockface dance time away. The Lillend puts her masque upon her face and casts her picturesque victim dice. Laughing aloud she cries, ” Tis your turn to tripdance tonite, my love.” Then ever so silently, her feathered serpent’s skin caresses the floor playing tag against the timeclock’s tick. Ever so stealthily and into your room the Lillend comes for you.

And with her chyldish giggle she removes her masque exposing tattooed skin behind. Gives a shriek, and a wink, moving her arms in chant… the Lillend peers into your mind, to steal the seeds of dreams. While you awake, to the clock’s alarming tick, it is because of the beautiful Lillend chylde that some of your dreams slip lost between the lines of time.

Juggling Eternity

Juggling balls of time, I help to create reality. Tiny glass balls of colour bounce and dance between my fingers. Primal ooze, the fields of imagination, the majician’s playtoys, spark and glow within. Red. Green. Blue. Black.

Red balls of fire, creativity pure and simple, dart like smoke between my fingers. Unlike the blue translucent ball whose ebb and flow wave up and out of my fingertips. These balls keep my toes atop the oscillating stardust. Growing bigger and smaller with the passing season’s change, the green ones of chaos– with their ever changing sizes– keep my muscles from getting lax. The last of the balls that I juggle, is the whom without light, darkness would not be known. Absent of all colour, and hard as onyx, the black ball of fate strengthens my grasp on life.

Without me the darkness captured within the ball would escape and corrupt and release fates that werenít meant to happen across the universe. Each ball is precious, very special, and very, very, very fragile; even the black ball whose hardness and fragility lies still a mystery unsolved by the universe.

Another orb glows within my view. Unlike the glass balls, this one is not within my control. It’s surface is covered in brown and blue flecks while white wisps speckled with black dance in its heavens. Smooth and hard, another puzzle waiting to be unlocked. Green flecks of colour dash between whiteness and I can envision them. This is their home. Touched only by what dreams and fates my balls bring them. Back and forth, up and down, the circular dance of colour, the euphony of sight and sound, clink, clank, and chime passing the moments of creation between my hand’s bones. I have watched the slowly spinning orb below, snap out of the bang of chaos into the colourful glow it wields now.

I am not a creator, nor do I profess to be one. I’m just in charge of juggling. From sunrise to moonrise and back again I juggle my balls high above their wisps, away from prying eyes. My feet dance across the points of the stars precariously, and they twinkle like glitterdust. One false movement of fingers or a tripdance of the toes and the circular media of colour passes from my grasp to touch one of them below. And sometimes it happens.

Sometimes, the balls drop. For no one, not even I am perfect. They drop and spread change– flowing faeriedust and molecules tumble down, fate cast upon sleeping minds below, unaware of the twists they are about to slide down. Embers touch and embed themselves into dreams. And then the new moon awakens them and the process of colour, my glass balls of colour, begins a new cycle. Yet, through all this, the orb still turns, unaware of the assault its children have just witnessed within their cherry-blossom dreams.

“What type of creator is that?” I ponder as the orb silently spins away. Giggling, I suppose the answers are hidden inside.

Heart Divided

Jealousy is an ugly attachment. It divides, splits the heart in half
between the one true and the plethora of smaller “lesser” hearts of
amistad. How to manage love in multitudes is the trick. One false step;
perhaps in the form of a eye battered, or a slight twink of a lip, or
even in the simplest gesture of human generosity- hugs! and all that has
been built up between the respected parties crumbles. Lying in shambles
awaiting only the downrise of the next day only to be rebuilt, rectified.
And then the cycle repeats within. As I said the trick is how to manage
love. Tis not an easy thing, but in the end all the love one receives is
needed- whether amistad or amour- if ever jealousy is to be overwrot.