O, the vengeful one,
In lieu of following the word and admitting to sins committed,
Chose to cast herself more deeply into the cult,
Fleeing the truth, fleeing sincerity, fleeing love,
And compounding her heresy exponentially.
This, the cult of the white, privileged patriarch, the cult that was ruining the world with its bile and false Christianity, espousing the will of the devil and calling it gospel,
The desires of base ego, greed, judgment, bigotry, control, and disdain for others not...
As he sat drawing the cancer into himself,
What he had all but quit years before,
Stress of a betrayal and a situation gone awry from his own stupidity as well as the evil heart of another,
He knew it didn’t matter.
He’d lived too long already.
Things he had been through should have ended him moons ago,
And he now believed that he was spared an early graceful exit so he could know a love he would never know again,
One that would crush him for the rest of his days,
Unrequited, spurned, turned...
Choices had been made, and they could not be unmade.
The arrogance and dishonesty of the shield maiden knew know bounds.
She had made peace with the Mad Cleric of the South,
Who had enslaved and betrayed her,
And she had cast her lot in with the Western Horde,
Enemy of all except itself.
She would not make peace with the Grim Man,
Who had striven to bring her an ode of reconciliation,
For a falling out that bore no meaning.
No, he, one whom she had wronged and wronged again,
Raising conflict...
Let me roll my eyes at his words, call him insane,
Anything not to feel again, not to admit the truth of it.
Let me bathe my heart in ice, and plug my ears with cotton,
So they do not penetrate my soul.
Let me reassure those I’ve cried to that I feel nothing,
That his phrases are meaningless to me,
Let me reiterate my intense opposition more virulently,
When I do not feel it.
Let me fall deaf in spite. Let me deny until I am no longer anything but an echo.
I am contrarian for the sake of...
She had been alone so long, she’d forgotten what passion was really like, fantasizing about the past that could never be again. And the trauma she’d experienced at the hands of her past, made her fear it. So she was world-weary, nothing making her heart beat fast any longer, paranoia being her closest friend, and rejection her only reflex. And the men she saw did nothing to ease her doubt, because they were passionless, using, self-interested. But he had made her short of breath, had given...
Though she had excused herself for what she had done,
For the unnecessary antagonism she had created at the silent behest of her co-shit talkers,
For leading him to believe she was his friend and for knowingly sending the nth degree of mixed signals, her heart at war with itself,
For refusing to let him go and making everything worse, when it would have sorted itself out on its own over time, as he just needed to deal with loving her for nothing,
And for the ultimate betrayal, when, clearly...
She had been alone so long, she’d forgotten what passion was really like, fantasizing about the past that could never be again. And the trauma she’d experienced at the hands of her past, made her fear it. So she was world-weary, nothing making her heart beat fast any longer, paranoia being her closest friend, and rejection her only reflex. And the men she saw did nothing to ease her doubt, because they were passionless, using, self-interested. But he had made her short of breath, had given...
The list of individual lies was extensive, not exaggerations but premeditated mistruths, designed to prejudice and incriminate with no evidence to support them, never investigated, for, if they had been, she would have faced his same fate. No proof, only tears, appeals to femininity and childish innocence, the latter non-existent, an act.
Lies told in a way to conjure up what had never happened, what she knew was false, and presented in a way that suggested she’d been coached.
Outright lies...
Purists and grammar fascists will likely have an aneurysm with this book, but the prose style, in combination with the dialogue, create a distinct, unified impression of rural Pennsylvania. If it had been a slow-build, it would likely have been anti-climactic, but, instead, it steamrolls the reader from beginning to end. If it were a movie, it'd lie comfortably between The Mist, Dawn if the Dead, and Day of the Animals. The only trouble I had with it was keeping all of the characters...
She had lied with abandon to ruin him out of spite, but she had, ultimately, failed to do so. So now she sentenced him to endless pain, as she would never see her way to making amends. She was cruel, a cruelty borne of having loved, though she denied it. There was no other justification for her vehemence and the hurt she felt. She feigned that she was the bearer of truth, though she lied.
He needed to hate her, but he couldn’t. He knew why she’d done it, and he understood the conflicting...
BIZARRE FATES is a small collection of odd short stories and will be available as an Ebook in the coming weeks.
TWO YEARS IN HELL Ebook will be available free from Friday 5/2 through Sunday 5/4
A new collection of exceedingly dark poems, a chronicle of betrayal and eternal despair will be available soon.
TWO YEARS IN HELL
It will be available free for a few days. Keep an eye out.
He had to chase her away,
Insult her, expose her hypocrisy, tell her to fuck off.
However, the only thing he said to her that was untrue was that he wanted her to go.
She didn’t know what the hell she wanted.
But whatever she was looking for, it wasn’t love. That was for sure.
Love does not conquer all. It doesn’t even make a scratch.
And it wasn’t him, only planning on watching for however long, saying nothing.
She just had some morbid fascination with watching him self-destruct,
And she...
Just go. Go forever.
Go to wherever it is you think your life will change,
Wherever you hope to find someone different, and forget that you already did,
Only remember that you didn’t want different, but the same as always.
Go to wherever it is you believe they will cherish your presence, when it would not have made the slightest difference to them if you had not come, and pretend for the rest of your days,
Pretend your innocence.
Just go.
It has become clear that I am delusional, that nothing...
Resolve smashed,
Glass shard look,
Shot through the no one standing there,
Worthless.
It was the end of everything.
There was nothing left to strive for.
He did not recognize the world around him any longer,
Only the cold stare of a wish of death,
Stuck in an endlessly revolving door,
Sinking him into the depths of ice.
It was the strangest of psychological conundrums. She loved him in her denial of loving him, but she did not care for him. It was questionable whether she truly cared about anybody, even herself, as her professions of love always seemed premeditated, scripted, something she felt she was supposed to say,
And her interactions with people gave off an air of coy wheedling more than sincerity. She rarely bothered to acknowledge most of her friends and family, waiting for something she could use to...
He hated it all.
He hated the powerlessness to make it all right. He hated the unnecessary events that led him to his perpetual grief. He hated the gross people who made everything awful for their own benefit. He hated the superficiality of the world and the coddling of those who weren’t worthy of what they had. He hated being hurt, and he hated hurting her, hated not being able to make her feel love. Hated her hatred for him. And he hated those who distracted her and promised her love they...
She had wasted years of her life with diseased men, men with sociopathy written on their faces, and she hadn’t learned a damn thing. She was simply too old to accept anything that wasn’t already familiar, even if what was familiar was rotten. But she could not, or would not, see the truth of it, and would end up repeating the same pattern for the rest of her life, what there was of it, bowing to the expectations of her crowd. She only trusted people she “knew.” The irony being that she didn’t...